V,- ^^^ c/^cci THORN DALE ;rHORNDALE THE CONFLICT OF OPINIONS WILLIAM SMITH ' Sleeps the future like a snake eiiroUiil, Coil within coil." — WoUDSWORTII. THIRD EDITION W I J. LI AM BLACKWOOD AND SONS l':i)lNBUR(!ll AND LOiNDOX MDCC'CLXXIX .v^f^ PKEFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. The nature of the work precludes us from the attempt to supply those deficiencies which some of our critics, in no unfriendly or unjust spirit, have pointed out. Where the omission or addition of a few words, or sentences, would render the meaning of any of the speakers more distinct, we have not scrupled to make the alteration. We have endeavoured also, by a very legitimate trans- position of some paragraphs and by cancelling others, somewhat to abridge that latter portion of the book, which, being of a psychological character, has been naturally complained of for its dryness. We wish it were in our power, in other respects, to render the work more acceptable to the reader, and more worthy of his perusal. W. S. August 1858. • CONTENTS. PACK IXTRODUCTION, 1 BOOK I. THE LAST RETREAT. CHAP. I. THE SELF-REVIEW, 17 II. TRUISMS, 28 III. FRAGMENTS ON THE SENTIMENT OF BEADTYA 34 IV. THE TWO FUTURITIES, 42 V. THE FUTURE LIFE, 53 VI. THE FrTrui: soi ikty, 58 BOOK II. THE RETROSPECT. I.railLDHOOD,.} 71 II. THE STUDENT, SO III. THE MIRAGE, 94 IV. THE MOTH AND THE FLAME, 121 V. THE WANDERER, 128 Vf. MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN PHILOSOPHER, 139 VII. REMINISCENCES OP CLARENCE— RETURN TO ENGLAND, 157 VIII. LUXMORE THE POET, 163 IX. A poet's MEMORANDA, 177 X. CONCLUSION UT THORNDALE OF HIS AUTORIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 185 VMl CONTENTS. I'.OOK III. a via I.: on, tiik MnDF.ns niSTEnciAS. I. THK CISTKHCIAN MONK,. 193 II. .V VISIT To Tlir. .MONASTK.ItV, . . 204 III. .\ .\IENT.\L CONKI.ICT, 210 IV. TUK INTERVIEW AT BARMOl'TH, 223 V. VISITS FROM THE CISTERCIAN, , .. 231 BOOK TV. SECKENDORF; OR, THE SPIRIT OF DENIAL, j ■-_. . ^V I. INTRODUCTION TO SECKENDORF — HIS ATTACK ON CLARENCE'S UTOPIA, 245 II. THE SILVER SHILLING, 261 III. THE WORM) AS IT IS — OUR FAITHS AS THEY ARE, 269 IV. THE INN ON THE RIGHI — SECKENDORF RECOUNTS AN INCIDENT IN HIS OWN BIOGRAPHY, 281 V. SECKENDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS, ..VND THE LIMITS TO MORAL AND RELIGIOUS PROGRESS, 293 VI. LAST DAY WITH SECKENDORF — DESULTORY CONVERSATION ON THE .VNIMAL CREATION AND ON MAN, 319 VII. THE DIARY CONTINUED — THE WATERS ARE DISTURBED, 372 BOOK V. riAREKCE; OR, THE VTOFIAS. I. A NEW INTRODUCTION TO AN OLD FRIEND, 393 II. JUUA MONTINI, 401 III. ri,.\RENrE IS STH.I, THE UTOPIAN, 415 CONTENTS. THE CONFESSION OF FAmi UF AN ECLECTIC AND UTOPIAN PHILOSOPHER. AD. 1850. INTRODUCTION : — THIS CREATION OF NATURE AND MAN A PRO- GRESSIVE MANIFESTATION OF THE DIVINE IDEA, 4'2;i-4-4;3 Idea of Progress, 427. — The Argument. for the Existence of God, 432. — Division of our subject, 442. PAKT I. THE DEVELOPMENT OP THE , INDIVIDUAL CONSCIOUSNESS, 4-t4-48r) V._,._ y Section I. Point of Departm-e, 445. — II. A Sensation felt in Space the simplest State of Consciousness, 449. — III. Touch, 452. — IV. Vision, 454. — V. Memory, 458. — VI. Imagination, 462. — VII. Pain, Pleasure, Passion, Appetite, Sensibilities that immediately induce movement, 464. — VIII. The Will, 466. — IX. Progressive Development — New Knowledge, new Sentiments, 468. — X. Law — Punishment, 473.— XI. The Moral Sentiments, 474.— XII. Reference of all things to the Divine Idea, and consequently to the Divine Power and Being, 4S0. ._PART II. THE DEVELOKMKNT OF SOCIETY, ) 486-588 Section 1. Preliminaries, 4S6. — II. Ancient Civilisation, 495. — 111. Pro- gress of Industry and of Industrial Organisation; Era of Slavery, 499. —IV. Era of Wages, 505.— V. Era of Partnership ; or, some Considera- tions on the Eftcet likely to be produced by Increased Abundance and Increased Intelligence ; the good of some social whole, not the Prin- ciple of Eciuality, our true Moral Guidance, 513.— VI. Progress in, and through, Religion, 525.— VII. Effect of early religious faiths on Laws and Government, 533.— VIII. Nature-worship : the personal God, 538. —IX. God of Terror; God of Justice; God of Love, 542.— X. Intellec- tual or Scientific Progress, 553.— XI. The Scientific Method of Thought applied to Society, 5.57.— XII. Education of the People, 503.— XIII. Science and Religion, 567. CONCLUSION, . 570 INTEODUCTION. Evert tourist knows the grotto of Posilipo, and the heights above it, and how from these heights the spectator commands, to great advantage, the celebrated view of the Bay of ^N^aples. From this elevated spot he has Vesuvius and Sorrento to the left of him; the shores of Baise lie upon the right; whilst before him the islands of Capri and Ischia, seen in the dis- tance, break and relieve the wide expanse and deep azure of the sea. To these islands the peculiar charm of the view is greatly indebted, for they give here to the ocean sometlung of the peace and serenity of the lake, without much detracting from its own characteristics of amplitude and infinity. But it is not altogether for the sake of the prospect that we would conduct the reader in imagination up Mount Posilipo. If, as he approaches the summit of the hill, he should diverge towards the left by a private carriage-road of a very unobtru- sive appearance, he would find himself introduced to a little villa standing on its terrace quite apart from the rest of the world, and looking sheer over the beautifid expanse of waters, with all its islands and its mountains. Its lower rooms are shaded from the too bright sun by a colonnade, the pillars of which are half overgrown by myrtle and roses. The inter- spaces of the pillars are occupied by vases and a few statues, the almost invariable ornaments of the Italian villa. There it stands — so elevated and yet so secluded — on a solitary plat- form, from which the rock descends in a steep escarpment. Yet the name it bears. Villa Scarpa, has no reference, as might perhaps be supposed, to this peculiarity of position A 2 INTRODUCTION. Till' iianif was (U-rivcd from its builder and first occupant, Sijrnor or Dottore Scarpa, a celebrated physician of his day, who retired here to enjoy, in peace and study, the concluding years of his life. This Villa Scarpa was also lately the retreat of one who had indeed no celebrity to boast, but who came here for the same purjiosc — one Charles Thomdale, who, still young, but stricken with consumption, had selected this spot in which to pass the brief residue of his days. In the course of a Continental tour, made when he was still in perfect health, Thorndale had seen and been charmed with this spot. The project had even then occurred to him to live hero, completely retired from the world ; but he wa.«; not at that time ripe for so desperate a resolution. "WTien, liowever, he became seriously ill, and the usual advice wa.s given to try the climate of Italy, and he heard, moreover, that Villa Scarpa was to let, his decision was formed at once. He lost no time in securing his prize. A\niere coidd he better " look his last" than here 1 And as to the extreme seclusion in which he should live, this coidd now surely be borne. He need not fear that his heart woidd sink through any pusillanimity, for the term of his solitary banishment would be very short, and there was no hope, or enterprise, to beckon him back into the arena of active life ; and in the little time left there was so imich to think of — a whole world of thoughts still to be put in order, and all the fruitless, fascinating specu- lations of philosophy to be reviewed once more, before they were parted with for ever. It is a spot, one would say, in which it would be very hard to part with this divine facultj^ of thought. It seems made for the very spirit of meditation. The little platform on Avhich the villa stands is so situated, that, while it commands the most extensive prospect imaginable, it is itself entirely sheltered from observation. No house of any kind overlooks it ; from no road is it visible ; not a sound from the neigh- bouring city ascends to it. From one part of the parapet that bounds the terrace, you may sometimes catch sight of a swarthy bare-legged fisherman, sauntering on the beach, or INTRODUCTION. 3 lying at full length in the sun. It is the only specimen of humanity you are likely to behold : you live solely in the eye of nature. It is with difficulty you can believe that, within the space of an hour, you may, if you choose it, be elbowing your way, jostled and stunned, amongst the swarm- ing popidation of Naples — surely the noisiest hive of human beings anywhere to be found on the face of the earth. Here, on these heights, is perfect stillness, with perfect beauty. ^Vhat voices come to you come from the upper air — the winds and the melody of birds ; and not unfrequently the graceful sea-gull utters its short plaintive cry. as it wheels round and back to its own ocean fields. And then that glorious silent picture for ever open to the eye ! — Picture ! you hastily retract the word. It is no dead picture — it is the living spirit of the universe manifesting itself, in glorious vision, to the eye and the soul of man. Thorndale did not long enjoy this exquisite retreat. He Iiad brought his sentence with him. The pulnionary disease which was his excuse, rather than his motive, for quitting England, was of too decided a character to be checked by change of climate. This he knew : he allowed others to talk of the medicinal virtues of the air of Italy, he thought only of his beautiful solitude on Moimt Posilipo. Though of studious habits, Thorndale had not followed any of the learned professions. Neither of them had attracted him as a pursuit, or kindled his ambition. Wealth he did not desire ; and that modest sufficiency which supplies the wants of a studious man, he, fortunately or unfortunately, had inherited. Some project of authorship is the usual re- source of this class of meditative idlers ; and a book to be written, which should contain the results of all his cogitations upon those great problems of human life and the soul of man, which had chiefly occupied his attention, and which vex us aU more or less, was a scheme which he carried about with him for several years. And indeed the book was "sviitten ; the mischief was, that it Avas Amtten two or three times over. It was written and destroyed, and again resumed ; for no sooner was the philosophical manuscript completed, than new 4 INTIfODUCTIOX. vii;\vs aroso, or old tloul>ts rcvivoil^ tlicro Avas this to ]>c added, mid that to be expunged, and this other to be modified : so tliat finally, after much toil and infinite blotting of paper, nothing was accomplished — self-confidence was lost — and the task had been at length thrown aside in despair. Nevertheless, in his retreat at Yilla Scarpa, the " habit of the i)en," as he has called it, was not entindy laid asifle. 'J'here might have been always seen, as we have been told, lying on his table amongst other books, one of those solid manuscript volumes which students or authors not unfre- (|Uently have at hand, either to serve as a commoni)lace-book, or else for the purpose of jotting down any stray thoughts of their own wliich tluiy fear may not come again when wanted. In such a volume it was the amusement of our much medita- tive recluse to write down such reflections as were stirring in his mind. The book became, in fact, the general receptacle for anything that interested him at the time. If his thoughts recurred to the past, it took the form of an autobiography. Page after page would at other times be occupied in recalling the conversation, or analysing the opinions of some remem- Ijered friend. It was diary, it was essay, it was memoir, as the occasion demanded, or the humour prompted. It is precisely this manuscript volume, note-book, niemoii-, diary, whatever it should be called, which we have to present to the reader. In it Thorndale, though apparently with little of set purpose or design, gives lis a description of himself and of several friends, or rather sketches out their opinions and modes of thinking. Amongst these, two may be at once par- ticularly mentioned — Clarence, who might be called a repre- sentative of the philosophy of Hope; and Seckendorf, his com- plete contrast, and avIio, csi)ecially on the subject of Hiunan Progress, takes the side of denial or of cavil. "We shall not at present go further into the nature of this manuscript volume ; but we must again briefly revert to the author of it, and add a few words (as a faithful editor should do) upon the manner in which it came into our possession. We were at one time pei-sonally acquainted "nith Thorn- tlale ; not intimately indeed, but as well as, without being an INTRODUCTION. 5 intimate friend, one could know a person of his shy ami retiring habits, for he had always lived much in seclusion. This mode of life, however, had not imbittered his temper. Keserved he might be, but he had notwithstanding grown up kind and gentle, ready at all times to render to others what trifling services lay in his power. You could not do other- wise than feel some affection for him, and still more interest and curiosity about him. But whether from languid healtli, or this too much seclusion, or from the unsatisfactory nature of his philosophical speculations, or from all these conjoined, there was so cold a shadow of melancholy, so settled a de- spondency hanging over him, as rendered the interest you felt of a somewhat painful character ; and, on the whole, you were rather pleased tliat you had known, and had the oppor- tunity of observing such a man, than solicitous for his fre- quent companionship. That noble sorrow which falls occa- sionally on every sincere inquirer who finds himself baffled in his search for truth, had taken up a very constant position in his mind. There was nothing to dislodge it. He had no personal ambition, no domestic bonds, no duties, no cares. Life had no interest, if philosophy could yield no truth. At the time we were thrown into his society, the diseast; Avhich proved fatal to him had not decidedly manifested itself, but there was another disease of which the symptoms were aheady apparent enough — that painful weariness which results from the absence of any active purpose or leading passion of existence. Perhaps the only strong desire he had was this, of penetrating to certain great truths which seemed to lie juat hidden from our sight. He walked like a shadow amongst us. "VNTiether any personal passion had, at some previous time, stirred his bosom, we were not then sufficiently acquainted with his history to say ; but it was plain that there was at least vitality enougli left in the man to make this absence of all passion or motive, whether of ambition or love, itself a terrible calamity. A vacuum in physics is but another name for a crushing pressure from without ; and the analogy holds good if we apply the term to the human being. AVhen there is nothing within the bosom to buoy it r. INTItODUCTIOX. u|), tlie iiioic air we Ijrcathe, the common onvironnicnt.s of life, become an intoleial)le pressure. AVe had lost sij^'ht of 'J'horndale, and only learnt tlimuKli others, first of his illness, then of his dejjarture from En;,dancl, and finally that the sad and nnohtrusive current of his life had altogether ceased to flow, when a mere accident brought us to the spot which had been his last and chosen retreat, and led to the discovery of the manuscript which we have here to present to the reader. Like other tourists, we went to Xaples to see its celebrated scenery, and in our walks in the neighbourhood we did as other tourists have probably done — we lost our way. Those who are familiar with the place will doubtless wonder how it was that, on our first search after the picturesque, we con- trived to involve ourselves in the perplexity we did; but so it was, that having ascended Mount Posilipo for the view which it promised, wc found ourselves toiling along certain narrow ])aths or lanes, a high stone wall on each side of us, a white, gritty, glaring sand under our feet, a scorching sim above our head, and for all our prospect one narrow strip of Idue imvaried sky. They were the garden walls, we presume, of the several contiguous villas between which we were thus penned in. Emerging from this embarrassment, we struck desperately into a by-road, which, though it had not the aspect of a public thoroughfare, appeared at least to lead towards the Bay. It led us to the terrace, and the little villa, which we have done our best to describe. At first we hesitated to advance, but, on glancing around, it became pretty evident that the place was uninhabited. The flowers were straggling over the path, and the gate was not only wide open, but a little embankment of dirt and dead leaA'es had been allowed to collect against it, which prevented it from closing. Assured by these signs of abandonment, we crossed the terrace, and, loaning on the parapet, enjoyed in undisturbed quiet the view we had been in quest of. Having satiated our eyes with the prospect, we turned towards the villa itself. We paced to and fro its narrow colonnade, and paused before a mystic statue of Isis which IXTRODUCTIOX. 7 seemed to guard the entrance. It was a copy, we believe, of one of several statues of that goddess which may be seen in the Museum of IS'aples. It arrested our steps, and held lis fascinated before it. To us it has always appeared that the pagan sculptor has embodied in this later ideal of Nature a far more profound sentiment than can be traced in any of the earlier and more celebrated statues of either god or goddess. The veil of Isis is withdrawn from the face, but only to reveal a deeper mystery in the expression — eternal silence and an incommunicable thought. It is the " open secret " expressed in the marble. Turning from the statue, and noticing that the door of the house was partly open, we ventured to pene- trate within. From the window of the apartment we had now entered, we were struck with a new and quite magical effect of the landscape. Seen from this shaded recess, the Bay with all its waters, its islands, and its mountain shores, seemed no longer to rest upon the earth at all, but to be lifted up and poised like the clouds midway to heaven — rather itself a veritable heaven. One suddenly transported there might have been excused for believing that he had been carried up into some celestial region. What happy mortal was it, Ave said to ourselves, who last enjoyed this peacefid retreat from our noisy and quarrelsome world 1 Who, we wondered, was the latest tenant of this envial)le abode? Was it his chief delight to stand with raptured gaze at this window, which seems to look at once into heaven ? Or did he often pause, musing with folded arms before that mysterious statue of Isis, and think how Nature, like it, uplifts her veil to us in vain 1 What were his medi- tations, as he watched, evening after evening, the sun go down upon these waters, and the stars come out in this spacious firmament 1 Did he foUow in thought the sinking luminary, his spirit sinking with it ; or did the soaring mind claim a new homo for itself amidst the eternal stars 1 Then we naturally looked around the room in search of some trace of this last inhabitant, some book or picture which might tell of his tastes or sentiments. But nothing of the kind was to be seen ; the walls were bare, and the whole furniture 8 INTRODUCTION. was arranged in tliat naked comfortless symnn^try wljich be- tokens the untenanted house. The library table was tlirust close against the wall, and not a single book upon it. IJut underneatli this binary table there stood a bo.x, which we thought we had somewhere seen Ijefore. It was a de- spatch-box, of rather antique and peculiar form. Surely we had seen this box in a friend's hand. We drew it from its place. There was a brass plate on the lid, and on the brass ])late Avas legibly engraved the name of " Charles Thorndale." It was his old travelling companion, and always held his papers and a small writing-desk. And now we called to mind that "Villa Scarpa" — a name we had seen, without paying heed to it, on one of the pillars at the entrance — wa.s the very address which had been given to us of Thorndale 's last residence. The question we had been putting to our- selves in mere idle curiosity, was answered in a far more distinct and thrilling manner than we could possibly have anticipated. It was he, then, our perplexed and meditative friend, who had last brought to this scene that living mind which " half creates " the beauty it beholds, and which even in that beauty finds reflected the mystery of its own being. We saw his slender form rise i;p in imagination before us — his slight tall figure, his pallid cheek, his beaming eye. It was not that eye of which it is so often said that it looks through you, for it rather seemed to be looking out beyond you. The object at which it gazed became the half -forgotten centre round which the eddying stream of thought was flowing; and you stood there, like some islet in a river which is encircled on all sides by the swift and silent flood. It was Thorndale, then, who at this Avindow had sate alone hour after hour ; it was he who had leant on yonder parapet, and, himself unseen, surveyed all this world of beauty ; it was he who, evening after evening, had paused beneath this colonnade to watch the sun go down ujwn the waters ; it was for him the moon had risen, and thrown its light upon the lirow of that mystic statue of Isis — alas ! not needful to him as a memento of the inscrutable. It has often seemed INTRODUCTION. 9 to US that the light of the moon, Avhile it sheds repose aiul slumber upon tree and flower, wakes the sculptured marble into all but conscious life. We could imagine him standing opposite this beautiful mute oracle, vexmg it, or his OAvn soul, for some solution to the problem of human destiny, and of this infinite universe ! As we knew him, he was one of those who cannot rest a moment in denial, and who yet find pre-eminently " how difficult it is to Iceep Heights which the soul is competeut to gain." His foot-liold Avas for ever giving way ; he rose only to fall again — Ijut, in falling, his eye was still, and for ever, fixed upon the summit. In what conclusion did he finally resf? "What fate did he prophesy to the individual human soul, or to congregated humanity % Heaven, or Utopia, or both % Or did he to the last continue to doubt, to hope, to aspire, and then again throw away his aspirations'? — say rather give them away to some other and happier mind, and still see and love them there, though he could not retain them for himself % .A.s he stood gazing out upon this scene, was his spirit preparing to wing its way to regions still more beautiful, where change and death shall be no more — where eternity, and not time, shall give the law to our being, and to all being that surrounds us % Or did he lean to the conclusion that it was too Ijold a thing to call the individual man eternal — that he, Thorndale, might in one sense pass away, but that these thoughts he had, this his consciousness (God's greatest creation here below), would be revived, perpetuated, and repeated with more complete development, in successive generations — that one day a city of Xaples would be built upon these shores, Avhich would be inhabited liy men worthy of then- beauty, and that thus our ho])es of heaven would be, to a certain extent, realised on earth % Whilst occupied with these conjectures and reminiscences, the blood was suddenly summoned into our cheeks, for the door opened, and we were caught with this despatch-box before us, seated in a room we had no excuse for intniding 10 INTRODUCTION. into. Ill' wlio now ciitcioil w;i.s evidently in liis (iwn iloniiiin. It ■\viis the proprietor of tlie liouse, wlio had heen visiting it at an earlier part of the day (wliicli accounted for the door having been left open), and who now returned to complete some examination he liad been making into tlie state of his premises. We felt like a culj)rit caught in the very act, and hastened to make the best apology we could. The i)olite Italian assured us that no ajjology was neces.sary — " AVould we see the rest of the house 1 It was vacant," he said, "and he was in want of a tenant." He added that he feared it would be empty for some time, unless lie could find some Englishman to take itj for the last occupant had died of consum])tion, and his own countrymen had the con- viction that tliat malady was contagious. He then proceeded to assure us that every particle of the furniture which could be supposed to harboiu' infection had been destroyed, and that even the couch on which Signor Thorndale had been in the habit of sitting during the day, had been committeil to the flames. C)bserving that his eye fell, as he was speaking, on the box which we had dragged from its jilace, and Avhose position might accuse us at least of an unwarrantable curiosity, we did not fail to mention the information it had so singularly conveyed to us. "We added, in a jesting tone, that our examination had gone no further than the outside of it. Our courteous host replied with a smile that we were quite welcome to examine its contents also. " That box," he said, " was not discovered tdJ after Signor Thorndale's ser\'ant had returned to England ; I had therefore no means of restoring it to any of his friends. There was, indeed, nothing in it but one bulky manuscript volume, which lies there in it now, and which my servant was about to destroy to light the fires with. I chocked him, for I recognised in it the book I used to see lying u]ion the Signer's tabk- whenever I had occasion to call upon him, and in which it was evidentlj' his habit to write. I was reluctant that it should be thus destroyed, for your countryman had a gentle- ness of manner which won even upon a stranger — even upon INTRODUCTION'. 11 a perplexed landlord. Since you were personally known to him, I could not do better than give the relic into your custody, if you are willing to take charge of it." We expressed our willingness, and our thanks. " I cannot read your language," continued the Italian, "or I should have been tempted to look into the nianuscri])t myself. Who knows," he said, laughingly, " Avhat pliiloso- phical revelations your friend may thus have bequeathed ' to the First Finder ] ' For, judging by the manner in which it was stowed away — in the roof of the house, no doubt by his own hands — it was intended as a gift to the first discoverer. It is told of a certain monk, who lived long before the Reformation broke out, and who had found his way to heresy without the help of Martin Luther, that, not venturing to breathe aloud into any living ear his anti- papal and treasonable doctrines, he wrote them on parch- ment, and, sealing up the perilous record, hid it in the massiA'e Avails of his monastery. There was no friend or Itrother to Avhom he could intrust his secret or pour forth his soul ; and it was some consolation to imagine that in a future age (for even monastic Avails must one day fall) some one would read the parchment, and knoAV ' that he also had been thinking.' " Anticipating the application of the story, Ave replied — " that Thorndale could have no motiA^e for ^oallimj up any of his lucubrations. But he Avas irresolute by temperament, and not being able to decide Avhether to destroy or to pre- sevA'e the manuscript, he had evidently left its fate to l)e determined by chance, or, as you say, gave it to the first iiuder. As such, Ave consider your title to be fully estab- lished, and ours through you." "Oh, take the box as Avell ! " exclaimed the good-natured Italian, seeing that, having thanked liim for liis gift, aa'c Avere putting the book under our arm. Accordingly, after .some further conversation, Ave seized the old despatch-box by the handle, and carried off our prize. It may be right to mention, that since our return to Eng- land we have obtained full authority, from all who had any 1 2 INTRODUCTION. interest in the luiitlcr, to dfal with this maini.script as Wf thoiiy a senti- ment religion might be ! Very good, lint seek now to elevate the popular conception of God — seek to mitigate those terrors which, in distrust of each other, men fling abroad in the name of the Deity — strive now, instead of the justice which punishes the detested criminal, to enthrone in heaven that equity which also takes cognisance how he liecame a criminal — do you not see that all society is, and must be, in arms against you 1 In plain, l)lunt Avords, you have wiped out from men's minds that vision of hell, that great and salutary terror, which, more than all other causes put together, is supposed to secure the peace and order of the world. I could never face society Avith the same faith that I have carried into the presence of my God. In the portico of St Peter's at Kome there is a statue of Truth, a beautifid. figure, leaning upon her sword. That truth brmgs the sword with her Avill be admitted by all. When Avill she be really seen on earth leaning on it, her work done 1 " Courage ! Courage ! " I think I hear the ringing voice of my friend Clarence exclaim. " Build on ! build always I It is thus only that we can erect and secure the great edifice of a faith. Know you not that it is the very condition of all great structures, that the sound of the hammer, and the clink of the trowel, should be always heard in some part of the building 1 " Most cheerful and amiable of men, most graceful of artists. THE SELF-REVIEW. 21 aud the most sanguine of philosophers, how often have I wished that I could embrace and hold fast yoiu' entu-e faitli in the onward progress of humanity ! You live " lu the bright light, And breathe the sweet air of futurity." By what happy chance or power is it that you have been able to extract from philosophy every noble and glorious tenet, and to know nothing of its doubts but how to combat them ? Others, when absorbed in the future progress of the race of man on earth, forget the inmiortal hope of the in- dividual soul. You do not. You come with both hands full, and hang your garlands of triumph on both horns of the altar. You do not drop a leaf. Most of us, when we have succeeded in building up some Utopia upon earth, have found, to our dismay, that we had been pulling down the very walls of heaven to build Avithal. We had not materials for both. Clarence is a wiser and a l^older arcliitect. He builds at once for iriimortals here. " Here also we are immortal ! " is his frequent saying ; " and tliis we shall feel as we progress. Heaven is not a com- pensation for life, or an antagonism of life, but the fulness and perfection of life." Most of us are under a bondage of fear as well as of liope, and think that the bright celestial Above almost imjilies, as its correlate, the dark infernal Below. " I see the archangel of the future ! " wotdd Clarence say in his moments of ra})- ture ; " with one hand he showers abroad upon all the world the light of immortality, with the other he shuts for ever the gates of Tartarus ! " Dear Clarence ! how cold, ungracious, and unreasonable must I often have appeared when you Avere unfolding your happy prophecies ! A Utopian, and yet no Communist — living for Time and for Eternity — fitting a rational society with a pure and hopeful religion — what more coidd one demand of any speculative philosopher ? Ihit I have been fatigued and bcAvildered even by the too shadowless bril- liancy of your philosophy. It seemed that my own little torch burnt dim, and was going out in the mid-day spk-n- H(;(iK I. — C'HArTKIt I. ilniir (if yiuir faitli : I li;ul in fany it into ilaik coriKU-s tliat 1 iui;4lit revive the expiring flame. I wonder if the few friends I left heliind hk' in Kii;^dand — the very few in whom a friendly f<'eling would arise at mention of the name of " Charles Thorndale " — I wonder if they supposed that the pale, tottering, consumptive patient who bade them adieu, was driven out to this distant abode by the vain hope of recovering health or prolonging life 1 < )r did they imagine that they concealed their own fore- liodings because they only looked them, and muttered some kind falsehood with their lips % I have no hope. I talked of the climate, I thought only of the beauty of Italy. I have no hope, nor wish to have; this certainty is much 1 letter. I know Avell how near death is to me. He stands very close. It is his cold breath I now feel upon my brow : his cold hand has been laid in mine. "We are fellow-lodgers in this sweet villa here. I owe to hini half the beauty of this scene, and altogether owe to him the constant serenity with which I gaze upon it. I cannot describe that mysterious and tremulous calm with Avhich I look out upon this expanse of sun-lit waters — tremulous they also with light as I with feeling. Here as I sit at the open window, with its beautiful bay outstretched before me, the mind is stirred as with the music of unutter- able thoughts. Happy memories, and every sweet emotion I have known, come back and crowd around me. " Once more ! once more ! Look too on me ! and on me ! " each thought seems to utter as it passes. Strange ! how the beauty and mystery of all nature is heightened by the near prospect of that coming darkness which will SAveep it aU away ! — that night which wiU have no star in it ! These heavens, with aU their glories, vnW soon be blotted out for me. The eye, and that which is behind the eye, will soon close, soon rest, and there will be no more beauty, no more mysterj- for me. THE SELF-REVIEW. 23 These faculties of Sight and Thought, what godlike gifts they are ! I feel as one to whom the wonders of creation were revealed for the first time, and for a single day. A^Hiat an air of freshness, of noveltj^, and surprise does each old and familiar object assume to me when I think of parting with it for ever ! I gaze insatiate ; I muse and marvel unremittingly. I gaze as Milton's Adam did when he awoke — child and man at once, — awoke to maturest life, and looked out astonished, a new-horn man, upon a new-created world. Like him, too, I tremble as the sun goes down, lest the whole vision, dream and dreamer both, may vanish for ever. Every sunset I behold is my first, and my last. " Ah, who would lose this intellectual being, These thoughts that wander through eternity ! " Who indeed 1 How precious has this intellectual being become to me ! And yet — and yet — I hate to write the ungracious truth — the very limitation of the term of its enjoyment, has something to do with the exquisite pleasure derived from the gift. I have not always thought it precious. "We demand an immortality, and "\ve run to waste unless our very days are numbered. Immortality, to human beings, would be insupportable. And we should do nothing with it. We should squander the unlimited treasure of our time. For every task there would be an eternal to-morrow. Oh. think what eternity would be to one whose nature it is to fill all futurity with the sadness and terror of the present moment ! How could he look eternity in the face, Avho recoils, like a scared child, at a few blank years before him 1 In a very short existence what slow immeasurable periods — in a very little life, what length of days have I lived tlirough ! In a space that now seems nothing, I have felt as if I were dragging weary steps over some endless desert. How terrible seemed the purposeless and interminable futurity ! Yet I had health then, and vigour of body and of mind. Now, here I lie in illness and in solitude, and lo ! this mere seein^ and thinking' is as the life of a god. 24 BOOK I. — CHAPTI'I! I. I know tli;it dcalli is in the room witli me, three paces nil — ^just somewliere out of sight. Have I not cause to h»ok and listen eagerly 1 Well, there is no more of ennui noia. Time is too short, and this world too wonderful Everything I behold is new and strange. If a dog looks up at me in the face, I startle at his intelligence. " I am in a foreign land," you say. True, all the world has become foreign land to me. I am j)erpetually on a voyage of discovery. On my journey 'here the steamboat kept us, sometime after the appointed hour, broiling in the port of Marseilles, and I sate crouching in the one strip of shadow which the l)lack funnel threw upon the deck. I felt no weariness or impatience. I could not tire of watching the movement of the rude, noisy, and not very cleanly race of mortals who ply their various occupations in that busy harbour. These, too, were men — specimens of our rational breed — developed, let us say, up to this point, or in this direction. My fellowr men they were undoubtedly, and perhaps better men than I, inasmuch as they had lived more useful lives ; but this T know, that creatures more strange, not Jupiter or Saturn, or any planet in the system, could produce to me. My fellow-men undoubtedly : we have the same want^s, the same senses. But fishes and birds, that are both verte- brated animals, do not lead more different lives, or have in some respects more different desires. Amongst the crowd was one group whose dress distin- guished them as galley-slaves. These are the rebels against society, who would rob and munler, if in some Avay you did not chain them up. The diversity of development extends to this ! And then I recurred to the old speculation upon social progress. All moral progress finally resolves itself into a public opinion wise and unanimous — which unanimity im- ])lies a certain degree of similarity in tastes, desires, passions, and a certain general level of intelligence ; and lo I this THE SELF-REVIEW. 25 inveterate diversity of development ! inseparable from our very industry, oui* productive arts, and social organisation. Imagine that you, Clarence, and tliat sailor in the red cap, were to consult together on the ends and objects of human society ! I remember that, as I pursued these reflections under the shadow of the funnel, some of my fellow - passengers, im- patient and indignant at the delay, became loud in their complaints. For their part, said some, they were bound to time, and would not be trifled with. They had to be at such a place, or to return to England, by such a day. I, as I listened, felt that I had " done with time." There was no business or occupation for me, and least of all had I any return-journey to make. I had bade farewell to England — for ever — for ever ! " See K^aples and die ! " is the cuckoo-note of the tourist. How often did it afterwards fall upon my ear, bandied about in jest by light-hearted travellers ! AMiat to them was jest, was to me a sober reality. To see Xaples and its beautifid bav, and then to die, was precisely the business I had. AVhy shoidd I wish to live 1 Have I not seen, and felt, and thought, as I could never again see, or feel, or think ? Why desire old age, which is but the same world, Avith dim- ness and a film drawn over the vision of the man 1 IJetter lapse at once from youth into oblivion. Wliat there is of brief and titfid enchantment in this life of man, I too have partly known. I have heard music ; I have seen mountains ; I have looked on the sea, and clouds, and flowing rivers, and the beauty of woman. I have loved ; vainly or foolishly, I still have loved. I have known, too, that other enchantment, second only to love — that early dawn of meditative thought, when the stars of heaven are still seen in the faint fresh light of the morning : afterwards there is more light upon the earth, but there is no star; and 26 noOK I. -CHAPTICU I. Ave wait till tho dark comes down ujion us, Ix-fure we see the heavens again. I have given my heart to the poets ; I have listened eagerly to whatever great truth science has revealed ; I have trod the paths of philosophy, till I found them interlacing each other, and leading back to my own footmarks in the sand. I have had earnest thoughts and generous emotions. If I were to live for centuries, centuries would only bring me these in their decay and degeneracy. What but the withered leaf of summer has the winter to bestow ] But this pause, this respite, tliis precious residue of life, let me welcome as it deserves. Silence and solitude, I can face you now ! I bring to you a calm as imperturbable as your own. That suffering, by whatever name we call it, which springs from quickened susceptibilities and a blank of action, has at last left me. No long vista, dark with extinguished hopes, now lies before me, to be trodden to the end. Those coming years, so pale and joyless — tliose spectres of the future — will haunt me no more. At every pause of life they stood before me. I could not see the little plot of sunshine at my feet for gazing upwards at those fearfid shadows. There was no rest at the halting -place; in the stillness there was no peace. N^ow all this is changed. Time has once for all set down his hour-glass before me : there it stands ; a few sands, precious as gold, are all that remain. How swiftly they run ! and there is no hand can turn the glass ! Here will I live alone. No one will seek me here ; and if I ride out, drawn slowly through the air, no one will recognise me. I am as secure as if I wore the " invisible coat." I have altogether escaped the irksome toil of finding silly answers for trite unmeaning questions ; I am safe from the dreary gossip of tedious and formal visitors. And the physician's punctual visit, I am rid of that too. "Whatever medical science can do has been done. The same instructions, THE SELF-REVIEW. 27 and the same prescriptions, were incessantly repeated. The good Bernard knows them all. He is my valet, cook, apothe- cary ; he, with his brotlxs and his decoctions, will do all that the most learned medicus coidd here accomplish. The good Bernard, I think, likes this life. I think, too, he serves me from affection. He takes a pleasiu-e in humour- ing my tastes — has partly adopted the same tastes himself — likes this retirement, and moves noiselessly about. He will do everything himself rather than admit a stranger. Quiet, and yet incessantly occupied, I think the time passes as rapidly with him as with me. CHAPTER II. T R U I S M B. I AM approaching — I have reached — that epoch of our lives Avhen the great question — ^lortal or Immortal ? — is sup posed to have a quite peculiar and overwlit'lniing interest. For myself, I have rarely passed a day without some reflection on this and other kindred topics, and therefore it is impos- sible that my interest in them should be greatly augmented, i^either is that interest, any more than heretofore, of a very jyersonal nature. "With me such questions have generally run in the name of all humanity. Eight or wrong, or from Avhatever cause it may be owing, it has been the greatness of the inquiry that has always fascinated me, not my own individual hopes and fears. I have more often asked how far this creature man, this Jiomo, tills human species, is en- titled to believe itseK immortal, or how far human life as a whole woidd be impoverished by the loss of tliis faith, than I have indulged in any anticipations of my own prolonged existence. " God will not take away our immortality," says Clarence, "because we have but little enjoyed the hope of it. Rest your head, chddlike, on the one visible arm of the Paternal Deity, though you cannot see distinctly where the other and outstretclied arm is pointing." I do not find that my heart beats quicker now than at former times at tliis great question. Xor, alas I do I find, as some have deemed, that there are any truths which become TRUISMS. 29 more vivid and distinct as we descend that dark avenue ■\vliich conducts us to the tomb. Yes ! yes ! there are truths Avhich become more vivid and distinct as we enter this dark aA'enue which conducts us to tlie tomb ; but it is on looking hack that we discover them. They are the truths we have passed by, and Hved amongst — truths of that common daylight we are quittuag — so famiHar, we called them truisms — truths which the child lisps, and the youth kindles at, and only the too busy man forgets. That there is s}'mpathy and love in the heart of man, and that thus his very self, his very personal desires, at once em- brace the good of others as well as his own — what a truth is this ! That man looks before and after, and discriminates, and compares the good and evil he has endured, and can thus choose his way, and can choose for others also ; and that the bond of human fellowship, rule and custom, and the voice of all heard by each, adds to the reasonable choice of the Good, the stable sentiment of Duty, and these two blend together in one indissoluble union — what a truth is this ! That the broken and partial picture of the world which the senses reflect grows gradually, in the human reason, into order and unity, and amplifies into what we call science, till in the consciousness of man, what at first was the "fair imperfection" of the senses, shapes itself into the divine idea, the manifested thought of God — is not this, too, a great truth % And all along there is beauty, visibly brightening over the whole creation, compelling the heart of man to love, where as yet he cannot comprehend, the Creator. To embrace the good of others — of a whole society; to apprehend the Avorld in its divine unity, — to feel how beautiful it is ! — the Good, the True, the IVvautiful, as some catalogue them — here are three gifts, than which could God give greater to His creature 1 30 HOOK I. CIIArTEU II. " It is liappior to love than to hate." " Tt-inperanco i? the line which flividcs pain from plea.snre." There is a ■whole system of morals in these truisms. Yes, there arc recognised truths enough to ])uilJ up a glorious world withal, would nn.'n l)ut build. If that which none denies as moral truth had but its legitimate sequence in human action, what a revolution should we see ! What a regeneration for mankind in the simple words Justice an believe in must be rapid, I have nothing but despondency to offer you. But suppose you were to put the question thus — Will the slowly -advancing intelligence of men modify their pai>sions, and give birth to desires in stricter accordance with tlie good of each and all, or will certain pissions a)id TRUISMS. 31 appetites for ever hold the intellect in thraldom, reducing it to be still their instrument 1 The answer surely would be on the side of hope, ^^o fact, it must be admitted, is more <;ertain than that our passions do frequently lord it over the reason, making increased knowledge and ability subservient to them. Eut there is another fact, less ostensible, but equally certain, that increase of knowledge brings with it neio desires, or tames the old ; and men's very passions, their tastes, wishes, desires, grow to be more reasonable — grow to lie such as, by their very gratification, promote the good of the whole, and the more permanent and complete good of the man himself. It is this slow modification of desires themselves that wc must depend on, rather than any more stringent coercion (whether legislative or educational) of existing desires. We are ultimateli/ in the power of our ideas. These modify our passions. In this or that individual man, the victory between Passion and Reason may be doubtful. In Humanity, as it lives from age to age, the final victory is not so doubtful. Slowly and surely the Intelligence niodi- iies the passion to itself. Compare the passion of revenge in civilised countries with the same passion amongst savages. X*iiave no sympathy with those philosophers Avho delight to represent our morality as the product of some especial faculty, moral sense, intuition — something which must not be analysed, or shown to resolve itself into the reason and ])assions of social man. It is with me a truism of the highest order and most hopefiil character that there is no a})peal beyond the reason, the knowledge of the man. And this groivs ! " Immutable morality." Certainly, most venerable Cud- worth, it is immutal)le as the sources of happiness and misery — immutable as the faculties of man — immutable as society itself, in Avhich always some morality must arise. IJut inasmuch as man is a progressive creature, and acquires 32 BOOK I. CIIAI'TKK II. knowledge, and witli kiiuwlcil^'o jinwcr, and with w\v powor new desires, his morality is liapjiily not immutable. I like to notico how admirably tlic ro([uisite stability of a moral rule is combined with the capability of movement and progress. The law-making race of man draws a line, and all on this side is right, and on that side is wrong. This line seems to each generation to have been drawn once and for ever, and to be immovable. jN^evertheless, it doe-s move — slowly, like the shadow on the dial, and moves as the light of knowledge rises higher in the skies. Curious to observe hoAv some speculative men insist upon the will, as if all lay there. Their great topic is the freedom of man's will, as if this meant something else than the privilege of being guided by his intellectual apperception. A tiger has tcill enough, if this were anything to the purpose where will is divorced from intelligence. Most villains are remarkable for their strength of will. "Will is synonvmous ■with Power, and ultimately presents itself as a mere physical power to act. All depends on the Thought which makes this power its own. Determine what you may about this Will, knoAv that the freedom of the man lies in his reason. He can reflect upon his own future conduct, and summon up its consequences ; he can take wide views of human life, and lay do\vn rules for constant guidance ; and thus he is relieved from the tyranny of sense and passion, and enabled at any time to live according to the whole light of the knowledge that is ■within liim, instead of being driven slave-bound by every present impulse. Here lies the freedom of the man. So much light, so much liberty. I cannot liberate you from all motive — even a state of idiocy does not proffer a complete liberty of this kind ; but TRUISMS. 33 tlie liiglier motive to which you have pledged yourself, will make you free of a baser one. This is the only intelligible freedom. This is the freedom that can increase — can grow, " I can move my arm this way or that," I hear some con- troversialist exclaim, " with or without a motive, just as I icill!" You move your arm, I presume, because you like to move, or wish to show you can move it ; so slight a piu'- pose can set you in action. But Avhat, if you really have attained to the inconceivable dignity of acting voluntarily without any purpose whatever, and so proved yourself to be a sort of puppet without wires — what an insane business it is ! Only where you have a purpose are you acting ration- ally — only then do you enter the domains of reason and morality. Thus we come back again to our truism : the final appeal is to an idea — to our knowledge, our intelligence. "We may look upon the progress of man as ultimately re- solving itself into a gradual revelation of truth to the human intellect. His advance in knowledge manifests itself — 1. In his increased power (the powers of nature are put into his hands) ; 2. In the great contemplation of science — the world is seen, admired, loved as the Divine Idea; and, 3. In that knowledge of Humanity, or of Human Life as a whole, which each one should carry in his own mind, and which should be the fountain source of his morality. If you ask whence this increment of truth which initiates all these progressive move- ments, I can only trace this mental light, like the common sunlight at our feet, to its source in heaven. Very fitly has all knowledge been called God's revelation. Ponder it well : are not our three great gifts, the True, the Good, and the Beautiful, constantly being disseminated by this one process — the expansion of the human intellect 1 And still it grows — it grows ! Is there not ho]ie that a time maj' come when aU will get their great inheritance — their share in these three great gifts 1 CHAPTER III. FRAGMENTS ON THE SENTIMENT OF BEAUTY. Here surely one feels one's self in the presence of a Divine Beneficence. What a heaven of beauty do I live in ! I sometimes say to myseK, when looking out upon this scene, " Let man grow good and Avise as the angels — let him reach his ideal of perfection — he will not at least need a new earth or other skies to live in." In truth, the earth grows more beautiful as Ave grow better and wiser. The sentiment of beauty is no one feeling of the eye, or of the mind. It is a gathering of many sensations, many feelings, many thoughts — perhaps taking its point of departure from the exquisite pleasure of colour, blended Avith variety and symmetry of form ; for forms, like sounds, appear to have a species of harmony, appealing at once to the sense, Avhether we regard the several parts of a single form, or the approximation of several distinct forms. I am ncA'er more convinced of the progress of mankind than Avhen I think of the sentiment dcA'eloped in us by our intercourse Avith nature, and mark hoAv it augments and re- fines with our moral culture, and also (though this is not so generally admitted) Avith our scientific knowledge. "NVe learn from age to age to see the beauty of the world ; or, Avhat comes to the same thing, this beautiful creation of the senti- ment of hcituti/ is developing itself in us. Only retlect Avhat regions loA-oly as Paradise there are FRAGMENTS ON THE SENTIMENT OF BEAUTY. 35 over all Asia and Europe, and in every quarter of tlie globe, waiting to receive their fitting inliabitants — their counter- parts in the conscious creature. The men "who are now liv- ing there do not see the Eden that surrounds them. They lack the moral and intellectual vision. It is not too bold a thing to say that, the mind of man once cultivated, he will see around him the Paradise he laments that he has lost. For one " Paradise Lost," he will sing of a thousand that he has gained. The savage whose eye detects the minutest speck upon the horizon, is blind as a mole to the Elysium that surrounds him. Ay, and the poet finds a paradise wherever there is a single leaf to tremble against the sky. Mark, too, how the sense of beauty reacts upon the nature of the man, disposing to deeds of gentleness and peace. We tread more softly as the scene grows more beautiful That many reflective men should be solicitous to abstract a cherished sentiment like this of Beauty from all baser ad- mixtures of our sensational nature, and should proclaim it to be a pure intuition of the soul, seems natural and pretty — a sort of poetising philosophy, but not very wise. All nature is one, — one Divine Idea. Let what you call the baser be raised in our estimation when we find it a part, or a con- dition, of the higher. Analysis destroys nothing that nature grows ; it only gives us some little insight into the laws of growth. Did the cell- theory reduce all vegetation into isolated cells 1 Did it any- thing else than add new wonder to the flower and the tree ? Mental analysis, in like manner, merely teaches us the order of creation. And whatever is added to the human conscious- ness is just as neiv, and just as fresh from the hand of God, whether we can, or can not, trace the prior conditions of its existence. 3f) nOOK I. — ClI.vrTEH III. God alono can know into wliat f^andor or more perfect forms the human consciousness shall giadually develop itself. ]]ut, for my part, I would rather now look out on nature — look, feel, and resign myself to the delight it kindles — than attempt to trace the steps by which this great happiness of the beautiful develops itself in the mind of man. God has built here not only for use or stability. Why shoiUd we scruple to call Ilim the Great Artist as "well as the Great Architect 1 Look ! the busy day is ended, and man rests from his work, and that sun that had lit him at his toil — oh, "what make you of this splendour in which it sets ? Does it not now light up the heaven for his wonder and his adoration? Shall I not call Him Artist — grandest and most beneficent of artists — Him who placed the moon out yonder — there, in the distant space — and then drew the passing cloud before and under it 1 He made her orb thus ample, and placed it far off in space, and drew the nearer cloud slowly between us and it. How magnificent it is ! Very exquisite is this harmony between the distant and the near. I look tlirough the branches of this graceful tree, and see a star amongst them. In the daytime a bird was sitting there, more restless than the leaves. And now the light leaves move to and fro ; and the eternal stars, from their immeasurable distances, sliine in amongst them. The near and the remote are brought together in the common bond of beauty. The two grandest things on earth are the barren mountain and the barren sea. Barren ! what a harvest does the eye reap from them ! FRAGMENTS ON THE SENTIMENT OF BEAUTY. 37 Strange ! that yonder huge mound of rock and earth should gather out of the sky hues softer than those of tlie violet ! At set of sun it flushes into perfect rose. While I am now looking, the light of noon has interpenetrated and etherealised the massive mountains, and they are so filled with light as to be almost invisible. They are more ethereally bright than the brightest clouds above them. And they too — how beautiful are clouds ! "VMiat a noble range of cloud- built Alps are now towering in the sky ! Those mountains of another element, how they love to poise themselves over their stationary brethren of the earth ! " When the lofty and barren mountain," says a legend I have somewhere read, " was first iipheaved into the sky, and from its elevation looked down on the plains below, and saw the valley and the less elevated hills covered with verdant and fruitful trees, it sent up to Brahma something like a murmur of complaint, ' Why thus barren 1 why these scarred and naked sides exposed to the eye of man 1 ' And Brahma answered, * The very light shall clothe thee, and the shadow of the passing cloud shall be as a royal mantle. More verdure would be less light. Thou shalt share in the azure of heaven, and the youngest and whitest cloud of a summer's .sky shall nestle in thy bosom. Thou belongest half to us.' " So was the mountain dowered. And so too," adds the legend, "have the loftiest minds of men been in all ages dowered. To lower elevations have been given the pleasant verdure, the vine and the olive. Light, light alone — and the deep shadow of the passing cloud — these are the gifts of the prophets of the race." How every tender as well as every grand sentiment conies reflected back to us from the beautiful objects of nature ! Therein lies their very power to enchant us. Nature is full 38 DOCK I.— CIIAPTICK III. of our own Imman heart. Tliat rose — lia.s not gentle woman leant over it, and left the reflection of her own hlu.sh upon the leaves of the flower? To the lover, I think, the rose is always half virgin, and but half rose. To the old man there is childhood in every bud. 'No hand so rude but that it gathers with the flower more and other beauty than what the dews of heaven had nourished in it. Above all, note this — how sympathy with the living thing and its enjoyment, adds to the beauty of all animated nature. It is thus that life becomes so great an element in the beau- tiful, A\nien we commend some animal for the grace, the vivacity, the joyousness of its movements, Ave are pouring forth our ovnx love and sympathy Avith all tliis grace and Joy- I Avas once ushered, in companionship with my fair cousin Winifred, through a quite unparalleled collection, as Ave were assured, of stuffed birds. There they stood in all their bril- liant plumage, their form and colour scrupulously presen'ed. Winifred Avas solicitous to be pleased, and made efforts to admire. It Avould not do. For all their gay plumage they Avere but a sort of mummies — dead things ; she could feel no interest in them. To complete her distraction, she spied, through the open windoAV, a little sparrow hopping on the gravel Avalk of the garden, pecking about for crumbs. Call it beauty, or Avhat you Avill, it Avoke that sjmipathy and loving admiration which all the dead plumage of India had failed to stir. " Do you see that sparrow 1 " she whispered into my ear — an ear that caught every Avhisper of hers, and treasured, Avithout effort, every Avord — " he is noAv flying off into the trees Avith something in his bilL Well — but do not repeat it to our host — I must confess to you that that little black fellow is more beautiful to me than all these gorgeous creatures glued to their perch." I thought her right. Perhaps at that time I thought FRAGMENTS OX THE SEXTIMEXT OF BEAUTY. 39 cverytliiBg she said was right. How beautiful she was ! ■♦ How it all culminates there/ Beauty throws a protection over everything that has life. A poor protection, you wiU say, against the hungry sports- man, who never spared the deer for all his gracefulness. True; but the charm, wherever it is felt, is sufficient to protect against wanton destruction. Even as I write, some descendant of that little sparrow which caught the eye of Winifred, has taken its perch on the sUl of the window. Fearless of my quiet figure, it is looking in, and about him, with a most charming mimicry of human observation. AVhat its own thoughts may be, one would give something to understand. It is impossible to sit and watch its movements without feeling some sentiment of love towards the little, graceful, active, joyous creature. You could not hurt it. You could not, out of mere sport, to see if you could hit, deliberately shoot that bird. You would feel more disposed to shoot the man who did so. Some poets, in their verses, have lamented the inroad which science will occasionally make in their favourite as- sociations, or predilections. A weak lament. Speaking largely, the more we know of natui-e, the more beautiful it becomes. Who has not felt that such knowledge as he had acquired of physiology and comparative anatomy (remote enough at first from aesthetics) has ended by tlirowing a fresh grace over every limb, a fresh charm over every move- ment in the animal creation 1 As to the vegetable world — as to our trees — I have not skdl enough in language to de- scribe the mystery and enchantment which modern sciences — whether of light, of cliemistry, or of vital growth — haA^e filled them with for me. Their leaves, as thej' rustle, seem to murmur of the half-told secrets of all creation. 40 BOOK I. — CHAPTEIt III. And take this witli you : as science advances, each object, Avithout losing its individuality, 8y)eaks more and more of the whole ; and tins — that each living thing gets some beauty from the harnaony disclosed in its own structure. I ask the mountain, AMiy art thou suddenly so dark % And the mountain answers, Ask the passing cloud that shadows mo. Why, oh most beautiful ocean, art thou so changeful 1 And the sea answers, Ask the sky above, that showers down, now radiance, now this gloom. Why, thou eternal sky, dost thou wrap thyself in clouds 1 And the sky answers, Ask the valleys of the earth ; they breathe this sadness up to me ; it is not mine. Nothing stands circumscribed Avithin itself. There is no self that is not half another's. Or say that every indiAndu- ality is but the power of the whole manifesting itself thus and thus. Amidst all this beauty I catch sight, at an angle of the shore, of a solitary monk. He surely thinks liimself alone, lie is separated from the world. He has cast it all aside ; even, perhaps, the unoffending beauty of this scene. He surely is alone, Not so. That corrupt and boisterous city on which he turns his back — which, even in resolving to forget, he must incessantly remember — lo ! its vanity and lies have made this hermit of him. This sadness is not his. Nay, even the dead in their graves, and bygone ages, and past centuries, of which he knows nothing, have helped to make him the strange creature that he wanders there. The wicked world bas given him half his piety, the cloister the other half. You take a single soul, and tax it with its single guilt. It is right and fit to do so. And yet in every single soul it is the whole world you judge. Yes ! it is right, and fit, and reasonable that the man, FRAGMENTS OX THE SENTIMENT OF BEAUTY. 41 whilst living Avith his kind, should be treated as the sole originator of all he does of good or of evil. Cover him with honour ! Stamp him with infamy ! Thus only can man make an ordered world of it. And are not this reciprocated honour and dispraise, given and received by all, great part of human life itself 1 But in thy hands, Rhadamanthus, judge of the dead ! what is this solitary soul 1 It is but as a drop from the great ocean of life — clear, or foul, as winds from either pole have made it. Ay, and the very under-soil on which it lay, on Avhich it was tossed to and fro, had been broken up by forgotten earthquakes and extinct volcanoes. A whole eternity had been at work where that drop of dis- coloured water came from. But what is this 1 I am lea\'ing the passive beauty of nature for the perplexing problems of life — of our acting and suffering humanity. Ah ! let me seal i;p that fountain of unquiet thoughts, and gaze on the placidity of these waters and these heavens. CHAPTER IV. THE TWO FUTURITIES. I HAVE been sitting here, I know not how long, watcliing this beautiful sea-bird. I saw it sail up from the far hori- zon, steadily up towards the zenith, and there pause — the slight centre, for a time, of one whole hemisphere. In this clear sky and universal calm, I could watch, I could almost feel, each soft stroke of its wing — soft, measured, strong. What a pulse of health and joy seemed beating through tin,' Avide air ! With what conscious power it soared, and then poised itself motioidess on its secure and outstretched wings ! There it still hangs — calm and alone, one little speck of life, one sentient breathing thing, suspended in this dome of heaven, and over this illimitable sea. There it hangs, alone, fearless, calm, in all tliis world of light, and beauty, and magnificence. Vain, beautiful bird ! werc the wish of mortal man to live in such peace as tliine. It is not the buoyant Aving he wants ; not even, or altogether, the buoyant heart. It is thy single-thoughted spu'it that floats thee fearless and peaceful over these illuminated solitudes. Man hopes too much, and knows too little. In all this blaze of light he looks beyond the suil The bird has its mate to love, and has its prey to seize ; and it camps in freedom, on its broad pinions, in the liound- less air. Few relations has it with the gi-eat universe, and THE TWO FUTURITIES. 43 these easily harmonised. Man pays dearly for the compli- cated nature of his being. AVhat a world of passions and of thoughts to be harmonised within himself ! What numerous relations to the visible world ! — And — destiny, how strange ! — what mysterious relations to the invisible, to the remote, to the unknown ! Hardly can he get together some little science, some faint intelligence of the very world he lives in, and lo ! he has to deal with unseen worlds — with conceptions which have no objective reality in the world of sense — con- ceptions which spring up in the mind of man by its own exuberant fertility. Is he to check them as imaginations unauthorised by any real counterpart in creation 1 Or is he *b regard them as the very highest knowledge, which, by its own laws, the mind thus generates for itself 1 Ay, and in these latter times a new trouble afflicts him. His future world in the skies was at least created there with- out his aid — did not need his help or co-operation for its structure ; but now he has a future society on earth, a terres- trial Utopia, to the completion, or the bringing in, of which each successive generation is bound to contribute. This new hope is a new responsibility, often a new turmoil, for the poor imperfect societies that already exist. These two ideal futurities — of the individual Soul, and of Society — have pretty well occupied my own poor allotment of present existence. I have lived, for the most part, not, alas ! in the glorious imagination of them, but in the vain effort to construct or comprehend them. "NMiat fluctuations of feeling and judgment have I not endured ! Now one of these ideals, now the other, was adopted ; rarely could I retain them both, never contentedly relinquish either. I have lived an idle life. I have been too exclusively de- voted to mere specixlation to succeed even in that. I do not say with Goethe, "An action is the end of life." A thought is quite as much so. The true thoii'jht is that in which life 44 BOOK I. CnAPTER IV. culminates. Eut I can deprecate as sincerely as any one the divorce between thought and action. Action tests our opinions — liarmonises tliem — makes the needful compromise. Moreover, it is when ojiinion has he- come a purpose, a motive of action, that it assumes the name and stability of a faith. We can hardly be said to have a belief in immortality till we have begun to live for it — to prepare for it — person- ally to anticipate and to act for it. And as to mere theories of Progress, I have known the work of years vanish in an hour. One unlucky fact may throw a whole system to the winds. I have more confidence in the faith of the philan- tliropist who has built a public wash-house, or given to it but a solitary wash-tub, than in the convictions of one who has lived all his days (as I have lived) a mere and painful student of humanity. Yes ! we should all have our work to do — Avork of some kind. I do not look upon him as an object of compassion who finds it in hard manual labour, so long as the frame is not overtasked, and springs, after rest, with renewed vigour to its toil. Hard labour is a source of more pleasure in a great city, in a single day, than all which goes by the especial name of pleasure, throughout the year. "We must all have our task. "We are wretched without it. The man we call " man of pleasure " makes a sort of business of his pleasure ; has a routine and method in his dissipations ; dines out, and visits much against the grain, that he may continue to dine out and visit with the same unwillingness. Even the poet, the most luxurious of mortals, who feeds on thought deli- ciously, must make of his murmuring honey-work a tiisk and occupation. He runs out into some channing solitude to gaze about him, and utter melodious verse ; but if he can- not convert those loose papers in his desk into something he can call liis work, his beautiful solitude will soon lose its THE TWO FUTURITIES. 45 charms. Mountain, or lake, or valley, it will be all flat and arid as the desert. Stand aside from the crowd, and look on — have no other l)usiness than to look on — how^ mad and preposterous, how^ purposeless and inexplicable, will the whole scene of human life appear ! " How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable All the uses of this world ! " Step down into the crowd ; choose a path, or let accident choose for you ; be one of the jostling multitude ; have Avishes and a pursuit ; and how full of meaning and pur- pose has it all become ! This labyrinth of life is ever a straight path to him who keeps walking. And as with the purposes of life, so is it with our specu- lative creeds. Stand apart and look on — take uj) your station at the porch of the church, and only question why others enter there. Oh, you may stand and question to the day of doom ! Step within — creep but to the first altar — bend a knee — to any saint you please in the calendar — utter but one prayer, one petitionary word — henceforth you are enrolled amongst the faithful. If Heaven has not yet answered — it heard that praj'er, — can you withdraw it 1 Why or wherefore you entered, is no more the question ; it is plain enough you cannot leave. I call to mind a beautiful and familiar experiment of the lecture-room. In the darkened room a flash of electric liglit is thrown upon a rapidly revolving wheel. For one instant every spoke in the wheel is seen most distinct, most lumin- ous, and quite stationary. Let any one throw for an instant — and it Avill probably be only for an instant — the pure light of reason upon his own giddily revolving life, and 46 HOOK I. — CIIAPTEn IV. every tliought and fcclin;^' -will be seen most distinct, and motionless. Eenealli tliat ray life pauses. Eefine ! refine ! Live only in the higher meditative regions of the sonl ! It sounds like good advice. ]>ut with the last dross goes the last strength. Your passionless thought leaves you without a thing to cling to — or to be ; you are all — you are nothing. Mere thinking throws you abroad upon the winds — flings you to the star.s, if you will — hut yon are as homeless and purposeless there as you were ujxm the earth. How full of human life is this belief in immortality ! Merely to proclaim an eternal existence to a spiritual entity, which in this world, and in this body, works out such con- sciousness as we have here, goes very little way to an effective faith in immortality. There must be some mode of future existence — some specific happiness to be looked for — or the creed becomes a mere philosophical abstraction. That friend we have lost, and hope to see again — that peace we have sighed for — that harbour of repose which has moved before us as we seemed approaching it — expectations such, as these, gathered out of life, give animation to our creed of immortalitv. As a speculative reasoner, I should say that this Great Hope develops itself out of the knowledge and contemplation of (toiI, coupled with our moral aspirations. To live in felt harmony with the good of the whole is our highest morality, and also our point of communion with God. The desire for further knowledge of our Creator, and for this perfect life (I must consider these together as forming one desii^e, or one state of mind, because a wish for moral perfection alone THE TWO FUTURITIES. 47 might refer solely to this world), brings and justifies a faith in immortality. The auxiliary arguments draAvn from other unsatisfied desires, or from the utility of the faith as an in- strument for the good government of society, I should be afraid to rely on — that is, in the courts of logic. I know the efficacy they have in the world at large. In a book which I have just laid do^vll, and where the author was arguing this very subject, I met "with the fol- lowing passage : " How cruel Avould it be if friendships formed on earth, shoidd be extinguished on the borders of the grave ! " This is the natural language, I presume, of ardent feel- ing. Yet, in reality, how few of our friendships last so long as to be carried to the borders of the grave ! How often do they suffer a speedier and far more cruel extinc- tion ! Are there many of us to whom, on diseml)arking on that other shore, a hand could be extended on which Ave would swear an eternal friendship ? Some of our friendships — and not the very Avorst — are kept alive because Ave know they will not be eternal. We make no effort to disturb what some chance, Ave think, Avill soon determine. ^\iid Avhy " cruel " ? for in the case supposed there can be no being to feel the cruelty. On no subject, perhaps, has so much weak reasoning been permitted to pass current as on this of the immortality of the soul ; partly because men had already a faith secured to them on quite other authority, on quite other grounds, than those reasonings Avhich served very pleasingly and eloquently to fill up the page. In old Avoodcuts one sometimes sees a vessel in full sail upon the ocean, and perched aloft upon the clouds are a number of infant cherubs, Avith puffed-out 48 HOOK I. — CIIAPTEU IV. cheeks, hlowiiitf at the sails. The swelling canvaa is evi- dently filled by a strongi;r wiml than these infant cherubs, sitting in the clouds, could supply. They do not fill the sail, hut they were thought to fill uj) the picture prettily enough. Most of these arguments resolve themselves into pas- sionate wishes to prolong some experienced deliglit, or to gratify some thwarted desire. A fragment of this present life is torn from all its necessary conditions, and perpetuated in the future world. Sometimes the action of the drama, liroken off on earth, is to be carried on elsewhere; the revenge is to be completed, the calamity to be redressed. Sometimes the happiest scene of all the drama, alas ! so transitory here, is represented as stationary and eternal there. Loving soids love on for ever. They see them- selves like a group of beautiful sculpture, placed, safe and changeless, in Elysian bowers. Beautiful sculpture it must be ; for life, as "we know it — the very life they would transfer into eternity — is perpetual change — is groAvth and decay, extinction and reproduction; and our i^esent human consciousness is built on, or interlaced with, the incessant movements of a vital form, that grows, blossoms, and dies like any other flower of the earth. As poetry, I can admire Avhat I cannot admit within the domain of philosophy. It is very beautifid to see the image of Regret become, by its very vividness, a Hope. I lose my friend, but death, that could kill my friend, coidd not kill my memory of him. His form survives for me. I cannot but think it as existing. It asserts and con- structs for itself a locality : not being here, it must be else- ■where. It was not another world to which the first spectre flitted, but the first indestructible spectre of the memory made a new world for itself. And it is not love only that creates and peoples this other realm. I have been wronged, and I am unavenged; my THE TWO FUTURITIES. 49 enemy has escaped me ; lie has died full of honours ; he sleeps in his peaceful grave. jSTo ! he shall not escape me ■ — I drag him from his peaceful grave. ye gods ! what wrongs he did me ! Pierce him now with your ine^'itablo shafts ! Plunge him — for you can — into eternal torments ! A fond mother loses her infant. "WTiat more tender than the hope she has to meet it again in heaven ! Does she really, then, expect to find a little child in heaven ? — some angel-nursling that she may eternally take to her bosom, fondle, feed, and caress 1 Oh, do not ask her ! I would not have her ask herself. The consolatory vision springs sponta- neously from the mother's grief. It is nature's o^vn remedy. She gave that surpassing love, and a grief as poignant must follow. She cannot take away the grief ; she half transforms it to a hope. Two lovers, soon after their happy imion, are separated by death. How vivid is the faith of the survivor that they shall meet again ! Surely somewhere they shall be reunited. Is there not space enough — are there not stars enough in the ■wide heavens 1 And all they want is a little space to love in — some foothold given them in the creation. All the rest of their eternal joy they carry with them — such joy as it woidd surely be amazing Avaste and prodigality to let fall out of the universe. What if they had lived and loved a little longer on the earth 1 Perhaps the star would not have been wanted. Eedress of injuries — Compensation to the afflicted — Punishment of the guilty. But it is all over ! And all that could be done was done by the imagination of men con- D 50 BOOK I. CHAPTEK IV. structing their ideal futurities, liedress of injuries ! "What can this mean now but revenge for the past 1 What good man desires revenge ] Most men, if they have suffered wrong, liave also done wrong. Would not a general amnesty — woidd God hut ratify it ! — he much better ? ]5ut our great public criminals ! Tliese surely you would consign, before an assembled world, to their terrible fate. Who are these public criminals 1 Put up their names. I hear mingled shouts of execration and applause. Your public criminal is often also your public benefactor : your Ctesars and Xapo- leons, where am I to rank them 1 And again, who in reality is the criminal 1 The one man, or the multitude who raised him on their shields, adored, and made a god or madman of him 1 I find all Eome guilty — of this Nero. Society, for its own benefit, may construct, at different epochs, very different ideal futurities, and raise, at one time, imaginary tribunals which it may destroy at another. But there is one Eternal Truth ; and roxmd this there are senti- ments and hopes Avhich will eternally gather. To me it seems that the Second great article of religion is bound up with the Fii-st. A faith in God, and a habit of contemplat- ing His existence, brings with it that earnest desire for a fuller knowledge of the divine Mind, and a more intimate communion with it, through a more perfect life, which to- gether irresistibly lead to the faith in Immortality. I shall not here go into the gi'eat subject of the existence of God. It Avould lead me very far : because, although the argument itself — such argument as I should rely on — may be stated in three words, yet the metaphysical objections wliich have been raised against the argument (chiefly because in our popular works it is too imagimifiveh/ or anthropo- morpliically stated) could not be dealt with in a very short compass. Besides, I am in no humour to go over this dreary ground. To me all nature can only be conceived, can only THE TWO FUTURITIES. 51 be intellectually appreliended, as the manifestation of a Divine Reason. On other topics I have wavered, and may still waver. This is a truth which has grown more and more distinct to me with every addition of knowledge I have acquired. The ability to apprehend partly the divine nature, and the desire that springs up in the thoughtful mind for a greater share of divine knowledge and a life in conformity with it, form together a strong presumption in favour of a perpetuated existence. I do not find that desire for other knowledge affords sucli a presumption. A philosopher who should claim to live on merely to enlarge his chemical science, might be thought just as illogical in his reasoning as the more passionate children of the earth, who are desirous of perpetuating their happi- ness, or of haviiig a second chance for it. Why should he know more 1 Is he to know all 1 Is he to live on as long as there is anything to be learned 1 And live tohere 1 How is he to pursue the thread of this inquiry in some other world ] But this especial aspiration after knowledge of God stands on a quite different footing. Other knowledge, you may suppose, may increase from age to age ; if we have it not, our posterity may ; but here is a want folt imperatively by each reflective soul, and which never Avill be gratified on earth. If I were therefore asked for my ground of belief in the second great doctrine of religion, I should say it was involved in the first : it follows, I think, as a corollary from a belief in God. Xay, even the terrible anxiety which sometimes seizes us to know whether a God exists or not, brings witli it a sudden and imperious conviction in some future condition of our being in which we shall know. It would stand alone in nature if a thinking being should be born into tliis great r^2 UUOK I. CHAPTKK IV. sc'hoino of things, where all is fit and harnionious, with one burning ([uestion for ever in his heart, whioli was neve)' to ])(! solved. If I ever touched for a moment the borders of complete scepticism, I felt at that moment the impossibility that I could altogether die — that I could become extinct with this unremoved ignorance upon my soul. CHATTER y, THE FUTURE LIFE. Such seems to me to be a stable basis whereon to rest our faith in immortality. The mere imperfections of our happi- ness here, our blundering lives and inequitable societies, our unrewarded virtues and unavenged crimes, our present neetl of the great threat of future punishments, — these do not, in my estimation, form safe grounds to proceed upon. They enter largely as grounds of a popular faith, but it -vv^ould be unwise to build upon them ; because to rest on such argu- ments would lead us to the conclusion, that in proportion as society advances to perfection, and men are more wise and just, in the same proportion Avill they have less presuni])- tion for the hope of immortality. My friend Clarence insists most strenuously that such are not the real and permanent grounds of our Great Hoidc. It is sometimes objected to laim : " If j^ou could build up your terrestrial Utopia — if you could make men wise and hapj^y here, and link prosperity uniformly to industry and virtue, you Avould in reality take from the great multitude all tliat has ever constituted a vigorous faith in immortality, in the Utopia of another world. In this your happy state there woidd be no compensation to expect from Heaven for misery endured, no wrongs to be redressed, no neglected virtue to be rewarded, no eternal punishments to Ijc inflicted, no fear to be felt of that kind whose oilier pole is a glorious hope : nothing, in short, would be left in your Elysium tliat makes the generality of mankind so boldly claim an Elysium in the 54 HOOK I. CHAPTKH V. skios. Your Utopians, at the best, would only dream of iiii- inortality, or speculate upon it ; they could never act or live for it." " Then they Avould coaso to b(^ Utopians," my friend (.'larencc would reply ; " for without this great hope of im- mortality there would be little of any greatness, I think, left in the world. I do most sincerely and most energetically maintain that the hope of immortality is not necessarily bom of misery or of fear. The eternal and the permanent stand contrasted with the transitory and cliangeful ; and a spirit- ual life — a life of felt relationship with God — grows up ever with our knowledge and our hai)])iness. This spiritual life will remain to be the root of our faith in immortality." As to the old argument from the immateriality to the indestrudlbiUt y of the soul, it craves wary walking. We first assume that the Mind is simple or uncompounded, and then argi;e, from our knowledge of Matter, that what- ever is simple must be indestructible. But here is a sub- stance confessedly difterent from matter ; are we authorised to transfer our notions of destructibility, gathered from one of these substances, to the other 1 Few of us believe in the doctrine of pre-existence : the " one and indivisible " human soul, as it is often called, came suddenly into existence, by laws peculiar to itself ; it may go out of existence by laws as peculiar. Our notion of indestructibility is derived, in fact, from what we think Ave know of the atom — which material atom we say the soul is not. But even the absolute indestructi- bility of the atom is mere conjecture, !N'or do all men agree to speak of the atom as the ultimate fact or existence at which we arrive ; some prefer to speak of forces. A theist who looks upon both matter and mind as dif- ferent manifestations of the power of God, has no difficulty in conceiving of the destruction or creation of either. Just THE FUTURE LIFE. 5o in proportion as "we enlarge our ideas of creation, do we enlarge our ideas of destructibility. But, of course, this belief in the immateriality or spiritu- ality of the thinking being, may justly be described as a foundation for those arguments I have mentioned, drawn from our moral and religious aspii-ations. We have the ens given us that may be eternal The hardest trial to our faith is the actual aspect of the living multitudes of mankind. Looking round the Avorld, it is very hard to find one's immortals, or celestials that are to be. Not always do men seem worthy of living even on this earth, which one might imagine to be more like heaven, than they are akin to angels. Sometimes it rather seems as if the earth were waiting for its fit inhabitants, than that its present inhabitants were entitled to spurn the world beneath them in their haste to ascend into a better. I raise my eyes from my paper, and what a beautiful vision lies before me ! The blue sky reflected on these ample waters gives me a double heaven — one above and one beneath me ; and these islands of enchantment, Ischia and Capri, seem to be suspended, floating midway between them. And now the whole surface of the sea is glowing like one entire sapphire, on which a thousand rainbows have been thrown and broken. " Surely," I exclaim, " here, if any- where, man might have been immortal ! " Yet if I descend from my solitude, and pass through yonder neighbouring city, I shall lind myself amidst a noisy, angry, quarrelsome multitude, each one of whom would think it the grossest insult if I doubted that he was an immortal spirit waiting to put on his angelic nature " in another and better world." Pity he cannot put on a little of it here. What does this world want but that he and liis fellow -men should be somewhat better than thev are 1 50 JiOOK I. CIIArTEU V. I passed to-day, in my ride, a ragged and iiltliy group feeding like swine under slielter of a ruined walL The very garbage they ate was stolen. They live, or they rot, in j)ollution of both kinds — of soul and of body. Are these our immortals ? — these our undeveloped angels 1 One must confess, at least, tliat little has been done in this world to- Avards the development of their celestial nature. Suppose I could fling open the gilded doors of yonder palace ; I might find a banquet there fit for the Homeric gods, and veritable nectar flowing copiously enougli. Mirth too, and laughter, I miglit hear ; l)ut if I listened to the jests that caused the laughter, shoiUd I think myself in the pres- ence of gods or satyrs 1 Is it often that in any of the patrician villas around me I shoidd find my immortals? Why must I accept tlie alternative — all or none ? "Why every Hun and Scythian, or else no Socrates or Plato 1 VHiy must every corrupt thing be brought again to life, or else all hope denied to the good and the great, the loA-ing and the l)ious'? Why must I measure my hopes by the hopes I would assign to the most Aveak or wicked of the race 1 Let the poor idiot, let the A'ile Tiberius, be extinct for ever — must I, too, and all these thoughts that stir in me, perish '? Alas ! when I turn the mirror upon myself, what kind of an immortal do I find tliere 1 This beauiful external nature, these still watei-s, these majestic hills, I have not been worthy of them. Where Avas the peace of mind, where the greatness and tranquillity, Avliere tlie noble, free, useful activity which all nature sym- bolises 1 Not in me ! not in me ! or only for an instant. On my best hours such little thoughts, such little cares in- truded. I have floAA-cd Aveak as Avater. Any straw could turn me. A jest, a look, a laugli, has thi-OAvn trouble into THE FUTURE LIFE. 57 my soiil ; a pain, a lassitude, a sick and morbid feeling, lias changed the current of a whole philosophy. We would he gazing, upward and around, at some divine spectacle — gazing with calm and dilated souls — and lo ! there is ever some thorn in the sandal we must first stoop to extract. It is night ; I have been looking out upon the stars. AVliat other creature than man knows of their whereabouts, or cares to know 1 I am a denizen of a wider universe than this earth comprises — than this world, as it lies in its own daylight, reveals to me. I never could look long upon the stars, and not feel that I claimed some kindred with the infinite and the eternal. Why am I vexed incessantly with this question, " Mortal or immortal," if nothing is to come of it 1 Or who can think upon that other and greater problem — the nature of Him who perchance sits central amidst the stars — and not feel that a creatm'e who can — who must — state such problems to liimself, is surely destined, one day, somewhere, to have them solved for himl Oh yes ! believe it ! — believe it ! — there is an eternal life within us. It will burn on ! — it is akin to those stars. And, Clarence, you are right ! As men grow better on the earth, they will grow more confident in their great hope of Immortality. They will support it in each otlier and in themselves. Have I not said that the aspect of the living world was the conspicuous cause of our despondency ? Here, as elsewhere, we meet with that reciprocal action that encounters us throughout in this great organic growth of society : the faith that elevates our morality is again con- firmed and animated by the higher morality it has assisted to produce. CHAPTER VI. THE FUTURE SOCIETY. God — Immortality — Progi-ess, these are my tliree ■watch- words — these are tliree great faiths -which I desire to keep steadily before my mind. Much still remains obscure to me, and would remain obscure were I to live to the age of Methuselah, as to the precise conception we can permit our- selves to form of God — as to the nature of our immortal life — as to the degree and description of Progress which man is destined to achieve on earth. But I can say — and am happy in saying it — that these three faiths are mine. How inextricably interlaced are all our reasonings upon these Two Futurities, the celestial and terrestrial ! I do not say that it is impossible to believe in one without the other ; for in some aspects they seem to be mutually destructive, while in others they lend strength and confirmation to each other. But you cannot reason for two seconds upon either of them, -without finding yourself implicated in some conclusion with regard to the other. How the future anel unseen world rules over the present ! — and again, how the existing society modifies your concep- tions of that unseen Avorld ! How great a part of life is your faith in immortality ! And what is immortality but your best life extended 1 (Always this organic ichole, always these related terms — so related that neither exists but by reason of the other.) In our own day, in our o^^^^ country. THE FUTURE SOCIETY. 59 how Christianity dominates ! Vfimt has it not done for society in Enghxnd ! And what again has not society and science in England done for this Christianity of our oivri day and country ? In vain will you say, in a quite mundane spirit, " Let us construct the human and terrestrial society. This plainly is our business, whatever else may be. Doubt hangs over other worlds. Let us make a happy race on earth." These very men whom you would make happy on earth, are half of them looking out most anxiously into the skies. They will not sit down with you to make laws and government, till you have settled something about that other region. Is it aU a dream? Then prove it a dream. Here is an element in your society you cannot possibly ignore. There must be some general vote or voice given in this matter. You must have a loorJc- ing majority of the " Ayes " or the " ISToes," or there will be no society. Equally in vain will you say, in a quite spiritual temper, " Let each one of us stretch forward to immortality — let each one of us earn, by his virtue and his piety, that eternal future, compared to which the whole world is nothing. In doing this — in the very process of each man's salvation — the ter- restrial society will be made (if it is worth the making), and the immortal soul have earned its exceeding great reward." That exceeding great reward, as you interpret it — that virtue and that intelligent piety whicli you invoke — live ordy in the hopes and in the minds of men whom civilisation has humanised, and science and philosophy have instructed. Were the minds of men really limited to their voyage to the skies, they would carry up with them a most miser- able cargo. Industrial arts, and many pleasures, and much thinking in this lower world, have helped to raise up this l)eueficent and intelligent piety. Neglect these, and religion is again a degraded thing — gaunt and haggard, and haunting the tombs with the monks of the Thebaid, iinding its fit home in the receptacle of the dead. Shall I tell you what religion is in its broadest definition? It is life cultivated under God, and in the presence of death. 60 BOOK I. CIIArTER VI. Forget Deatli, and there would l)e little or no religion. For- get Life, and religion is an empty spectre — a mere terror, host huried in the tomh, Avliioli it will then perpetually haunt. It is a curious matter for reflection ; hut if the pietist should succeed, hy his own teaching, in raising man to that higher moral state which he continually has in view, he would be l)ringing ahout a change in that very teachmg by wliich he now Avorks, and must work. If men should be more kindly disposed to each other — more united — more intelligent of the public good, — if they had advanced thus far, that, in general, they gave a voluntary obedience to laws understood for the good of each and all — that the law, and not the penalty attached to the law, commanded their respect, and their rational, chosen obedience, — then it is plain that the terrors of the penal code would be mitigated. Few terrestrial punisliments woidd be needed. In that case the terrors of another penal code would be also mitigated. The hope of an eternal life would still give AA'ings to all our best and noblest thoughts — sustain and raise us to the highest states of moral Avisdom. But a great terror would be no longer needed to prompt men to the first stages of virtue, to keep them from violence and crime, and a brutish intem- perance, A modification in the popular faith wliich would be pernicious 7ioic, Avould be inevitable tJien. Such is the nature of society. It is an organic Avhole. You cannot understand it otherAvise. Xo part exists but as part of this Avhole. Yoiu- religion is framing your sociid habits ; your social habits are fi-aming your religion. Do you want a beginning or first cause — some mode of escape from this eternal reciprocity, where A is only A because AI5 exists, and B is only B because BA exists 1 I can give you no other solution than this, that the Avorld commenced in, and proceeds from, a Divine Idea ; the Avhole and the parts are simultaneous, inseparable. All being, all poAver, as knoAvn to us, are but the manifestation of a Divine Idea. THE FUTURE SOCIETY. CI Bi:t society is not only an organic whole, it is an organ- ism that changes and advances from age to age. The Divine Idea develops here in time. Do you complain that nothing is fixed — that you cannot embrace it as a permanent whole 1 How can that be fixed and permanent to you which is still growing, still developing itself in the progression of ages ] It is hitherto complete and permanent only as it exists in those ideas of God, that not only fill infinite space, but eternal time. To quit these very wide generalities for others of a some- what more manageable compass, I can believe in the progress of mankind — progress in the industrial arts, in science, in legislation, in morals, in religion — even though I cannot adopt the sanguine views of some of my contemporaries — views which now appear to me as amiable delusions. They have not always appeared to me such delusions, I too, I nxust confess, have had my dream. And though mine was ever a broken slumber, and the bare realities of life woidd be always peeping in through the curtains of my dream, yet it was a long time before I quite extricated myself from its spell and fascination. How glorious to believe that this humanity of ours, which creeps still too close upon the earth, is moulding and growmg slowly into a new type of being, that it will put forth new powers, and will live some day habitually in the higher regions of thought and feeling ! How pleasant to shut our eyes on jails, and workhouses, and tlie miserable habitations of the poor, and dream aU happy ! — aU cheerful, active, good, and wise ! How pleasant to l)elieve that a time will come when crime and misery will cease with that want, with that ignorance, from which they most assuredly proceed ! — when all this anxious scramble for necessary aliment will have an end ! — when labour will be rationally and cheerfully embraced as the beneficent necessity of our terrestrial condition ! — when health will not be sacri- ficed to excessive toil or mischievous indulgence ! — when all men will be temperate, active, true, and affectionate — each 62 BOOK I. CIIArTER VI. bringing his sp(!cial contrihutioiis to a general prosperity ■\vliich will circulate, like light and heat, freely through the "world ! Alas that there should he fatal objections to these philanthropic and prophetic visions ! The individual man must still have the keeping of his own felicity, and he is often a very bad custodian of the charge committed to him. ^Nature does not make us all alike. We stumble at the threshold. Society, you say, shall care for the weak and the foolish. ]>ut if you take from the individual man this keeping and charge of his ovm prosperity, what becomes of your society? All the flutter and the toil of that busy human hive, on the continuance of which you have been calculating, drops at once ; there is mere sloth and torpor. Not a wing is stirring. It is society that makes the individual ; it is the individ- ual that makes the society. Both are true. And " nature does not make us all alike." !N'ot imaginary harmonies, but such as the veritable laws of human nature permit, must constitute our ideal of the future society. There is no way of developing a great and noble society but through the free development of the indi- vidual I need not add that the individual man can only develop himself socially. The society — speaking of it in its moral aspect — forms itself in each man. In each individual there must be the impulse for self-advancement or self-sus- tainment, and also such desire for the pulilic good, such love and respect for other men, as to render it impossible he should aim at a self-advancement that would put him in a stat« of antagonism to the general good, and forfeit for him the esteem of others. Your perfect society of twenty men must consist of twenty perfect men. It is well to see this clearly, that one may know precisely in what hopes one may be in- dulging. Remember the twenty men need not be all musi- cians, or aU naturalists, nor all care about music or natural THR FUTURE SOCIETY. 63 philosophy, but they must all care about morality. In other matters the variety of development, of desire, and of cidture, constitutes the very life and intellectual opxdence of society. All these amiable schemes for community of goods, or for some system where each labours for some general prosperity in "which he is partaker, lose sight of the individual, and what is necessary for that development of each man on which the whole must depend. The true ideal is to be sought, not by instructing each man to laboiu* for some general prosperity, in one half of the elements of which he has no interest whatever, but in teaching each man to act and labour for the ends which are to him desirable, under equitable con- ditions, framed for the good of the whole. It is these con- ditions that are to rule in every mind. Communism (bear tliis in mind) either expects that every man is to feel an interest in every art and science, in everything that is valu able to Humanity ; or else that the individual is energetically to devote himself to obtaining a prosperity, one half of which he does not participate in, or understand, or care for. Communism appears to me eminently unscientific in this other respect : it would impose a task on society, acting in its legislative or administrative capacity, to wliich it is alto- gether incompetent, or which it could perform only by such machinery as woidd crush the development of the individual mind. Communism presents us with this general type, varied, of course, by each of its teachers. A number of men are to labour together for the good of the whole — for a common prosperity, which they are to share amongst them according to the labour of each. If this pros- perity includes all the variety of gratifications of the many tastes and desires that grow up in a civQised society, half the 64 uof)K I. — ciiArTKH \ r. reward of every individual must come in the sliape of sonic thing that lie neither understands nor cares for. But sup- posing that the common stock to which he contributes, con- sists of such necessaries of life as every one re([uires, then it may be admitted that each man would have the fullest l)()s.sible reward for his own industry. A solitary man has all till! produce of his own labour; but the solitary man, if such a creature can be supposed to exist, would earn very little by his isolated labour. The social man has always hitherto (the very nature of our progress entailed this on him) been compelled to share liis earnings with those who have not shared in the labour. In the scheme of Communism the labour of each man would obtain its fullest possible reward, for he would have the whole earnings of a social co- operative labourer. He has the advantage of combination with liis contemporaries, and the advantage of the labour and knowledge of preceding ages, and he; is remitted to that all which the solitary man could claim. He has all a social labourer can be said to produce. But in order to effect this equitable adjustment (which still can only include the universally desirable), some govern- mental and administrative machinery must be called in to distribute to each man his share from the common stock, and also to appoint to each his specific task or labour. A member of such a society would be in perpetual tutelage ; continually under the control of some governing power, officials or overseers of some description. If such officials were honest as the day, they would have a task imposed on them beyond their power ; and who is to guarantee even their perfect honesty 1 Instead of taking advantage of the spontaneous laws or spontaneous organisation of human society, and moulding and improving this to the best of our ability, Ave should be attempting to supersede these laws by a crude and cumber- some machinery, which, just in proportion as it acted at all, THE FUTURE SOCIETY. 65 Avould be repressing the freedom, the choice, the spontaneous energies of the man. Even my friend Clarence, who still clings to some vision of an era of partnerships, guilds — I know not what — is most decisive in his assertion of this broad principle of freedom for the man and for the family. In his guilds, men are to circulate at their oj^tion from one to the other. They are voluntary unions of men who have learned that union is strength and security. Xot regimented bodies drilled and ofi&cered, but a union of men standing shoulder to shoulder for mutual support. I, for my part, have done Avith framing new types of society ; but I can believe that the best ends of those who frame them Avill be brought about under the system at present existing. I do not say absolutely that new forms or types of society win not arise. I cannot see sufficiently into the future to make any such assertion ; but I am convinced that the one now realised is greatly better than any that Ave, standing here in the nineteenth century, can possibly frame or ima- gine. If in subsequent ages a new type should arise, it will be such as we cannot now foresee, for it will have arisen out of knowledge and facts which do not at present exist. We are scared and terrified by this odious poverty which afflicts and demoralises so large a portion of society. And if some one assures us that new inventions in the various arts are pouring abundance of all kinds (of food, and of every- thing else) into society, we refuse to be comforted, because we say that population increases in a still greater ratio than this abundance. There is this prolific nature and her irresist- ible laws to be encountered. We sink down in despair. E GG BOOK I. CIIAPTEn VI. Lilt it has been shown tliat the law which ^laltlius enun- ciated, of the tendency of popvdation to press with increas- ing severity on the means of subsistence, is only true under certain circumstances. Taking in view the whole facts of a progressive society, tlie tendency is precisely the reverse. In every civilised country of modern Europe, the means of support have been steadily increasing in relation to the amount of population. England sustains her millions far better than at an earlier period she sustained so many thou- sands. Just as the power and intelligence of a people advance, is the tendency to over-population subdued. Thirty Indians in a wood might suffer more from over-population, than thirty thousand Americans located in one comer of it. And the thirty thousand Americans, if you pen them up, will have such a standard of living, siich wants and such tastes developed amongst them, that celibacy becomes a less evil than poverty. The reason why we have still so great a dread of the pressure of population is, that we calculate confidently on the elementary passions of our nature, but have little or no confidence — have often a most unscientific distrust — of the more refined motives, the tastes, passions, habits, of the social man. It is an unscientific distrust, because the strength of these last has often been tested ; and because the later, and more refined, and more complex conditions of our mind are just as certain — just as completely in the law and order of nature — as our most primitive impidses. I do not Avant new types of society, or new laws of pro- perty ; I only want more jyrojyerty. I want abmidance of that kind that comes of industry, I want the increased intelligence which will certainly accompany such abundance, partly as cause, partly as eff'ect. "When the artisan or la- bourer rises into a higher life by industry and intelligence, all society rises with him. And in obedience to the nature of our great social organism, the intelligence of all other classes is reacting upon him and liis condition. THE FUTURE SOCIETY. 67 But wliat comes out to me the clearest — what wears to me the most important aspect — is that, side by side with a material prosperity, there is a progressive extension of higher modes of thinking. They extend, from the few Avho already have them, to the many. Their extension to the many reacts on the intelligence of the few. They extend not only by mere teaching of books, and by what is specifically called education, but because those conditions of general wellbeing, so necessary to their development, are extending. But into this branch of the subject I feel I cannot enter now. It requires a greater concentration of thought than I can at present command. It would be necessary to go into some preluninary discussion of the progressive nature of the individual mind ; for of course society is only progi-essive because each one of us is progressive. I shoidd find myself entangled in the old labyrinth of metaphysics. I, who can scarce walk at all, and only a few steps at a time, should be unAvise indeed to enter that labyrinth where the more one Avalks the less chance there is of exit or repose. BOOK 11. THE RETROSPECT. 'To muse, and brood, and live again in memory." Texnvson'. CHAPTER I. CHILDHOOD. This morning, as I rode through the country, I saw a young mother — her child her only companion — sittmg, sewing at her cottage door. I was going to say it was quite an English scene, as if such a scene was not as universal as human life itself. A curly -headed urchin, just master of its plujnp round legs, had, in its play, run to hide itself from its mother round the corner of the house. There it stood, both arms extended, flattening itself against the wall, in the bright sun- shine, and laughing aloud at the idea of being out of sight. The pleased mother pretended not to have seen the fugitive, pretended not to hear the laugh which told her he was safe and close at hand. The child had hid itself only to be dis- covered. It was playing at being lost — say rather at being found. Soon the mother would give chase, and snatch the little captive in her arms. "\Miat a shower of kisses was in store — for both ! for both ! Oh happy time for mother and for child ! On other occa- sions, as I have passed by this cottage, the mother has been sitting at the open window, and the child amusing itself, as if alone, in the garden — absorbed with no mortal could say what — busy at some structure of strange device — dirt, sticks, straws mingled together for some architectural purpose, hid- den from aU eyes but its own. That cottage garden has often led back my thoughts to my own childhood, and my own early home. 1, who have so short a time to live, feci as old men feel. 72 HOOK 11. CHAITKU I. I liiid myself, for hours togothor, travelling through a retro- spect of the past. I can now understand and forgive the garrulity of old ago, which dwells for ever on sctmes of boy- hood, and of youth. ^lemory, and not hope, has become the star of life. Have patience with the old man ; he must pause, and turn, and look behind : there lies for him the " happy valley," if anyAvhere on earth. "When we have bade farewell to all our joys, there is yet another parting almost as sad — our farewell to the memory of them. "What hosts of long-forgotten things rush from their hiding-places to look at me once more, and for the last time ! It is always a most curious spectacle to watch a child alone at play, and see it contriving pleasures and mimic busi- ness for itself. It is marvellous what imagination does for this little poet, Avho works, not "with words, but creates strange visions for itself out of sticks, and stones, and straws. Dive if you can into the urchin's mind, and follow to its source that exclamation of joy and surprise Avhich a mere nothing has called forth ! It is a most curious spectacle. But Avhen, at the same time, we call to mind that we our- selves have been just such another charnung simpleton, there arises before us one of the most fascinating of day-dreams Avhich the groAvn-up man can indulge in. It is veritably a fairyland Ave are peeping into. Yes, we have all been fairies once. And now, as Ave go wandering back over the fields of memory, we stoop ajid pick up the acorn-cups, and marvel hoAv we ever crept into them, and found them, as Ave assuredly did, most rare and spacious habitations. Well, I have been happy once ! I have been a child I — I have been in heaven ! I have stood in the smUe, and lain in the arms of one of God's angels. I Avas the happy child of a gentle and loA^ng mother. CHILDHOOD. Oh, that garden of my early home, where I and the flowers grew up together ! I and Time were playfellows then ; I feared him not. Truly has it been said that the man becomes " a slave to Time." He is a slave to the hour and his work, and whether the sun sinks before the task is done — or (fate still harder to bear) the task is done before the sun has set — he is alike miserable. I once saw a picture which had for its subject an hour-glass standing upon some sort of pedestal, and a child looking calmly and steadfastly at it. In vain — so I interpreted the picture — in vain the sands Avere falling fast and unremittingly ; the child looked calmly on. What did it care for Time 1 It was not afraid of all its past, or all its coming hours, still less that the hours would cease to flow for it. In one sense the child is living in eternity. With all its microscopic vision, it has no bounds to its futi;re. Insect-like, it beats its little wing in the quite limitless air. How vividly I remember that daisied lawn, those tall white lilies, those glowing peonies, those tulips which are nothing in the world unless you can peep close into their cups — cups fuU to the brim with beauty ! We men outgroAV the flower. What arcades, what bowers, what triumphal arches they once reared for us ! I can remember walking under the scarlet and purple blossoms of the fuchsia, and seeing the light fall on them through the green leaves above — I see it now. How they glow in that green and golden light which falls on them through the leaves ! INlilton's angels never had half so much joy in their "jasper pavement and amaranthine flowers ! " Amaranthine ! that surely was a mistake of the poet. It is the perishable blossom that is so pre-eminently beautiful. Amaranthine flowers ! It is very like efernal tinsel — neither death nor life, AVish for no amaranths ; wish rather to be a child again, and see the I)lossoms of the fuchsia, half of them beneath your feet, and iialf of them just above your head. Eut the light of that garden, and the liglit of all llie world ■74 UOOK II. CHAPTEU I. to nie, was the mother's smile, the mother's love. My eyes fill with tears, at this distance of time, when I tliink what a tender, constant, unpretentling, and yet infinite love it was that she bore to me — for the most part a silent affection, littered perpetually in acts of kindness, never clamorous in words, expressed oftenest in the ([uiet kiss. To all ])ersons she was kind and gentle, to me invariably so. I can recall some expressions of sadness, not one of anger. A shade of melancholy had settled on her, owing to her early Avidow- hood. My father, of whom I have no recollection, was a lieutenant in. the navy, and lost his life, a few years after his marriage, — not " gloriously," as it is called, not in battle, but by a fever caught as his ship lay rotting in the hot sun off the coast of Africa. And yet it was a glorious death ; for he was there upon as noble a service as ever ship of war has been employed in — that of preventing the slave trade. His death threw a shadow over my mother's spirit which never dispersed, and which yet never darkened into gloom. Her sorrow found its solace in that Christian faith, and piety, and love, which she kept as the secret treasure of her heart. I say secret, because there Avere few pei-sons whom she knew to whom she was likely to express herself without reserve ; and because, moreover, there is in deep love, of all kinds, a certain reticence which forbids the loud and common utterance of it. To me, child as I was, she Avould pour out her full heart of piety. I have a dim remembrance of sitting up before her on the table, while, with her arms about me, she murmured out her passion of divine love into my won- dering ear. She thought that thus it might penetrate into the spirit of her little charge, and that her words might one day come back to memory, with a much fuller meaning than they had Avhen first heard. AVhat was gathered from that soft mysterious munuur, it woiUd be hard to say ; but my arms were round her nock whilst she was sweetly murmuring on, and nothing but love of some kind could be stealing into my soul. She taught me to love all things, all li\^g creatures, and to find beautv where I should else have never looked for it. CHILDHOOD. 75 She taught me to give pain to no sentient thing, to inflict no suffering, if possible, on any fellow-mind. She made me understand that there was a spirit of love abroad tlirough all the universe, and in the Author of it all ; that I must be like it, if I would be good or happy ; if like it, I should live in peace for evermore. Yery little " knowledge of the world," I fear, had the dear mother to boast of. She had a vague terror of that tumultuous life to which she Avould soon have to commit her son. Eut the workings of the selfish, sordid, angry, and violent passions, how could she, who shared them so little, comprehend 1 She knew as little of them in reality, as some scared bird that wings its way over a battle-field, knows of the dreadful contest that is raging beneatli. How far she could have prepared or armed me, for the actual conflict of life, it "sviU not do, perhaps, to inquire. Very little of that conflict have I been called upon to sustain. She was one of whom it might truly be said that she was in the world, but not of the world, A daughter of Eve, she shared the general penalty — she, too, was banished ; but you would say tliat she was still nothing less than the exile from Paradise. The land of innocence was her native home ; she had the air and manner, and spoke the language, of that foreign country. Other conflicts tlian those of active life were destined to 1)e mine — conflicts which she could still less foresee, and quite as little provide against. Yet even over these her spirit has perpetually hovered. Xo rude iconoclast could I ever have been — no desecrator of the temple. I needed no image or beautiful picture of the ^Madonna, to sanctify its walls for me. I saw her kneeling at the shrine. She had worshipped there. The ground to me was for ever sacred. How far one spirit such as hers, hoAV far it goes to make for us a faith in Heaven ! I should suspect myself of speaking extravagantly, and 76 BOOK II. CHAPTER I. out of the ignorance, as well as the affection, of childhood, if it were not tliat, at a maturer period of my life, I have had other opportunities of studying the same character. Such beautiful natures do exist among us. I have seen in other women tlie same serene devotedness ; I have seen the same piety, wliicli, wliatever form it assumed, hail its root in love ; tlie same quiet fulness of heart, diffusing sonn^ degree of happiness to all around, hut wrapping the child of its care in the very mantle of affection. What God has given to us in this sweet maternal heart, it is very man^el- lous to think of ! In looking back to those days, I can now understand how I also auade her happiness, as she mine. I must suppose that there were childish fits of petulance on my part, and some- times acts of insubordination, but I do not remember them. I can recall only scenes of peace — the lesson and the play- hour, which were but varied pleasures. How entirely con- tent, it now occurs to me, we both were, Avhen, on somi- winter evening, I sat by her side, with the large pictured Eible outspread before me on the table, or knelt up upon the chair, the better to command that captivating folio. Some of those pictures live at this moment more vividly in my memory than any I have seen in the famous galleries of Rome and Florence. Even now I see David playing on his harp before king Saul; and I see Saul consulting the Witch of Endor, and the terrible ghost of Samuel rising in the background. How that ghost haunted me ! Well may I remember those pictures, for I never studied any others so intensely. How I laboured to extract from them aU some intelligible story ! And, doubtless, I often perplexed the dear mother herself with my minute inquiries, and the un- reasonable desire I had to know what every man and woman in the picture was doing, and why he did it, and why Goil let him do it. Days of illimitable faith ! were they indeed mine ! How glad I am to have known tliem ! Xot all that we resign. CHILDHOOD. 77 do we regret to have possessed. Very singular and very pleasing to me is the remembrance of that simple piety of childliood, of that prayer which Avas said so punctuallj', night and morning, kneeling by the bedside. What did I think of, guiltless then of metaphysics — what image did 1 bring before my mind as I repeated my learnt petition Avith scrupulous fidelity 1 Did I see some venerable Form bend- ing down to listen 1 Did He cease to look and listen Avhen I had said it aU 1 Half prayer, half lesson, how difficult it is now to summon it liack again ! But this I know, that the bedside Avhere I knelt to this morning and evening de- votion, became sacred to me as an altar. I smile as I recall the innocent sui^erstition that grew up in me, that the prayer must be said kneeling just there. If, some cold Avinter's night, I had crept into the bed, thinking to repeat the peti- tion from the Avarm nest itself — it Avould not do ! — it was felt in this court of conscience to be " an insufficient perform- ance ; " there Avas no sleep to be had till I had risen, and, l)ed-goAvned as I was, knelt at the accustomed place, and said it all over again from the beginning to the end. To this day I never see the little clean Avhite bed in which a child is to sleep but I see also the figure of a child kneeling in prayer at its side. And I, for the moment, am that child. No high altar in the most sumptuous church in Christendom, could prompt my knee to bend like that snoAV-Avhite coverlet, tucked in for a child's slumber. Life in our pretty cottage passed uniforndy enough — that is, it seems uniform noAV. I, at the time, found an endless variety in it. The cA'ent, howcA^er, that Avas lo(_)ked forAvard to Avith the greatest interest, Avas an occasional visit to the large house of my uncle. Sir Thomas Moberly — Sutton ]\Ianor, as it was called — and Avhich stood in its OAvn park, near the bank of tlie Thames. My uncle Avas a Avealthy man ; hospitable, kind, a little pompous, proud of his pedi- gree, a member of Parliament Avithal, and hugely solicitous 78 BOOK II. CHAPTER I, to stand liiyh in the county. His secret aniLition, as I dis- covered at a later time, was to change his baronetcy into a peerage. A most delusive hope, as it seemed to me, and to others, who could still better judge of the ability and in- fluence he could bring into Parliament. But I have no wisli here to draw the cliaracter of my very good uncle. He was fond of my mother; she had been his favourite sister; and though he was very wroth Avith her for throwing herself away, as he described it, on a penniless lieutenant, he had never ceased to think kindly of her. After the death of her husband, he was continually pressing her to come to Sutton Manor. My mother left her own home with reluc- tance. To me such visits Avere the great epochs by which all the chronology of the year was regulated. The house might well attract me, for it was what here, in Italy, Avould be called a palace, and it was full of pictures. In the front of it lay a noble park, in which stood great oaks of fabidous age — each one filling, as it were, Avhole acres of the green pasture with its single presence. The park sloped down to the river-side. There were two approaches to the house; one by an open carriage-way through the park; th' other a devious and private entrance through the winding paths of a shrubbery, where every gi-aceful tree, I think, that could bear the climate of England, had been collected. This shrubbery was a quarter of a mile in length, and ter- minated in a country lane — the gate being just opposite the village church. Xo lodge had been buOt at this entrance ; the old rustic gate had been sedulously preserved, and every- thing done to retaiu an air of privacy. This park and this shrubbery were my great delight, and became so more and more every successive year that I visited them. But house and pictures, park and shrubbery, all yielded to yet another attraction, which also grew more poAverful every successive year — my little cousin "Winifred. Ah me ! how should I know that, cousins though wt Avere, there were yet social distinctions tlvit would place an insuperable barrier betAveen us 1 "I Avas a gentleman," as Bassanio says in the play ; but the daughter and sole off- CHILDHOOD. 79 spring of Sir Thomas Moberly, baronet, was plainly marked out, by all the rules of society, for a wealthier gentleman than the simple and untitled Bassanio. Some poet sings, — " Yet such is nature's law divine, that those Who grow together cannot choose but love." I loved you, "Winifred, before I knew what love Avas ; how could I know that love was forbidden 1 We have played together — I wonder, Winifred, if you still remember it as I do — we have ran laughing together under the same skipping-rope. I see in imagination two merry children coursing along the smooth turf, and the rope flying over their heads. Each holds in one hand a handle of the skipping-rope ; each has one arm locked round the waist of his companion. They have no thought but of hold- ing fast, and keeping step and time, as the rope flies round, and they dance onwards under it, laughing and singing. I hear their voices, but they are so blended that I cannot listen to the one for the other. A lady calls from the terrace — it is my ever-watchful mother — " Charles, take care of Winifred ! See that she does not fall ! " I do not think the admonition at all neces- sary. Charles would have sufl"ered every limb in his l)ody to be broken, rather than her little finger should be hurt. CHAPTEE II. THE STUDENT. Well, that cottage-liomo, and all its happiness, was gone. The boy had not yet ripened into youth, when the spirit of the place took her flight to heaven. I wiU not — even at this distance of time, I dare not — dwell on that distress. I will not again, in imagination, turn the handle of that chamber-door ! — that chamber in which I once entered stealthily at midnight, and, placing my light at the bedside, took a cold hand in mine, which for the first time retiu'ncd no kindly pressure. The caudle burnt down to the socket ; the day broke through the chinks of the closed shutters. Nothing but a strong repugnance to 1)6 discovered there — to encounter any living being in that chamber — prevailed upon me to quit it, and carry my tears to my own solitary room. I was transferred to the guardianship of my uncle. He was kind ; he received me as one of his own family, and set about schemes for my education and future career. ]My "prospects," as they are called, were not likely to suffer from this transference to my uncle's roof. He would doubt- less have done much to serve me, if I had been one of those capable of being served. ^Meanwhile the shy lad he had received into his house brought such a wounded spirit with him, and such passionate regrets, that he must have been, 1 fear, a very undesirable inmate. One person only seemed fully to tolerate and sympathise with my griefs, and this was my cousin "N^'inifred. THE STUDENT. gl Of my aunt, Lady Mobeiiy — were I disposed to sketch her character — I could say nothing but what was commend- able ; only the commendable qualities moved within narrow limits, such as were drawn by a very restricted intelligence. It is Avell she does not look over my pen, for she happens to pride herself especially upon her intelligence. A certain cleverness and vivacity of mind she indisputably possesses. Lady Moberly, in fact, is one of those characters very fre- quent at present amongst us ; and although, for this very reason, they may be especially fitted for the study of a philosopher, they do not afford materials for an interesting description. She took her place in the fashionable world ; she also took a recognised position in the evangelical world. These two strokes being given, the rest of the portrait may easily be traced. All her notions or opinions were sharply defined, which did not prevent them from being as distinctly incongruous. She used to speak indulgently of my mother, but always treated her as one sadly lax and deficient on doctrinal points. She herself bristled on all sides with such " doctrinal points." She was an exemplary woman — loved her husband, loved her child, and was a perfect slave to her own good character — most doctrinal, most Mwspiritual. AVhat is impossible in logic, is j)recisely the commonplace of real life. How desolately I wandered now through that great liouse ! The liveried servants, with their pompous servility, which I suppose had pleased me when I was a child, now caiised me nothing but embarrassment. I remember that I Avould search distractedly over the whole place for what I wanted, or have recourse to the most absurd expedients, rather than ask them to got or to do anything for me. How differently was all this managed in the old home ! There a kindly spirit had solved a difficult problem, without know- ing, perhaps, there was a problem to be solved. "No one could be more respected than my lady mother, and no one slirank more sensitively from what true taste or refinement F 82 BOOK II. CHAPTER II. ■would condeinn ; yet all Ijein-ath lior roof lived as one family. It was a friendly service tliat a domestic rendered me ; I asked for it Avitliout restraint, and it wa.s given with something of a kindly feeling. Here every order or instruc- tion was cold and brief as a military word of command, and obeyed in the same military spirit. I felt that beneath all their show of deference, I was the object of secret ridicule with these liveried people themselves, because I could not as- sume towards them this brief, cold, military tone of command. Yet let me not do injustice to a whole class. A kindly heart may beat even under tags and gold lace ; and amidst this pompously servile crew I found my good friend Der- nard. On one occasion, a fcAv unaffected words of frank communication won me his heart ; and whenever I used to visit Sutton Manor, he took it upon himself to look espe- cially after my interests. When he heard that I was ill, he begged to be sent to take care of me ; and a better nurse no patient ever had. But meanwhile the important affair of my education was to be determined on. I had hitherto — much to my uncle's great disgust — been kept at home, and studied under private tutors. Eton was the only place in which he thought that a gentleman's son should be educated. It was ruled, how- ever, that it was too late to send me to Eton. I was put under the care of the Eeverend Mr Springfield, a clerg}*man who resided some twenty miles off, to be prepared as speedily as possible for Oxford. And accordingly to Mr Springfield's I went, and there I studied diligently enough, making jiorhaps a more varied use of his extensive library than he was aware of. Here I had one fellow-pupil, who, as much almost as Mr Springfield's library, assisted in my mental culture. Luxmore was somewhat in advance of me in years, and considerably so in his knowledge of books. Passionately devoted to poetry — the rock, alas ! on which he split — he introduced me to all his favourite authors ; P>}Ton, "Words- THE STUDENT. 83 •worth, Shelley, and the rest. How I devoured them ! Many were the controversies we held on then' comparative merits. Dear Luxmore ! dear poet, as I must call you, though the world would not recognise your claim to the title — woidd that I could shake you once more by the hand, and hear you pour forth your delightful rhapsodies ! IS'o systematic thinker, like Clarence, my poet-friend, greedy of intellectual excitement, clutched at everytliing — in every creed, in every school — that stirred his spirit. He was a veritable pupil of the nineteenth century, full of piety, full of doubt — now all for faith, now all for science. We suited admirably. Our differences only served to elicit and kindle thought. We worshipped together at many a slu-ine. What a demi-god to us was the great writer we admired ! There was already this difference between us, — that some inexplicable tendency was ever guiding me to that ^helf in the library where the philosophers stood ranged. Even the poet's verse ceased to please, when it contradicted what seemed to me to be the truth. Luxmore, on the contrary, yielded himself entirely to the poet. He was impatient of any analytic examination. Say there Avas an error in the very tissue of the poem, he would himself detect and canvass it some other datj. But while the poet was in favour, he would tolerate no cavil or objection. Hence many a brave battle between us ! He, in derision, dubbed me " the phil- osopher." I retorted upon him the title of " the poet." Our derisive compliments were perhaps not altogether dis- pleasing to our secret vanity. Liixmore was already burning to distinguish himself as a poet ; wliilst I had formed some vague notion that I would devote myself to philosophy. !Much we have either of us done with our poetry, or our philosophy ! Wordsworth's ode, for instance, on tlie " Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood," alibrded us an arena for this species of controversy. In that ode, Wordsworth converts the very susceptibility of the young senses into some sort of argument whereby to disparage the 84 BOOK II. CIIAPTEIl II. senses tlieniselves. I forget liow, at that tiino, I framed my oljjection ; l)ut I well remember that, in sjtiti- r)f the hoauty of the poem, I could not reconcile myself to the palpaVjh; extravagance of ranking the infant higher than the man — making the thoroughly senstious little creature the more spiritual of the two. Luxmore was out of all patience witli my prosaic, miserable objections — " fit only for a lientham- ite," or a " rank materialist." He maintained that the lead- ing idea of the poem was as just and subtle, as the verse throughout was ex(piisitely melodious ; and he always com- pleted his argument by ringing out the stanzas triumphantly in my ear. Yet at another time, under the influence of other teachers — but why follow this out? Dear Luxmore, I would give half I possess if I could hear you ring out those stanzas again with your old triumphant dogmatism. The last six montlis of my pupilage were spent alone. Luxmore had gone up to Oxford, Books ! books ! books ! — poetical, theological, philosophi- cal, obtained often by daring inroads into the very recesses of Mr Springfield's library — books, and solitary rambles in the country, formed the staple of my existence. And now I also was considered ripe to pass on to Oxford ; I was liber- ated from ]\[r Springfield's vicarage, where I had remained stationary, with very few intervals of relaxation, for about three years. It seemed to me as a matter of course that I should spend the ensuing vacation at Sutton jNIanor. It struck me, there- fore, as rather strange that, on quittmg Mr Springfield's for the last time, I should receive from Lady ^Moberly what read very like a formal letter of iimtation. There were a few lines in the postscript wliich seemed quite enigmatical : '* If you should find," thus ran the postscript, " that your favourite park and shrubbery are haunted by a certain fairy of the place, do not let this too much disturb your studies. ^Make the sign of the cross, or repeat any form of exorcism that THE STUDENT. 85 youi" learned books may have taught you, and doubtless this same fairy will vanish from your path. I3y no means let it haunt yoiL" I paid no heed at the time to this enigmatical postscript, I recollect that, on arriving at Sutton Manor, I let the car- riage take my baggage up to the house by the more public drive, and walked myself through the devious paths of thi? shrubbery. It was a bright summer's day, and its shady avenues were particularly agreeable. Thej^ were the more so because the trees were not planted so thick as to shut out the breeze, or entirely exclude the sunshine, I can see before me the beech-trees playing with the light, their leaves now tossing it from you, now reflecting it on you, till you asked if it was most light or shadow that the leaf was making. As I strolled leisurely on, I came to a seat formed of the stump of a departed elm -tree, which the moss had overgrown. Some one had been lately occupying it, for a book lay upon the moss, with a whole handful of roses piled up upon the open page to heejy the place. I might have known that none but a fairy would have used such a marker, A book was always an irresistible temptation — let alone the roses. I must stop and look at it. It was a volume of Scott. I had soon taken my seat on the mossy trunk, engrossed in the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel.' How long the fascination of that poet had held me, I can- not say ; but when I lifted up my eyes from the page — lo ! there stood before me the veritable fairy — the baronet's daughter and my sweet cousin Winifred. She had returned for her book. Finding how I was engaged, she stood smiling before me, in playful mood, waiting to see how long slie might remain there looking on, and herself unseen. She started, and blushed a little, I tliink, amidst her laughter, when our eyes met. How beautiful she liad grown ! ^ly little cousin — so late my playmate — how my heart boundeil, how it trembled before you ! I had forgotten to make the sign of the cross, or use any form of exorcism. That fairy has haunted me for ever since. How very beautiful she had grown ! And there she stood. 86 BOOK II. CIIAPTEH II. ill no .stately (lra\vin{,'-room, Imt in the groenwood, witli tho light of lieaven playing on licr open hrow, and on that fair head : for I well rtiiueniber that, to enjoy tlie hreeze and freedom of the place, she had taken off her hat, and hung it hy the strings, basket-fashion, on her ami. She stood before me in the free air, and in the golden light of day ; and the poet — the truest-hearted and most chivalrous of poets — was our only master of the ceremonies. It was fortunate for me that he came to our rescue : I could pour out on him, and on his heroines, the language of admiration. Never was poet so much extolled — never so completely forgotten. AVe often afterwards met in that shrubbery — walked there and talked. What poetry we more than talked — we lived ! No antique grove devoted to god or goddess Avas ever more sacred than those shady avenues became to me. And, indeed, this early love, so pure and so devoted, is more akin to wor- ship than anything else to which I can resemble it. On my part, truly, a mere worship, where even the prayer was not to be spoken. I came to understand the full mean- ing of the enigmatical postscript. Whether, under any circumstances, I should have sprung forward on some active and ambitious career in life, may be doubtful. But this hopeless yet (as I thought) unconquer- able love, certauily helped to extinguish Avhatever spirit of ambitious enterprise I might otherwise have felt. A^Tien I left Sutton IManor for Oxford, and installed myself in the cloisters of Magdalen, I was as indiHereiit to the world as any monk of the fourteenth century could have been. Aca- demical honours, or the greater disthictions in life for which they prepare the way, had no sort of charm for me. The " daily bread " was secured, and neither law, jihysic, nor THE STUDENT. 87 divinity could have given me my "Winifred. There was, how- ever, one other passion stirring in my soul — for it amounted to a passion — the desire for what I must call philosophic truth. Books that treated on the nature of the human mind, on the great problems of God, and this world of nature and of man, had for me an increasing and absorbing interest. " This mere reflective life," I would sometimes say to my- self, " must then be my portion. Poets and philosophers, all who gloriously sing, and all who analyse and explain — these must be my companions." — Thus, instead of the special studies of the place, poetry and philosophy alternately occupied my mind. Scarcely can I say " alternately," for where are the elements of poetry to be found more abun- dantly than in philosophy itself 1 or where is the heart so profoundly stiiTed as in precisely the most abstruse problems of thought 1 Vain and most groundless seems to me that alarm one often hears from men trembling at each assault on some time-honoured system, some venerable solution of these un- exhausted problems. These alarmists fear that, their solu- tion being laid aside, the minds of men will be given up entirely to sordid passions, and the mere tyi-anny of the senses. But the j^i'ohlems themselves remain. Xever can the human mind — the mind of humanity — rest lethargic in the presence of them. Sweep from the world every system that is taught in your schools, in your colleges, in your temples — let every echo die away along the sacred walls ; and, before the sun goes down, there shall be some new doctrine thundering from the roof — ay, and a thousand whispered contradictions circling, as now, round the pillars and along the aisles. All that we think has sprung from humanity. But Humanity does not always recognise herself in her own works. The still water looks with wonder on the fountain 88 li'KiK II. ClIArTEU II. jJayin*,' from its own surface. The next uioiuent it may itself be the fountain. If Luxmore liad not preceded me, I know not how I should have gained a single friend or acfiuaintance at Ox- ford. At his rooms I occasionally met with Clarence, whose intimacy I often took myself to task for not cultivating more sedulously. Luxmore himself I would Avillingly have grap- pled to my lu^art, and made a friend indeed ; but he ^vas much occupied in his own poetical enterprises ; and besides, there were others aljout him who probably interested him far more than I could hope to do. Independently of the influence that reigned at Sutton Manor, my very course of museful study was shutting me up in solitude, imprisoning me as Avitliin vicAvless walls. The moment I came into my oAvn solitary cell, a feeling of restraint fell ofi" me, and I seemed then only to breathe freely. I felt as if some magic circle was being drawn around me, cutting me off from frank and cordial communi- cation with others. But I made no effort to escape. Tlie enchantment was too strong to leave me any great desire to break from it. Luxmore, in one of his snatches of verse, has described this state of mind in wliich you still crave sympathy and fellowship, yet feel that you cannot break some invisible chain that will not let you give yourself frankly to another, — " When I look without, when I look withoiit, How bitterly my swelling heart reproves A world where no man calls me friend, And where no woman loves ! When I look within, when I look within. Back on myself the keen reproach is liriven ; 'Tis I that cannot be a friend, And love is felt — not given." "WHien the long vacation came round, that house which, in common parlance, was called my home, Avas not indeed THE STUDENT. 89 closed to me, tut was made difficult of entrance, embar- rassing and perilous, by the very attractions it possessed. I, if I pleased, might love my fair cousin to my heart's con- tent — or its destruction — that Avas my affair; but I must not ask my cousin to return this love. I understood that a tacit obligation of this kind had been imposed upon me. When, therefore, the vacation arrived, I generally gave out that I should betake myself to Wales or Cumberland, or some such retreat, to "read," as the phrase runs. My uncle probably interpreted this to mean, that, with two or three others, I should go and read with a tutor, as the custom is. Meanwhile I went alone into my mountain retreat, with a box full of quite other than academical books. Such box of books was my sole companion. In the season, as it is called, the Moberlys occupied their liouse in town. In Lady Moberly's drawing-room I have liad some opportunities of seeing what is especially called Society, and might have circulated, had I desired, through a considerable cycle of it. I have been always glad that I had a glance at this kind of life, and a glance was sufficient. For me there was more excitement to be got out of any dingy book, thumbed over by a solitary rushlight, than from fifty ball-rooms. " AVell," I have said to myself, as I returned from sucli scenes, " I must live then in solitude — say rather in com- panionship Avith the noblest minds, speaking to me in their noblest moods. This is highest society — society of the truly great. What nobility and what royalty can comjiare with these 1 Kings and emperors ! I live with the kings and emperors of the realm of thought. Nay, is it not the chariot of the sun-bright god himself that I ascend, when I ride with the spirit of the poet, and survey and compre- hend the wide world beneath us ? It has ever been be- lieved that by knowledge we become as gods." — Ah me ! it is not kings or emperors that we want, or the chariot of a 90 1500K 11. CHAPTKU II. god. T liavo livc(l to sigli for any peasant's hut, with a friend in the- eliair before me. Our own liills of "Westmoreland and Cumljerland Avere most freijuently my place of refuge. Xo scenes have given me more la.sting pleasure. The mountains, it is said, are not lofty enough for sublimity. Eut as the light and cloud play on them, and they arise around you in dark, or silver, or purple masses, the effect is very magical — under certain lights, even perfectly sublime. Scenes more sjnritual Swit- zerland itself could hardly produce. But all comparisons are futile. We grow to love a country, as we grow to love a person, because we have there exercised our faculty of loving. Nature here is gentle and yet elevating. "Who has not noticed how all the pleasing accessories of a fertile and homely landscape gain infinitely by their union with the mountain- ranges 1 The stream runs conscious of the purple hills ; every tree and flower has something more than its own beauty, when it grows in the shadow, or in the li'jhf, of the glorious mountains. A\^ierever they rear their mystic summits to the clouds, there is an indescribable comming- ling of heaven and of earth. The mountain is the religion of the landscape. Amongst these hills I wandered, with thoughts gathered sometimes from Emmanuel Kant, sometimes from sages nearer home, sometimes from the sciences of LyeU, and Owen, and Faraday. I was striving, by what phxstic power was in me, to piece together into some consistent whole, the rich materials, Avhich the age in which we live tlirows before us all. I see myself, perched up amongst the crags, a stray soli- tary speck of humanity, mightily concerned about the origin and end of all things. This is my task — the business of my life, — to understand what I can of this world in wliich I THE STUDENT. 91 ]iave been born — of its past history — of the jiast history of nianhinJ, and whatever may be gathered, from the past, of prediction for the future. Something, too, may be said or written — a word be spoken — that may help in some infini- tesimal proportion, in this multifarious business of a world's progress. Then I reflected upon my own position in the social scheme. Some intellectual labour, I said, must be mine ; how else could I justify the manmnission I enjoyed from aR manual crafts, the toils of the field, or what to me wore a far more terrible aspect, the toils of trade and commerce 1 K'o especial department of science was I likely to advance. I felt no aptitude for ingenious experiment, or minute observation. Nature had not fitted me for the laboratory or the dissecting- room. The geologist's hammer would have been a useless instrument in my hand; in vain should I have collected weeds or insects. To as little purpose should I have turned the leaves of innumerable lexicons — I who turn the leaves of the dictionary seven times to the same spot, and have still to turn them in chase of the same word. A learned man, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, I could not be. One only scheme of study lay open to me — " There shall be no great idea," I said to myself, " wrought out in any depart- ment of science — there shall be no great or important con- clusion arrived at by the philologist, the anti(piarian, or the historical critic — tliat I will remain ignorant of. In presence of the man of erudition, or the scientific professor, I must always be a pupil ; but I will be a pupil in every class ; I will catch the last word uttered in every schoolroom." How often is the last word that falls from the professor's chair, a doubt ! — a suggestion to promjit to furtlier examina- tion, not a conclusion that can be fortliwitli ajiplied to the building up of your system ! Such scheme of study, how- ever, I cannot, as I now look back upon it, but approve. It gave a method to my reading. And it seemed a modest 92 BOOK II. CIIAPTEIJ ir. scheme. I found it more difTicult of accomplishment, tli'' furtlier I iulvanccd in it. Tlu-n, for tliat system to he constructed hy the aid of all these teachers — I read, I tho\i<,dit, I wrote, I destroyed. JIow often did it seem I had to hegin it all afresh ! I have done nothing. Well, there are hraver men in England, holder and stronger, who are at work in every department of thought. Yes, marvellous is the varied intellectual power at work- around us, elevating us all. I have never heen wanting in reverence : I have heen always Avilling to learn, and to admire. Fond of pm*suing my own reflections, and initiated early into metaphysiciil studies, which more than any other prompt to independent thinking, I was not likely to sink into the hahit of being merely a passive recipient of the knowledge of others. All the more do I congratulate myself that I did not fall into the opposite error of involving myself in some favourite sub- ject of speculation, and neglecting to understand, and by understanding to appreciate, the various lahoui-s and the various knowledge of mankind. I never see a bridge span- ning the river, nor a railroad sweeping over the coimtry, that I do not reflect with admiration on the science and skill of the engineer, and on that noble audacity of enterprise which his skill and science have given him. .\11 men are ready to extol the sublime task- work of the astronomer ; how, on the one hand, he has dealt with space and number determining their inevitable relations, and then, by means of nicest obser- vation, has laid his mathematical theorems by the side of Nature's work, and detected the secret method of her move- ments ; but all men are not equally ready to applaud the labours of the chemist in his laboratory, or of the anatomist in the dissecting-room. Yet here, too, have been thought the most subtle, and perseverance tridy heroic. They, too, were God-inspired men. Our great contemporaries I have THE STUDEXT. 93 never seen ; never, to my knowledge, have I been in the presence of any of our great men, whether of action or of thought — great commanders, or great writers, discoverers of new lands, or discoverers of new truths ; but from no one have they more constantly received that homage which is due from every thinking man, to every noble service ren- dered to humanity. I can truly say that I have never put down a book wliich has taught me anytliing Avorth learning, witliout a silent thank to the author of it. There are liAnng men to whom I owe a great debt. Xot those only who make specific contributions to our fund of knowledge are oiu" teachers. Some rather inspire than teach. What should I have done those three months that I once passed so dis- consolately in Wales, if at the bottom of my portmanteau I had not found the ' Sartor Eesartus' ] OHAPTEE III. THE MIRAGE. There ever rises up before us some inrfect xcliolc of society, which, when we approach to inspect it closely, vanishes away into thin air. Is this a prophecy of what will exist in some form we cannot accurately conceive % or is it a delusion — a dream always in the fevered spirit — a mirage always in the desert % From very early youth I was perplexed by speculations, of an unsettled character, upon that Future Society which man- kind is one day to construct upon the earth. Like the mirage of the desert, some happiest vision of that better Society would be ever rising before me, and ever vanishing as I ap- proached to examine it. "What Avas it to me — this fai'-off f utui'e — this destmy of mankind in distant centuries, which I could not so much as promote by any act of mine ] Nothing. It was nothing more than a curious speculation, which might as well concern any planet in the universe, as this earth on Avhich I cast my shadow for a time. The fate of the inhabit- ants of Jupiter, and the fate of the inhabitants of TeHus, when Tellus shall be peopled by an altered and a wiser race, are problems very much of the same character. Yet this speculation has haunted me thi'oughout a large portion of my life ; it has pursued me into every scene ; it has been to me a great hope, or a great despondency. It was notliing — it was all. I could never walk tlu-ough the crowded streets of a great town, and scan the anxious faces that passed me by, — the THE MIRAGE. 95 squalor, the wretchedness, the care that meet one at every turn, — without asking myself whether it must be always thus — always this eternal scramble for the means to live — always this fear, and bitterness, and discontent ] Surely sometliing better than this must be practicable — must one day be prac- tised — or man has in vain been made a reasonable being. I could never pass under the gloomy walls of a jail — the gloom- iest and harshest sort of fortress society has ever built for its own protection — I coidd never walk under those walls, and call to mind the futile schemes that good men devise for the reformation of criminals, by new methods of punishment ! — Avithout asking myself whether that " Poverty in the presence of Wealth," which is the perennial source of crime, is to continue for ever 1 I could never enter an open church, and hear its mournful litanies, the incessant cry for mercy ! — mercy upon miserable sinners ! — -without meditating whether such Avill ahvays be — Avhat doubtless it is now — the fittest and sincerest cry that man can raise to the God who made him? On days of festival, or of public pageant, I have always turned from the spectacle to the spectators. To me no spectacle was like the populace that were looking on ; and sad as the cares of a great city are, its rejoicings have seemed to me still more sad and miserable. Lrute noise, and idiot laughter — the grimace, and the malice of an ape — these meet you on every side. If such their liajjpine^x, Avhat have I to do Avith promoting it 1 They are satyrs, not men. "Wnien I have escaped altogether from cities, and have been rambling in a picturesipie and beautiful country, thouglits of the same kind have still pursued me. The living man is throAvn out upon the fields to cultivate them — but Avhat of his OAvn culture ? That Avhich should be the most healthy and invigorating, as it is the most essential of all labours, is made to boAV the neck and stultify the mind, and shut out the man from Avhatever civilisation has been hitherto attained. In vain did the roses cluster round some loAvly cottage. Tmide that cottage, or one lilce it, I liad looked, I had entered. T liad seen the hovel frmn williin, ;nid tlie 96 BOOK II. CHAPTER III. roses had lost their charm. Fragrance and beauty wei*; dallying with the careless -winds ; but the lot of the human inhabitant within was foul air, foul fooil, foul thoughts. Forgetful of lake and mountain — my eyes fixed perhaj on the topmost bar of some roadside gate which I had i/ tended to open — or pausing stock-still before some hed^^- row in the solitary lane, apparently intent upon the buds < the hawthorn, as if I were penetrating into the very secrt ; of vegetable life — I have stood for hours musing on the in- tricate problems which our social condition presents to u>. There I have reviewed all that our best writers on political economy had taught me of the actual organisation of soci- ety (it fully deserves the name), and of that system whicli has been Avrought out by the free and self-reliant laboui-s of all classes of the community. It is a system which has a certain completeness of its own; and very palpable mi.-- chief would ensue, if this organisation were prematurely- tampered with, or you were to insist upon patching and reforming it upon principles directly repugnant to those on which it is grounded. I saw plainly that if, moved by some natural sense of justice, you should interfere, by legislative means, to raise the wages of the labourer, the simple result must be, that the fund destined for the payment of wages would be di- vided amongst fewer labourers : you would have starved some to feed others better. If, desirous of introducing some greater equality amongst those who share in the realised wealth of the community, you were to enact some new law of inheritance (forbidding the acquisition, by descent or bequest, of more than a certain sum), you would simply impoverish your country, all other parts of the system re- maining the same, by restricting the accumidation of capital If, urged by benevolence, you would extend charity to all who needed it — if you gave to the wants of one man a claim on the superfluities of another — if mere poverty should have THE MIRAGE. 97 its rights — you would bring speedy ruin on the whole society. It is a hard doctrine — this of self-reliance — when taught to the lowest and the weakest : it is a hard struggle that the poor have to maintain ; yet if the struggle is not kept up there, where precisely it is hardest, the whole machinery gives way, goes wrong, or scarce will go at all. The only ground on which any systematic charity can be justified is this — that there is an improvidence of despair worse than that improvidence which your benevolence wiR foster ; for let poverty settle down in the very lowest con- dition on which life can be supported, mere despondency seizes upon the man, all effort becomes impossible, and all prudence, Avhether in regard to a man's own interest or the interest of his offspring, is out of the question : the creature lives, and propagates Avith brutal apathy. Our system has a completeness of its ovncL Each one for himself, and a law that keeps the peace. A great game of getting and of keeping is played out under certain broad rules, to which all must conform. Play fair and win, play fair and lose ; the winning and the losing are your own con- cern ; only play fair — that is all that society is concerned with. The system has its excitement, at all events ; though the game goes hard against some of the players, and there is from time to time a dreadful outcry against the rules of the game. Some start with so poor a chance. The system, however, is not one that is to be lightly meddled Avith. Eut I would say, communing with myself, — " Cannot I see, lying out there, on the golden shores of futurity, a (j^uite different system — one which shall consecrate the principle of labouring for the good of some whole, of which we constitute a part — a quite different organisation, based on an intelligent and equitable co-operation? ^Aide- toi, le del t'aidera,' is thought a good maxim. If instead of ' Help yourself,' we read ' Help yourselves ! ' would it not be a better formula ] and would not all good inHuonces, and the whole scheme of nature, l)e as likely to conspire with us % "I cannot trace step by step the transition from one G 98 BOOK II. CHAPTER III. system to the other. I suppose it Avill be slow and gradual, and aided by circumstances I cannot foresee. But I do not acknowledge that human nature itself, the poniianent pas- sions and motives of mankind, present an insuperable ob- stacle to the realisation of the new and hapi>ier system. I can imagine that a princijile of partnership between labour and capital might take the place of our j)resent practice of payment in wages; and that such a partnership, first in- stituted in cities and in great factories, might extend into the country, and embrace agricultural workmen. The whole society might become one federal union of many guilds and partnerships. Every one would be gathered into some fold or other ; no man would be compelled ' to take care of him- self' by means most pernicious to the community. Our temptations to crime would almost be extinguished ; and this quite novel happiness would be introduced into the world — of living in it without fear of each other. " A revolution — brought about gradually, and accom- panied with many changes in the culture and habits of all classes — a revolution in the tenure of property in land — would signalise the establishment of the new system. Land held as the sole property of him who cultivates it, gives us the peasant proprietor — a man who may feed himself and his children well, but who knows nothing of arts, science, literature. Land held in large estates by proprietors who do not labour, and cidtivated by labourers who own nothing in the soil, gives us a refined and cultivated class, but a class very limited in numbers. Under this system ciA-ilisation has hitherto almost confined itself to great cities. If land were again held as the property of those Avho cultivated it, but held as the common property of men Avho had taken the civilisation of the towns with them into the country, would there not follow a third phase of society vastly superior to either of the preceding 1 " The two conditions which alone seemed to me impera- tively necessary for this transition to a happier scheme of things were — 1. Some further advancement in science and the various arts that administer to our wellbeing, so that TUE MIRAGE. 99 the productive powers of industry will be increased, and the requisite abundance of all things may be procurable ; and, 2. Some approximation to intellectual equality (by the exten- sion to the many of the knowledge and tastes developed amongst the few), so that a co-operation for common pur- poses would be rendered possible, and the utmost result for the good of all extracted from the knowledge and skill which is and shall be attained. I would not admit — as I stood there studying my problem before the hawthorn bush — that there was in the nature of things any absurdity in the supposed union of a certain «legree of refinement and intelligence with manual labour. It is true, I confessed, that men have hitherto chiefly edii- cated themselves in order to obtain subsistence, or wealth, or honour, by some learned profession ; and this stimulant must evidently be limited to a few. But there is a tendency for employments recpiiring education to increase. And it is also true that knowledge is a pleasure in itself, and brings with it the respect and esteem of others ; that the taste for books, like that for music, grows by the very gratification of it ; that science, literature, and the fine arts, tend to take their place as ends or pleasures sought for by all classes of the community. What is there absurd in the notion that every man, though he follow the plough, or Avicld the trowel, may seek his sliare in pleasures and honours of this kind "? Many a worthy gentleman deliglits in liis sj)ade, in fair digging in his garden ; many in the use of the lathe, and the Avholc box of carpenter's tools. Suppose they dug or hammered with a more earnest purpose, must they cease to be gentlemen in temper and disi)Osition, and drop all cultivated tastes and all intelligent discourse '? Why miglit nut the labours of agriculture be performed by youths (piite as rclined and well informed as those who now sit at desks in innumerable offices and counting-houses 1 I have a strong suspicion that 100 BOOK II. CIIAPTEU III. if some of those youtlis left their desks for tlic fields, both they and society would be the better for the change. " Me- thinks," I said to myself, " that the future Burns will not be taken from the plough, and made an exciseman of, the better to fit his ext(!rnal condition to the poetic character. I see him in his native fields, but with more genial companions, and a labour more rationally participated. I see him mu- sing under the shadow or the shelter of the tree, then, start- ing from his pleasant lair, fold up his tablets, or throw them with a smile to his friend, whilst he steps forward to take his place in the furrow." " Well, your meditative blacksmith," I said, startled in the midst of these thoughts by his ringing hammer heard in the distance, " I do not flinch from the idea of a blacksmith meditative. Woidd that I had an arm strong enough to wield that hammer ! I would make the anvil ring again. I would forge you most excellent horse-shoes and plough- shares ; and at set of sun would read grave lectures, to whomsoever would listen, on philosophy and all the sciences. My manuscript would display a broader style of penman- ship : the. matter would be none the less strong and healthy. Why, any man with animal vigour, with some spring of elasticity in his frame, would dig, and delve, and hew, and hammer, and mount scaflblding, or dive into mines and bring out coal and iron — if he had but friendly and equal companions about him, and felt that he was doing a rational service amongst rational and ser\iceable men. In no neces- sary toil can there be any degradation. It is the gross com- panionship, or gross habits associated with it, that alone renders it degrading. It is only the moral dirt that sticks. "We make a great bugbear of labour. "What is it, after all, but muscular effort, which, if you will be temperate in it, is an indisputable pleasure. Young men at Oxford will labour at the oar enough to earn their daily bread three times over. And if it were not for the associates it would condemn them to, how many would prefer a strenuous labour in the open air to the sedentary occupations marked out for them I — labours, perhaps, of a lawyer's chamber, wliich will confine THE MIRAGE. 101 the limbs, and fret the nen^es, and wear out tlie brain, and add nothinfj to their intellectual cultiuu" Thus I reasoned with myself, standing at the hawthorn bush; and having arrived at this satisfactory conclusion, I turned about, and marched on fidl of faith and hope. As I marched triumphantly along, I came to a field where men were ploughing. I had often Avatched the ploughman as Ik^ steps on steadily, holding the share down to its place in the soil, and felt curious to try the experiment myself. This time, as the countr^Tuan who approached me had a good- natured aspect, I asked him to let me take his place between the stilts. He did so. I did not give him quite the occasion for merriment which I saw he anticipated ; I held down the share, and kept it in its due position. But I had no con- ception of the effort it required — which, at least, it cost me. "When I resigned my place, my arms trembled, my hands burned, my brain tlirobbed ; the whole frame was shaken. And something, too, was shaken in the framework of my specidations. The feasibility of uniting with labours such as these much of the culture we call intellectual, was not so clear to me as it was an hour ago. I walked along less triumphantly, maintaining a sort of prudent silence -with myself. I smile as I recall to mind how often, at this period, some incident, or trait of character, or scene of real life, would determine the current of my speculations, and revive, or dis- miss, my future Utopia. I am passing along a highroad. It is in the north of England, amongst some of the most beautiful scenery we possess. A stone wall skirts the road, just high enough, as is so often the case, to conceal all the prospect from the pedestrian. "Whether it is necessary to build so high to keep cattle in, or out, I AviU not pretend to determine. 102 BOOK II. CUAPTKU III. Tlio proliability is, tliat tlie idoa lias never once occurred to our farmers or graziers tliat the sight of tlie country can he pleasant to any eye hut his who owns the crop or the pasture. Happily a barred gate affords me at length a view of the landscape. It is very beautiful. A little lake, with its charming islets, receives the reflection of the mountains around, and of the glories of a summer's sky. I pause, leaning on the gate. Within that wall, pacing the soft turf bj- the margin of the lake, or standing in mute contemplation of the scene, was a gentle lady, who, from the studied simplicity of her dress, evidently belonged to the Society of Friends. She was absorbed in the beauty around her. One felt that her spirit reflected all the peace and serenity of the scene. Pla- cid, contemplative, pious, I could almost read her thoughts. " "Will heaven be very unlike this ? " I hear her murmur to herself. " Can it be very much more beautiful ? Can I, should I, hope for a scene more lovely to meet the angels in 1 " Such, I felt persuaded, must have been the tenor of her meditations. Without that wall, on the hard highroad, came by, at the same time, a cart drawn by a miserable horse. It came slowly enough, yet clattered noisily along, as the wide shafts swayed to and fro against the sides of the starved beast that drew it. Beside the cart walked a ragged woman. "With one hand she held on by the shaft, that she might he partly dragged along ; the other, and disengaged hand, brandished a stick which descended in repeated blows on the wretched animal. Each l^low was accompanied by foul and odious curses, which, though addressetl to the unofl'ending brute, I interpreted as merely the ungovernable outbreaks of her own tormented and miserable spirit. Peace, beauty, goodness, ■\vere things unknown to her — Avords for which she had no meaning. And this, too, was woman ! The same clay of humanity had been moulded thus, and thus ! Both women, both walking through the same scene, at the same hour. The one needed but the comj)anionship of the pure and holy to feel THE MIRAGE. 103 that slie was already in heaven ; the other — if such a thing will bear the naming — was walking through this paradise very like a soul in hell. Then, again, I asked myself, Must it be thus always 1 This creature of rags, and pain, and curses, has become what she is by no natural eccentricity of character. "Why could not both have been gentle, refined, pious, cultivated 1 For several days after this I went about refashioning my Utopian community. I distributed and simplified the neces- sary labours of the society. Above all, as the central light and power of the whole, I constructed my ideal university or college — central seat of learning, science, and the fine arts, which would be, as it were, the very heart tlu'ough which the whole life-blood of the community would circulate. The monastic institution presents us with a foreshadowing or type of the future society — with this slight deficiency, that there is no place in it for the wife and famUy. I was occupied in supplying this defect in the type. Sallying forth one fine morning, full of schemes and arrangements for this purpose, I passed a farmhouse. The cries and exclamations of a group of young children drew nij attention to it. At the door stood a chaise-cart, such as serves in the country both for business and pleasure. About and around it was a swarm of children, sturdy, rose-cheeked, full of health and irrepressible glee, some scrambling up the wheels, some caress- ing the sleek horse, who seemed pleased with the patting of their little hands. Forth comes my farmer, self-confident and rul)icund, good-natured, yet with an air, too, of import- ance in his round manly face. He tosses some lialf-dozen of these merry urchins into the cart, which indeed seems of unlimited capacity ; the youngest is left behind to be con- soled by the mother, who now makes her appearance on the threshold — a comely, smiling, l)usy matron. Away my farmer drives. Never was such a cartful of hajipiness and merrimeni. I hear the laughter of the children ringing half- 104 BOOK II. CUAPTER III. way down the lane. Oli liorf, if anywhere, is Utopia ! This is the true and eternal type, I exclaimed, of human life, No schemer, from Plato downwards, can improve on this. I gave my ideals to the winds. This simple reality was worth them all. What ! impound this man in any of your phalan- steries — your moral parallelograms — your well-dieted peni- tentiaries — leave him nothing he can call his own — nothing to toss into the lap of these children and their mother — nothing to control, to order, to give — nothing to play the father with — that cart and horse not his ! Heaven ! transportation to the North Pole were better. Just in proportion as one is " cared for " by society, must one submit to be governed by it. The home must be looked into by the public eye ; it becomes a public institution. "Who shall guarantee to me, that, in framing the community, you will not desecrate the family ? I, for one, will not try " my 'prentice hand" on such a matter. Often have I, when looking up into the sky, seen a bril- liant white cloud extend itself across the blue ether in the exact model of an angel's wing — one wing, never the angel complete. Such have been my visions of the Future Society. Both wings would never come fairly out ; no complete angel would ever manifest itself. Some months after this, behold me plodding my solitary way, " melancholy, slow," through the streets of the city of ]\ranchester. I had paused midway here on my route to London, to satisfy a curiosity I felt to see those factories which I so often heard talked of. To come from the fresh mountain air to such a place, is not a mode of approach the most conciliating. Here men live buried in bricks — buried above ground in a sort of open catacomb : the dwellings of the workmen deserve no better name. I passed through THE MIRAGE. 105 interminable rows of brick hovels, foul and noisy, in which I am sure 1 should have sighed for the peace of the catacomb, Xot the leaf of a tree visible ; no sky, only smoke ; no run- ning Avater but what runs with filth. Men have built thus for their habitation ! — a race of breathing, seeing, reasoning creatures, have built thus on their beautiful planet Tellus ! For leave to live in habitations like these, where air and light, beauty and fragrance, are shut out for ever — where one foul cell looks only into its neighbour — men and women are toiling as no other animal on the face of the earth toils. i!^ot much to jeopardise here, I said to myself, of domestic joy, of spontaneous activity, of the sacred privacy of home. The official eye might enter here without great detriment to the institution of the " family." Personal liberty, or freedom of movement, short of being incarcerated, seems here at its minimum, l^ot much to sacrifice of self-government and free enterprise. One might submit here to be " cared for " a little more, at the risk of being governed a little more. I had been anxious to see our great factories ; but being a stranger in the place, and having brought with me no letters of introduction, I had great difficulty in doing so. Into the most eminent of them I failed to obtain admittance. Those which I did not see, I can quite understand, wore better arranged than those I was permitted to enter, "What I saw, however, loere factories, full of veritable men and women, and vast numbers of them. I entered an enormous brick building, rising storey above storey, every floor packed as full as it could hold with its living machinery. As I ascended this huge pile the air grew closer and more offensive at every stage, till I Avas fain to content myself Avith looking from the doorway doAvn the long croAA'ded room, dim from its thick atmosphere, and stunning you Avith noise from the whirr of wheels and the clattering of the looms. In this stifiing atmosphere, and amidst this incessant din, pale and spiritless men and Avomen Avere moving about, performing their monotonous and subsidiary services to the steam-engine. They themseh'es Avere at once as restless and automatic as those clattering looms they attended on. It Avas some con- lOG nooK II. CIIAI'TKK III. solation to tliiiik tliai lialiil might rr;ii(I<;r tlioiu ahno.st a.s iiiseiisililo as the iron machinery about them. Is tliis tlie last phase, I said to myself, of our cven-handereathe fresli air. Pure water should be attainable by all. Such implements of furnituie as are needful to health and repose might be manufactured for all. These are not in their nature luxuries, which, I take it, are things a man may dispense with unharmed. Draw the line ! "Who ever drew a line yet ] Nowhere, so far as I have learnt, in science or in morals, has a line ever been drawn. Xo physiologist, as I am told, can say where animal life itself begins, or point out the first in his order of living creatures that feels priin — "wliich yet is a very xmmistakable matter where it is felt. Am I to be compelled to draw the precise line between utility and luxury before I remonstrate against the injustice which herds a whole family into one miserable g-arret, and decorates half-a-dozen spacious apartments for a man who rarely enters one of them 1 " Yes ! yes ! If all cannot be decently housed, this is no reason, I admit, why a few shoidd not have both decent and decorous habitations. If our society, with all its skill and industry, can manage to build and furnish only a certain l)ii>portionate number of habitable dwellings, let it by all means build and furnish just so many as it can. The rest of us must wait, or endure our want with patience. But is it sol I do not forget — I too have read my political economy — I do not forget that the materials for building, as of all human industry, are the produce of the soil, an display, no ambition. Why should she ? Every one loveil her as she was. It has since occuiTed to me that the uni- versal affection slie had, spoilt her for any effort to excel. After love, how poor a thing is admiration ! It is only the admiration that goes before love, and ushers it in, that i- worth havinji. P>ut hor own love — her o^\"Ti heart, as we are accustomed to say — was this given to no one ? If not to me, to whom else ? Of the suitors who came round her, some with her father's understood a]>proval, had she selected none ] " Do THE MOTH AXD THE FLAME. 125 you mean, Winifred," said her mother on one occasion, half jocosely, half earnestly, after she had been remonstrating on the A'ery cold reception given to some titled guest — " do you mean, Winifred, never to love anybody 1 " " Anybody ! " said Winifred, who was then sitting at the piano, touching its keys occasionally, " Everyhodij ! You first of all, and everybody else, down to the old horse in the paddock. But for this matter of wooing — to be won and worn — the win- ning one thing, the wearing another — I am terribly afraid of it. Think, mamma, of Jjeing another'' s! — as they say. I intend to keep possession — unless — unless " and then, striking the keys, she filled up the pause, and drowned all reponse in a perfect storm of music. "N^lien I look back upon this golden time — this month of Elysium, as I have called it — I am amazed to think of the capacity for lia2')'piness that is in us. Let any pliilosopher, with his mental chemistry, try to analyse the complex and intricate felicities that the presence of one loved person can bring us ! he will make nothing of it. He may as well count the ripples of light upon yonder ocean when the rising sun strikes it. How fortunate are they with whom the ecstasy of such an epoch ushers in the calm and lifelong friendship ! AVith me it had to subside — how it could — into mere cold despon- dency. Some of us worship very madly. How, in imagina- tion, do the arms open, and we fold so tenderly, for ever and for ever, to our hearts — mere shadow ! We open our arms to the empty air. Will not the idol come down from its pedestal '\ Xever ! — never to us ! Yet we worship before it still. I cannot tell how others in like case have felt; with me there was a division and a rebellion in my own soul. My anger turned ever upon myself. I can say that I felt no bitterness against any other living being. But this mad grief seemed to arm my right hand with an imaginary 126 ROOK II. t'llAPTEU IV. dagger, pointcil ulways against my own lioart. To such 6('lf-coinl)at antl suicidal rage was my Elysian liappine>- conducting mo ! Again tln' Moth gathered strength and wing enough to take flight. 1 broke from the enchanted garden. I pre- tended some urgent necessity for travelling to Scotland. Kailway, coach, steamboat — I made no pause till I found myself at the well-known inn at Tarbet, on Loch Lomond. I had spent one night at the inn, and the next morning I was sitting on the margin of the lake. Very majestic is ])en Lomond, very beautiful the lake ; but all tliis inanimate beauty was powerless now, I saw it not. Memory "w;i.~ stronger than vision. In vain had I travelled some thrte hundred miles or more ; I was still in the garden at Sutton !Manor; I was on the river there, or in the park or slirub- bery ; I was still with "Winifred. And then came all manner of delusive reasonings — so prodigally produced on these occasions. WTiat if, after aU, nothing was wanting, but, on my part — courage ? — one bold step 1 Would not all yield to the wish of Winifred 1 was she not omnipotent over the alTection of both parents 1 And how could Winifred express her wish if I did not tempt forth the secret of her heart 1 And what Avas that Avhich, sitting at the piano, she had drowned in a perfect storm of music ? "\Miat ought to have followed on that " unless — unless " ? A thousand such resistless arguments — that seem resistless and are light as air — crowded into my mind, till I wrought myself into the conviction that I, indeed, was my own greatest enemy, by the unl>roken silence I had hitherto maintained. I started up from the spot where, for some hours, I had been sitting like a statue. I flew to the inn, I flew to the steamboat, I traveUed bacJi. I travelled with- out ceasing day and night. I seemed only to pause to draw breath, when I stood once more at the gate of the shrubbery at Sutton !Manor. Then indeed I paused. Leaning on the half-opened gate, I saw again my own position in its true THE MOTH AXD THE FLAJIE. 127 and natural light. "Was it not always known and under- stood thai such a thing teas not to be ? One after the other, all my fallacious reasonings deserted me. "What madness could have hrought me there 1 I hoped no one had seen me. Slowly and softly the half-opened gate was closed again. I walked away, retracing my steps, as unobserved as possible, through the village. c n A r T E E y THE AVAXDEREIl. I RETURNED iipou iiiy foi'iiier track, Ijut this time I stopped at the north of England, at our own lakes. My project of a tour in Scotland Avas postponed ; I was indisposed for the constant movement of the tourist ; and even in a familiar scene there is some sense of companionship. There Avas no other help for me than to involve myself, as soon as possible, in some favourite study, or subject of inquirj-. In this way there was enough to do. How many noble; books, written by living contemporaries, were yet to be read and mastered, if I would prosecute the plan of study I had proposed to myself ! "What Germany has given us of historical criticism, Avhat France, England, and every eminent nation has contributed to the last theories of science, what our own literature was giving us of poetry and philosophy — all tliis was to be mastered. But it w;xs not at once I coidd settle doAvn to study. Anil ever since, up to the last few months, it has been thus with me — that the moment the book Avas closed, or the train of thinking which it had suggested was at an end, there came back the sense of blaukness and of utter desolation. It could not be otherAvise. I AA'as not framed of that granite strength that can stand alone. And I fiad to stand alone — or so it seemed to me. There is a sense of faiuiliaritv vorv agreeable in re\-isiting THE WANDERER. 129 favourite spots ; but what a contrast is there between nature, seen wdth a free heart to devote to it, and the same nature wandered amongst with a sad and preoccupied spirit ? Let no one go to the picturesque for consolation. ISTo stricken deer ever felt the arrow less for looking up to the moun- tains. It was at Windermere that I first became acquainted with the higher order of scenery — first sailed upon the lake, so transparent we wonder it sustains us, and reflecting the moun- tains and the sky with all its clouds so clearly in its depths, that we seem to be buoyed up between two worlds — or say rather, between two heavens. It was here that I first felt the fascination of the mountain-range — that mid region, which belongs both to earth and sky — cloud architecture, built in the solid rock. Were I to travel all round the globe, should I ever forget those dear Langdale Pikes, and that most graceful range of hills over which they preside, or the summits of Fairfield and Skiddaw 1 ^Nothing in picture or in poem — nothing that I had seen or read — had prepared me for Avhat the summit of a mountain discloses, range beyond range, tier above tier, and the last barrier losing itself in the sky, and the whole flooded with indescribable variety of the richest colouring. And what a thrill of delight it was when, from the base of the mountain, I first actually saw the white summer-cloud nestling in the hollows above me. Our highest Earthly mingles with the Heavenly. This earliest excursion was made in company with Lux- more. We started from Mr Springfield's together. We must see " Wordsworth's mountains," as we called them. I re- member it was spring-time. The young verdure was quite luminous. I can think of no fitter word. It was spring- time within as well as without. How triumphantly we scaled those hills ! How valorously we con(piered height after height ! How sturdily we strode, when need wa.s, with knapsack on our shoulders, through the winding valley ! We sat together on the little bridge in Borrowdale, both silent as thought itself, for our spirits were attuned in harmony I 130 DfiOK II. — CHAPTER V, with eacli otluT, and we instinctively knew when each would cmve for silence. " Oh, lady fair ! " I remeniher Luxmore exclaiming, in the liouudless joy of his free heart, as some gentle equestrian passed us — " Oh, lady fair, whom we meet here riding on your palfrey — your beauty is harmless here — we defy you liere. Very studiously grave, very needlessly severe, is the glance you throw on the dusty pedestrian, if you condescend to glance at all. For worlds you would not be seen to smile, as if you felt the same delight as he is feeling. I notice that you will not even look at the prospect while he is looking. ^0 matter. The hills and the sky have beauty enough for us. !No disdain there. Oh, you idle boy, with your one arrow and your puny wing, you are nothing here. Hop where you list with your one superfluous arrow. AH earth and heaven are full of love for us. For what is this feeling of the beautiful, if it is not love — love that the smile of nature gives to, and calls forth, from all her children. Smile too, fair lady, or vanish from the scene." So sung the free spirit of my friend, and I laughingly applauded. How changed a mind did I now bring with me to the very same scenes ! 'Not aU the light on all the hills could now disperse or compete with the vision of one fair girl. There was not a wild flower I could pass which did not speak of her. By some chance a moss-rose fell into my hands. A\Tiat had it to do with her 1 Yet thoughts and memories gathered round it, thick as its own moss, — thoughts of her who had placed the handful of roses upon the open book to keep the page from tiirning. It was a charmed thing ; I coidd look at nothing else. I threw the flower away — I walked on — I returned to pick it up again ! The sound of music from the open Avindow of some pleasant residence (I did not now think that such a residence was an intrusion upon the scene — as if natm'e, to be admired, must be kept free from any traces of refined human existence) — a THE WANDERER, 131 few notes of a piano heard as I parsed, have been sufficient to disturb my equanimity. I was standing one evening, without being aware of it, near the parlour window of some house or villa. It was growing dark ; suddenly a lamp was brought into the room behind me. It revealed, for an instant, a charming " interior," redolent of home. But only for an instant. The heavy folds of the crimson curtains were let doAvn, and cba^vn together. They shut in some cheerful happy group. Me they seemed to shut out. How suddenly dark had the road become ! — how dark and solitary ! See, when the lake is serene, how the whole mountain lies reflected in it, from base to summit, and with all its forests, ^ot a leaf is lost. The tree below stands there in that lower sky, in as calm an azure as the tree above. But the smallest pebble — and any hand may throw one ; but the merest straw or withered leaf — and any idle wind may fling them there — shall blot out mountain and sky at once. And so it is Avith that other miiTor of the mind. Every idle wind that blew was master of "my peace. In vain Avas the world so beautifid, if the soid that should mirror it was so easily perturbed. I climb to some favourite eminence to see the sun set over the mountains. Very glorious is the spectacle, and my heart Alls Avith the rapture of the hour. But the light and the rapture die doAvn together. ShadoAV after shadoAV, each deeper than the last, falls upon the world ; and thought after thought, each sadder and darker than its predecessor, steals over the man. Hoav desolate is the scene ! Hoav deserted do I feel ! Tears gush from my eyes ; I cannot restrain them ; and happily there is none to see. "With hoAv sIoav a step do I descend to my solitary lodging in the valley ! That light-hearted band of tourists, noticed perhaps in the morning Avith a smile at their abundant animal spuits, and their talk and tattle of pedestrian feats, would noAv present 132 HOOK II.— CUAPTEU V. tlicnisclvos tn my iiua<^ination in a very cnviaLlo point of v'w.w. Aftc'r tlu'ir lioliilay and lialf-ljoyish pleasuros, they ■would ri'tuni to old ])ursiiits, old lialtits, the old liome, and constant friends. I liad no friends, no occupation, no home. I had linked myself to no professional brotherhood ; I had no rivals or allies. Henceforward to me there was no return to any spot on eartli. All places were alike ; in all I must be a wanderer, ^fy home was any room where I could draw a bolt across the door. Autumn advanced. I have known what it is to sit the day long, and see the yellow leaf blown past the windows in the gust and the rain. Alone, week after week, I have watclxed, as my friend and poet writes, " The autumn dovra — the sunset of the year." Sick or in health, no one ever approached me, ever greeted me with a word or a smile. I have lodged for months near the houses of humane, charitable, intelligent people. The beggar who solicited alms at the gate was rarely turned away. I, who wanted only a word, a greeting, a little social speech — I, who needed this to save from a misery almost as dreadful as hunger to endure — would have solicited in vain. The glance of curiosity, the titter, and the wliisper, " Who can it be 1 " have been the nearest approach to human fellowship and sympathy I have ever received from English gentleman or gentlewoman. lUit ho wlio has once thought earnestly on the great prob- lems of life, will think on to the end of his days ; under cloud or in sunshine, douliting or believing, with good resvdt or no result at all — he will still think on. I cannot say that my intellectual activity was ever entirely suspended. But a despondency, I think, crept from my life into my pliilosophy. THE WANDERER. 133 I felt the despair of discovering trutli, where truth, or a belief, was still indispensable to any peaceful existence. The man who has his great task — who is preparing him- self to be a teacher of mankind — he may well go forth alone. I was wandering in the propliet's path, without a prophet's mission. I have sometimes looked with shame, and sometimes with envy, upon common labourers in the fields, engaged in tlieir sturdy toil. When, on a summer's day, I have been stand- ing under the shade of the tree, watching the reapers at thinr work, I have said to myself, " This is not fair ! I ought to take my part." And then, changing the note, I have added, " This is not fair ! I ought to have had my part. Why was I excluded from all these social, manly, healthfid occupa- tions ? Why set to this labour of Sisyphus — to roll the barren stone to a summit where it will never stay ? " Eambling one evening, and pausing as I rambled, through one of the cpiiet valleys of Cumberland, I saw, on turning round, an old man sitting near me at his cottage door. Ap- parently he was of that class who, in the north, are called Statesmen — peasant -proprietors. He was so very old and torpid that I coidd continue standing near him without any sense of intrusion on my part. He did not mark me ; he did not even raise his eyes to the setting sun, though he Avas prob- ably enjoying its light and warmth to the last. Hard by, under a hedge, there lay a broken worn-out plough, long since thrown aside, and, like the peasant himself, quite super- annuated. There now came a sturdy carter with a saw, to cut off the handle of the useless implement. Apparently he wanted the piece of wood for something doing on the farm. He lays one hand upon the plough, and prepares to use the saw with the other. Suddenly the old man is roused ; his eye glistens ; he calls out authoritatively, " Leave the old plough alone ! " I understood directly that he had held and guided it in l.M noOK II. — CHAPTKU V. liis yontli. I noticfd tlmt the handle of tlie plou^'li was still smooth froni its fro([neiit contact with the human palm. He hail leant on it, and heard th(3 lark sing the while, as to hLs dull car it had long ceased to sing. " Leave the old plough alone ! " Tlu; words kept ringing in my ear as I walked on. I asked myself what plough, Avhat instrument, or what pro- duct of any kind — were I to live to the age of the patriarchs — will remain to remind me of the labours of my youth ? Idle and unprolitable has been my life — yet harmless withal. I have not presumed to be a teacher whilst I was still a learner, " How glad I am," I have sometimes ex- claimed, " that no book of mine, or any printed paper, stands out against me ! There may be more virtue in keeping silence than in speaking out, even what seems plainest truth. How many men must have apprehended all and more than I have apprehended — known more than I have known — yet held their peace. They would not disturb the simple-minded by what might be a vain effort to raise them to a loftier mood. I pass like an arrow through the closing air that has touched nothing in its passage, and sinks buried in the earth. A feeble pen was the sole instrument I could have used, and it drops unused from my hand. I have accom- plished nothing ; I have disturbed nothing. Stealthily and unobserved — as in some great Catholic church — I have stopped across the high altar ; none saw if I bent the knee or not." " Coward ! coward ! " a bolder man woidd exclaim, " You slirunk from responsibility, if not from toO. You feared to face the world; perhaps had a cowardice stiU more secret Can truth be uttered, and displease nobody, and displace notliing 1 And what is that about the hidden talent '? Can all be managed by a fold of the napkin 1 One consolation may be youi-s : it is a very little talent that its possessor can hide. Oh, twice a coward, slight is the gift that goes THE WANDERER. 135 Avith the timid soul. The world has lost nothing by your silence." Besides the north of England, I wandered much over Scot- land and "Wales — that is, after my own fashion, resting for months at a time at one spot, and accompanied always by some store of books. In Wales I met with C}Til. I had not seen him since he left Oxford. Saddest of all interviews ! I will not now dwell upon it. The incident Avas of so painful a character that it unsettled and disturbed me for some weeks, and finallj^ determined me to set forth upon a little tour on the Conti- nent — a design I had again and again formed and post- poned. "V^Hio is there that does not think it his duty to see something of Germany, Switzerland, Italy 1 I started, follow- ing the accustomed route. I made a strange tourist. I often passed A^-ith rapidity tlu-ough toAvns which generally arrest the curious traveller, and at other times lingered long in some outlandish place, Avhich an impatient tourist would think it purgatory to be detained in for a single hour. jMy movements would have been intelligible only to one who could have looked icithin — at the movements going on there, in the speculative mind. For, as I went from place to place, I still carried the old studies, the old problems with me. Some knotty question, psychological or otherwise, had perhaps brought me to a stand-still ; it seemed that I was making my way tlu-ough the intricacies of the subject. In fact, the march was as much regulated by the success of this campaign that was being carried on in the region of thought, as by the attrac- tions of my continental route. I have come down to my breakfast, morning after morn- ing, in a comfortless German inn — have come into that long empty public room, where the ah" seems never fresh, never 136 BOOK II. — CIIAPTEH V. iioc from Horac old lioroilitary siikjII, (;oinj)Ound(.-(l of garlic and tobacco, and where, at this early hour of the day, the vacant table stands half-spread, with its never very clean table-cloth — I have come down, morning after morning, to such a ])lace, and seen nothing of its detestable aspect; I have been more contented, more satisfied, and lighter at heart than usual ; for light seemed to be breaking in upon some part of the mental prospect of the speculative man. Had I not at length struck upon the right path 1 Did I not hold the clew in my hand that woidd lead me through the wood 1 I liave at length packed up my portmanteau, and departed from such an inn, rejoicing at the treasure I carried away witli me ; invisible treasure that itself happily needed no })acking, and added nothing to the baggage, I have set forth, congratulating myself on my sojourn in so auspicious an abode. Perhaps before I had travelled many miles, my treasure would prove to be " fairy gold'' — had turned to mere dross, or old coins of worthless metal. I had to fling it out of the "\AT.ndo\v. Then, indeed, there could be no mode of jirogression too rapid for me, and I hm-ried on from stage to stage as if motion itself was the end of travel To me there was one advantage of travel particularly valu- able. It threAv me, without effort of my own, into a variety of companionship. If I did not make advances, I never repelled them. I am satisfied that I even obtained, in this wandering and misettled method of life, an insight into the character and opinions of men, such as no stationary resi- lience in a town, however large my acquaintance in it, woidd have given me. It often happens that, under the excitement of travel, men drop at once all disguise in the presence of a perfect stranger, I have myself talked half a day from the bottom of my soul to a man I had never seen before, and should never see again, We were both expansive, and for the same reason. There was nothing present to the mind of either but the simple pleasure of uttering and communi- THE WANDERER. , 137 eating our thoughts — a pleasure to which movement, novelty of scene, animal spirits, had all given additional zest. Why sliould there be any disguise"? This man will not even remind me to-morrow of the opinions I am uttering to-day. With this man I have no antecedents, binding me to a fictitious consistency, and I am giving no pledges which will compel me to repeat for ever the feelings or the sentiments of the present hour. With him I compromise nothing. Two strangers meeting thus, at a happy moment, after long silence, both charged as with electric fluid, give out their vivid transitory light — it is the beginning and end of all their intercourse. Very curious revelations have I had of this nature. I have learnt more of some fellow-countryman of my own, in half an hour's talk in a wayside inn or a foreign diligence, than I should have ever gathered of the man through a whole life of ordinary acquaintanceship. Perhaps, in tliis manner, I ]iave picked up more of what is called a knowledge of the world, than those who know my retired habits Avould give me credit for. At all events, I have learnt to appreciate the diversity there is in human life, in modes of thinking, creeds, l^assions, characters. More of what is going on in the minds of men has been perhaps revealed to me, than to many a, stationary, respectable, influential citizen, who occupies him- self a large space in the public eye. I am in no disposition now to recall my first impressions of Switzerland and Italy. The incident of all my travels which is most salient in my memory, is the meeting with Clarence on the borders of the Lake of the Four Cantons, and the long talks we had together. I have known no one who thinks on the great subjects of philosophy so ably and so hopefully as Clarence. If to me it has sometimes appeared tliat he steps too lightly over difficulties and objections, I yet ahnost always approve of the course and pathway of his pliilosophy. I would follow if I could. 13S HOOK II. — CHAPTEn V. When rcvolviri},' any subjoct, I often ask mypf^lf, "Wliat woiilil Clarence say 1 what would Clarence think 1 and tin- answer given for him always helps me forward to my own conclusion. I have not heon dra^vn towards him hy tliat stronj; sontiment of friendship which I have felt for a mind much inferior to his, less disciplined, less systematically cultivated — I mean my potjt Luxmore — but I have always felt that no man I knew was so entitled to my esteem. Even when, in his Utopian philosophy, I am obliged to droji his hand, and let him advance alone, I feel that it is his goodness of heart that is carrying him forward. CHAPTEK VI. MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN PHILOSOPHER. My friend of the pavement in Eegent Street, my artisan orator, spoke energetically of the distress of the workmen — of the multitudes that were ill-fed, ill-housed ; and here he found his " motive power " hy which society would he revo- lutionised and reformed. Whatever other influences were co-operating, it was this widespreading discontent of poverty that would impel a change which the wealthy would in vain resist. Clarence, on the contrary — albeit no man felt more keenly for the distresses of the poor — declared that our poverty Avould be relieved, and that distress of a physical kind would probably be nearly extinguished, under our present existing system of society. He refused altogether to avail himseK of hunger as his motive force. Hunger is to be fed forthwith ; by no means to be set to build up insti- tutions. It cannot wait ; it has nothing to do with the future ; it must be fed, or taught immediately to feed itself — it is the worst of all legislators, and has no time for speculation. Where, then, if not in the physical distresses of man, did he look for a motive sufficiently potent to operate a change in the form of society 1 For Clarence did look forward to change. I had come at length to the settled conclusion that we cannot speculate on any new type of society, cannot frame a better than now exists ; that even if such were destined one day to be developed, we were not in a condition to foresee what that type would be, nor l)y what means it 140 HOOK II. riiAriKK v/. would In; dcVflopcil ; Imt I found Clart^nce still adhering to the old position ho maintained at Oxford — tliat a new form (tf society, and one of wliicli the f^reat principle could alrwidy he laid down, would l)e, and was in the course of heiiig, developed. To what influence did he trust ? What was to destroy a system foitified hy the enormous force of habit, and itself si)rin}^ing from some of the strongest passions of mankind 1 lie trusted — to ideas, to the distresses of the )iiiii(l, to the affliction of the well-fed, the woll-housed, but tortured with cares, anxieties, and enmities that they hated. It was i)recisely, he said, when the distresses of j)overty would lie van( pushed by the general advancement in industry, prudence, knowledge, that distresses of another order would reveal themselves to the more sensitive and reflective minds of those advanced generations. "When I have pointed out to him that periods of distress call forth schemes for new laws of property — in later times for some species of Communism — but that when the distress subsides, all such schemes sink also into obUvion, and are no more heard of till the next season of calamity, he has replied — " So should it be. And indeed we may be sure that all great social movements like these are regidated by the same wisdom that appointed the seasons or the tides. All such schemes do subside. They were the mere symptoms of the distress itself, and probably led, by the antagonistic efforts they called forth, to the speedier recovery from the calamity. The rich would unite their endeavours to get rid of a dis- astrous poverty that threatened the superstructure of the Avliole society. The scheme which will be really accomplished will come, let us hope, from reflective men, whose reason has been manumitted from the spell of m-gent want — from a generation of men who have solved the problem how to live, and who have especially set about to solve that other problem, hoto to live u'ell. " It is no part of mine," he continued, " to paint the existing condition of society in dark and gloomy coloiu-s, and then iKiint to some social renovation as the remedv of all these MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN PHILOSOPHER. 141 evils. Some of these evils must be remedied before any higher order or scheme of society can be realised. Any sucli scheme can be only developed in a community generally intelligent, humane, and prosperous. It is from a prosperous condition, under our present system, that a higher system will be reached — from a state of material prosperity that a higher morality, or that a system accordant with a higher morality, will arise. " It seems at first an unamiable characteristic of humanity that the remedy of one evil should be followed by an in- creased susceptibility to some other evil which before had been patiently tolerated. But it is thus that man advances. The removal of one pressing calamity never induced patience or tranquillity under the evils that remained. On the contrary, it gives courage to men to attempt the remo^'al of these also ; it renders them more sensitive to such evils, or perhaps renders sensitive for the first time. Slaves that writhe under the whip are not disquieted about their politi- cal rights : manumit them from personal slavery, and they become sensitive to political oppression. Liberate them from arbitrary power — let the law alone govern — and they begin to scrutinise the law itself, and desire to be governed, not only by law, but by the best possible law. And now, when the civil or temporal despotism has been set aside, and the municipal law has been moulded on the principles of an enlightened jurisprudence, men probably wake to the dis covery that they are living under some priestly or ecclesi- astical despotism, and they become desirous of working a reformation here also. In fact, at eacli stage of this process the nature of the man is improved and his intelligence ex- panded, and, as one result, he becomes susceptible to evils whicli a coarser nature, and a more limited understanding, could not feel — could not take cognisance of. " The absolute want, the pliysical suffering of large num- bers of the p(!ople, now absorbs our attention. Tliose Avho feel this suffering can think and speak of notliing else, and those who occupy themselves witli the sutterings of others must be almost equally absorbed by it. No man can propose 142 BOOK II. — CUAPTER VL iiiiylliinf,' for tho f,'('iioral benefit of society without liaving this jiliysical sufrering placed first of all before hiiiL Now, suppose this evil to >)e subdued — I do not say entirely — but reduced to manageable subjection — do you imagine that men woidd sit down contented and reconciled to the thousantl moral or social evils that remain 1 You know very well that they would not ; that they would now feel those evils with aggravated acutencss — Avith a quite novel susceptibility. Calamities which, in the presence of hunger and cold, and eveiy description of bodily wretchedness, were scarcely re- cognised as such, Avould now, in their turn, become intoler- able. Those who themselves are at present above want or poverty, nevertheless are still looking down at that abyss of misery and destitution beneath them, and, while congratulat- ing themselves at their own escape, they do not, and dare not, complain of evils of a less ten-ible character. They are silent on that anxiety which besets their own position and robs every household of its peace; they are silent on that perpetual contest and strife of commerce wliich sows the seed of hatred so abundantly tlirough every handet and village. Is not the wolf still at the door 1 Are not others being devoured by famine, or dying of fevers ? AVe must not speak of minor evils, " But say that this extreme poverty were overcome, these luinor evils, or rather these moral or mental evils, of our present system would rise sharply into view. Say that indus- trial arts, and that generally developed intelligence, have so wrought together, that there are few people who cannot in a certain rude way ' take care of themselves,' will not the next thought be, — Cannot this earning of subsistence be conducted in some better fashion 'i Cannot we erect barriers against the return of poverty 1 Cannot we manumit oiu^elves from the constant fear of it 1 Cannot we escape from that sense of insecurity in our social position, which afflicts all classes except the very highest 1 "We have bread — ;dl of us ; we all have sense enough to get our portion in the scramble ; but must we always get it in this contentious manner, and hold it always with a sense of insecurity 1 We are fed and clothed MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN PHILOSOPHER. 143 — but at what a cost 1 At the cost of perpeti;al strife and en- mity, of habitual falsehoods, of anxieties, of hostile cupidities. Cannot ' meat, clothes, and fire ' be got at less cost than this 1 AVithout a doubt all the dim tumultuous grief wliich now lies smothered up and silenced amongst us would break forth. Men would ask themselves, and each other, in very earnest, — Is this the best that can be made of human life 1 Must the merchant and tradesman be always driven, or always driving others, on the shoals of bankruptcy 1 Everything is the pro- duce of human labour — we know that ; but must each man also earn his share of the produce by an incessant scramble, trickery, deceit? That I exercise hand or mind in some useful employment, and receive in some shape my Avages for the same, is rational and just. But am I to study physic in my youth, and afterwards, in my manhood, study how to entrap a patient 1 — how to secure a fee 1 If so, the studies of my youth are far more noble than the practices of my manhood, and we must degrade as we grow older — which is too often visibly the case. Good Heavens ! if I have got some useful knowledge, let me use it after an honest, reason- able fashion. Am I to compete with another as able as myself who is to cure your malady 1 Or am I to sit by, with placid professional etiquette, whilst some dullard kills his patient, lest I should be thought to be competing for the fee? " In nature, and as God gives it to us, hoAv beautiful and joyous a thing is the harvest ! After many vicissitudes of weather, and much stout labour, and some natural and pardon- able anxieties, the corn stands up ripe for the sickle. It is reaped, and the last load is carried, amidst jubilant shouts, in which every peasant boy is joining, safe to the gi-anary. You would say that the business of the farmer had jirospered, and Avas at an end. Not at all. The serious work is yet to follow. He has to sell tliis corn. N"ow come the dealings of the market, which, indeed, had all the summer long been casting their shadow before them — worse shadows on his mind than the clouds ever cast upon his fields. Discontent is sure to cling to him. If his crop is bad, that is a palpable 144 BOOK II. CIIAI'TKIl VI. fiiiluro, and he luis little to sell ; if it i.s K'^od, why, hi.s neigh- hour's is good also, and so the price falls. Nothing wouM conti'nt him hut that he only should have reaped well. With the last shout of the harvest-home — raised by those who did not own a straw in the produce — died away all happy, healthful feeling in the business. The broad fields that repay his culture, the open and variable skies, tend to make the farnier earnest, provident, and grateful ; the education of the market-place makes him querulous, crafty, enviou.s, and an intolerable niggard. " Is there no way possible of combining activity and peace — of bringing some portion of contentment into our daily lives 1 — of living as if indeed we lived with God, and under the perpetual care of His beneficence 1 Ah ! who has not felt ' The longing for secured tranquillity ? ' And think you that men will not one day learn to put asidt- mutual jealousies in order to gratify this insatiable longing { Who that has cultivated a high and reflective piety has not recognised that Religion does not firet of all consist in hope of a future life, but consists first of all in living icell here — in a certain felt relationship with God — in that happy, grate- ful, devoted relationship which springs from knowledge of God's world, and of our own humanity ] As an intelligent and exalted piety arises out of an advanced society, it \y\\\ react upon society : it is ever thus, both cause and effect ; the advancement of society purifying religion, and a pure religion still further advancing society. " And bethink you of this — a great idea is also a great motive. If men revolve noble schemes for the public good, they are at the same instant prompted to realise them. It is not my pain, or mi/ pleasure, that is any longer my motive — it is the idea itself, how to get rid of many pains, and augment many pleasures, throughout the whole society." The misery of the better or the middle classes seems to MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN PHILOSOrHER. 145 have struck upon the imagination of Clarence as forcibly as the misery of the working class had affected the imagination of my operative orator of Regent Street. The fictitious, artificial, and precarious modes of industry into which even Avell-educated men are often compelled to embark, throw into constant jeopardy the social stahcs they have obtained. To keep their foot-hold, they have to resort to expedients which sadly infringe upon the laws of morality, and which destroy their own self - respect. The very pleasures of life are poisoned by this anxiety or incertitude, which preys in secret on so many of us. " care ! " says the poet Cowper, " my very roses smell of thee ! " " Look round you," Clarence would saj^, " from your place in some theatre, ringing perhaps with the most exquisite music — look around and upw^ards, as the boxes rise tier above tier filled with the gay and the prosperous. To how many of the ' gay and the prosperous ' who are sitting there, is the music jarred, broken, or altogether overborne by some corroding care, some impending calamity ! '\^'Tio more en- viable, you would say, than that bland paternal figure, seated Ijetween wife and daughter 1 In vain are the melodies of ]\[ozart or Bellini lavished on his ear — his thoughts are in the half-hour spent that morning closeted Avith his attorney. I strongly suspect that that attorney's reception-room, with its few' tin boxes and its array of papers, has witnessed more agony than the torture-cell of the Inquisition, or than any prison in the world. " I hate this gambling commerce ! " he would exclaim ; " it spares nothing ; it rings a bell and gathers a crowd of artisans together : then, failing of its object, leaves them, for aught it cares, to famine or mendicancy. It robs right and left, friend or relative ; it takes the little fortune of the un- married sister — all that lay between her and the terrible charity of the world — throw's it on the heap, and stakes it all. It stakes everything, and always Avife and child. " It is not that all men wish to be gamesters. Most men are timid, fearful of change, solicitous to secure ratlier than eager to gain, and desirous of nothing better than steady K 146 BOOK II. CIIArTEK VI. liiLoiir and assmxid rowanl. ])ut tlie wish is vain. Tlic man cannot be secure ; the system does not permit it. The jtost lie occupied is taken fi'om him ] his trside declines ; liis debtor fails, and he in turn becomes a debtor; liis health breaks, and the investments in which lie has stored up his earnings prove worthless. He sees his children growing u]), and knows not how he shall provide for them. I do not wonder that men go mad. " And think what exquisite suffering is occasioned to the wife by the cruel uncertainties of commerce ! "Women are to be highly cultivated, delicately nurtured, every social affection developed — the maternal feeling almost to a painful excess — and aU tliis refined life and these acute suscepti- bilities are to be placed at the mercy, we will not say of a gamester, but are to be put in peril, let us say, by the want of skill and foresight, on the part of an honest husband, in the playing of a very difficult game. That husband has become unkind, severe, morose, as the game went against him. Some day the shattered irritable man discloses to his wife that he is on the eve of bankruptcy — discloses it with- out any other warning than what she had received from daily exhibitions of ungovernable temper, produced by his fatal embarrassments. I myself have known women educated like the daughters of princes, perhaps more refined and cid- tivated than the daughters of princes are likely to be — women who, as mistresses of their own homes, were ordering and controlling all things with graceful aiithority — driven from those pleasant homes, with their children, by no pos- sible fault of theirs, to some squalid retreat. There, if not deserted by friends and relatives, their oavii gi'ief, timidity, and sense of humiliation, shut them up in solitude. I have known those whose smile made every one happy around them, quite lose the power to smile, grow weak, and wan, and querulous. '' Vury terrible to me is this combination of cidture and insecurity — the warm and tender nest built so often on the rotten bough. How many a father, looking at his children, listening to their prattle, Avhich speaks of nothing Ijut hope MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN PHILOSOPHER. 147 and security, marking liow, liitlierto, tliey have grown up without toil and without care, lialf-brothers of the liHes of the field, and thinking in his secret heart what terrible reverse may be in store for him and them — how many a father has watched his children at their play, and notwith- standing all their beauty and all their joy, wished they had not been ! " Thus Clarence talked. It was by merest accident that, whilst wandering about on the borders of the lake of Lu- cerne, I stumbled upon him. I observed a yomig man sketchmg, and made a little circuit in my path to avoid dis- turbing the artist, when, to my surprise, I heard myself hailed by my name, and, in a moment after, Clarence had seized me by the hand. We had not been very intunate at Oxford, which was probably owing to my own reserve, or needless fear of being intrusive. I used to meet him in the shady walks of ]\Iag- dalen, and, not wishing to disturb him in his meditations, I have passed by as if I saw him not, or have diverged into another path, yielding him the whole breadth of the avenue, far too narrow and straitened for more than one contempla- tive spirit at a time. When rowing up the river, I have watched him at some distance, pulling leisurely under the shadow of the trees ; or, having made fast his boat by driv- ing it amongst the rushes, I have seen him pull out a sketch- book from his pocket, or perhai)S some volume to read. l>ut whatever description of book it miglit be, I noticed that the hand that held it soon dropt by his side, lieclining in the stern of the boat, under the shadow of the alders, his eye fixed upon the horizon, he was already busied with his favourite sjieculation of the Future of Human Society. But though not intimate at Oxford, when Ave met here in a foreign country, and under the excitement of Swiss scenery, we hailed each other as old and cordial friends. Our fel- low-studentship, which Avas but a cold all'air in itself, gave us 14S ItooK II. CilAI'TKU VI. luii'n, at some distance of time and place, a title to the hearty hand-shake, tlie glad recf)f,'nition, the frank outpouring of our several niplures and adventures in the ])eautiful country we, were hntli exploriiij,'. AVe seemed resolved to delude our- selves into the belief that we had heen all along quite bosom friend.s. At all events, we made up for our former taci- turnity. AVhat delightful rambles we had together about the lake of Lucerne ! And on those days which every tourist amongst the mountains knows and dreads, when the inces.-^ant rain confined us within the four Avails of our room, ( ) how we talketl ! Fast and incessantly as it rained with- out, did Ave talk on Avithin. We had to compare notes of those other travels Ave had been seA'erally making in the region of thought — or that other cloud-land, if you Avill. The day Avas never long ; Ave Avondered hoAV it had pas.sed. I kncAV that Clarence had the taste and skill of the artist ; but it Avas a surprise to me to learn, as I noAV did for the lirst time, that he had adopted landscape-painting for hLs jirofession. He led me off to a cottage in which he was lodging at the time. Near the Avindow of his apartment there stood an easel, Avith the materials for painting on a table by the side ; and in an opposite corner of the room you observed another table, on which stood a lamp, a Avrit- ing-do.^k, and a small pile of books. This arrangement, which he adopted AvhereA'er he pitched his tent, rcA'caled the history of his day. "WTien the weather and the light favoured, he was either sketching or painting, abroad or at home. When night came, the lamp Avas lit, and thrcAv its light oA'er books and papers. To his friends, Avho thought highly of his intellectual ))ower, Clarence seemed to liaA'e adopted a rather frivolous emplopnent. He had formed another estimate of it, or else had selected it for the liberty it gave him to pursue un- biassed, in many a leisure hour, those graA^r studies Avhich still probably held the first place in his regard. None of the throe learned professions put before him for his choice, could he cordially embrace ; yet some profession was to be chosen. " I Avas glad," he said, " to find that nature had MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN PHILOSOPHER. 149 given me this little talent, and so enabled me to decide a question wliich was becoming very embarrassing." " I inherited it," he added, " if such things come by in- heritance, from my mother. She was fond of her pencil, and yet it was rather a love of nature than of art that dis- tinguished her. She sketched, she used to say, not for the poor picture she produced, but because by drawing the scene, she so thoroughly learnt it. She would make a study of some old tree, with the ferns and wild- flowers grooving about its roots, and then, perhaps, tlu'ow away the sketch, or tear it up. I have it by heart ! she would say, and would carry home the old oak tree there, and not upon the paper. " j^othing delighted me more when I was a boy," Clarence thus continued his narrative, " than to accompany her in one of her sketching rambles. I marched somewhat ahead, carry- ing the camp-stool and the sketch-book ; then, when by joint acclamation we had fixed on our picture, I lay beside upon, the ground watching her proceedings. By-and-by I began to imitate what I observed — brought supplementary paper and pencils, and also went to work — not disdaining, you may be sure, to look from time to time over the maternal shoulder, just to compare, as I said, our ' several styles,' our ' methods of treatment.' You will readily suppose that the mother was willing to teach all she knew ; lessons so plea- santly given and received Avere not without result; it was not very long before the son began to rival his instruc- tress. "Years after, whilst meditating this perplexing subject, the choice of a profession, my eye fell upon one of my own drawings. Why not be an artist in earnest 1 To give the men who live in cities some memento of what is most beauti- ful in the country, is not altogether a useless employment. But how determine Avhcther I have the requisite ability 1 I selected some half-dozen of my best performances, and carried them ofi" — not to any artist friend, ])ut to a dealer in such wares. He bought thon. Tluvt compliment I could trust. I set to work in earnest. You know what "Words- worth says — ino nooK H. — cHArTEn vi. 'The ViK^d mtclmnic tool Cuts off that liand witli all its world of nerves From a too busy coiimiercu with the heart.' "I liiiv(! found in tli(; iicncil a fonstant and cheerful occupation ; and, for tlie rest, I tliink my own thouf^hts in freetloni about this marvellous world we are living in." Clarence's philosophy is full of faith, full of hope. "Wliere I have ventured, only for a moment, to place my foot — placinj^ it tremulously and soon retracting it, he takes his stand boldly and firmly. He has an unconquerable convic- tion in the progress of Humanity ; he will not hesitate cor- dially to adopt the Icist truth of the reason, because this seems at variance with the present Avants of a progressive society. "When an antagonist objects to some of his religi- ous doctrines, that they are fit only " for the climate of Utopia," his answer is, " I will believe, then, in the religion of Utopia ; and be you assiired of this, that if its religion is true, and is already here amongst us, what you call Utopia is following on l>ehind." But his Utopian views are as safe, and, in the only ra- tional sense of that term, as " conservative " as they are hopeful. For he constantly maintains that it is only by ad- vancing under our present system of social economy that we can rise into a higher. It is the gradual development of a higher system, from causes already in operation, that he delights to proclaim. Xo sudilen transition of a permanent character seems to him possible. How quietly slavery or serfdom vanished out of Europe ! Changes as great and as gradual may be accomplished in the future — may be now in the process of accomplishment. At Oxford, if I remember right, he was not quite so patient in his expectations : he brought the golden vision nearer to the eye. He could then with marvellous rapidity throw up into the air the light towers and "ilded fanes of 1 • TT • lus L toitian architecture. At a later period he was con- MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN' PHILOSOPHER. 151 tented that the slow builder, Time, should build on accord- ing to his -wonted fashion. But he was as confident as ever that the glorious structure would arise, and he assigned to it even more magnificent proportions than before. AMiat the arrangements and method of life would be in that Future Society, he was far too wise to think of predicting. A great principle would, in part, Avork out its OAvn details ; in part, those details Avould be determined by circumstance, varying in every age and country. The extended action of a prin- ciple well known amongst us — that of mutual co-operation designedly entered into for mutual good — was all that he confidently prophesied. He took high ground. " What, aU ! " if any objector should exclaim : " do yoM expect that all men, or that man- kind, as a general rule, shall be wise and good ? — how few of such have ever lived at any time ! " — he would answer, " It Avill be easier for the many to be wise and good, than for the few. Think well of it ; it is more surprising that there should be one Phocion in Athens, than that there should be a city of just men. The sower goes forth, a soli- tary man, to sow the seed. It is a social group, in full chorus, that brings in the harvest." " If a society," he Avould continue, " should in its corpo- rate capacity take for its ultimate end mere physical well- being, it would not succeed even in that. It must also adojit for its main residt the cultivation of the social affec- tions, and the moral and religious feelings of man. Not only because this is the higher end in itself, but because only through this union of mind Avith mind, in their higher relations, Avill you obtain that unity of action you desire for mere physical wellbeing." I did not fail to urge against the principle on Avhich ir)2 BOOK II. ClIAPTEK VI. Clarence depends — that of mutual co-operation designedly entered into for mutual benefit ; or, in other words, a part- nership in each other's labour — all those usual objections to which I myself had been compelled reluctantly to yield. I need not rejjeat tliem ; but I will record some of Clarence's replies. He would say, " I am not contemplating a society of learned Jesuits on the one hand, and a people of Para- guay Indians on the other — such a society {so far as the Indians are concerned) is a type of weakness and imbecility, not of strength — but a society where the rule which governs all is made by all, understood and voluntarily obeyed by all. An intelligent obedience to such a rule I do most unhesita- tingly aver to be the most desirable element in each man's character and liapitiness that you could name. It implies no undue submission (as you object), no absorption of a man's individuality — any more than citizenship or patriotism. A rule which, our own reason approves of is not a restraint ; it is a chosen course of action ; as freely chosen as any course of social action can be. But where I strike, as Avith a sledge-hammer, upon this objection, is here : The develoj> raent of the individual, you say, is to suffer, is to be re- pressed, Now, I maintain that it is precisely the develop- ment of a noble individuality which will lead to tbis more tiocial society. And, again, it is precisely this society that must develop the highest individuality. " AVho feels so intensely his own personality, who has so large and grand an individuality, as the patriot whose whole soul is given to his country '? But to descend to common- place men and times, let any man but join a club, or any association for a common purpose, and he feels his self- importance augmented directly. How can it be otherwise ? Our life and our personality are coextensive. "We live only as persoiis. If I am a citizen of Athens, aU Athens, so far as I can embrace it, has gone to swell my personal or indi- vidual existence. There is no possible antagonism between tlie Individual and Society, none of this kind, that there can be a great society and little minds ; for just in propor- tion as the relationships of the individual to others, or to MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN PHILOSOPHER. 153 the wliole society, are augmented, in precisely the same pro- portion is the individual being of each man augmented. " I see you acquiesce in this as a general principle, and you are preparing some yet and hut. Stop them for a mo- ment, and let me say a word on that other popular objection, that if we had not the present inequalities of fortune, the same trials, the same dependence upon each other's voluntary aid, there would not be the requisite means for cultivating the affections ; our friendships would grow cold ; and even the opinion of others woidd have little effect upon us, since we should no longer have to solicit favours of each other. " "We meet with this style of objection from men who claim to be eminently practical ; and just note how emi- nently theoretical or hypothetical it is. Look at our exist- ing society. " The services which cement friendship are recijvocal ser- vices. A feeling of dependence is scarcely compatible with friendship. " And again, where do we see the desire of esteem in the opinion of others acting most powerfully % Precisely Avhere it seems to have httle to bestow, except this very esteem. In fact, it is the thousand subtle and indetinable services which men who live together must always be reciprocating, that constitutes the great value to us of the good opinion of the society in which we move. What does an English gen- tleman suffer in his substantial or material comfort from being black-balled at a club, or excluded from any particular circle of society ? And yet the power of public opinion to l)unish could hardly be better illustrated than by just such a case. To the cultivated mind the esteem of mankind becomes valued for itself, i^ay, we need not go to very i;ultivated minds. The common soldier knows no greater pleasure in life than to be praised for his courage by his fellow-soldiers. The jiraise adds nothing to his rations. " I cannot suppose that any one contfiaplates a state of society in which there shall be no such thing as property, and no such thing as mutual gifts and services. Jiut the gifts which pass between Avealth and poverty might be sup- l.">4 nOf)K IL CFIAPTKU VI. posed to cease, ami tlicy would cease witliout any detriment U> our social affections. What is more notorious than that wlni ever a pecuniary interest api)ears upon the scene, friendshiii retires. AVhftluT you take money from me, or whether you give it, tln' transaction is alike fatal to our old hond of amity. " No friendshi[) can survive the gift of gold. The gene- rous can indeed forget that they have given, hut the grateful can never forget that they have received. 'So \ The man who brightens with a smile when I approach him — whose hand grasps mine Avith cordiality — whose good opinion is a boon and suj)port to me — whose talk, whose very presence gladilens me — he is my friend. He gives me joy — he gives ! This other, with his purse, he cannot give. He lays a load of obligation on me that I can never get rid of. This gold turns my friend into my benefactor. And oh, ye gods ! protect me from a benefactor as you would protect me from a foe ! I should be grateful — very grateful, I should serve him to the uttermost — I should put my neck beneath his feet — and I should be apt to pray him, once for all, to press upon it as heavily as he could. " What under the sun is more pleasant to behold than the home-bred affection of brother to brother, or sister to sister ! On what trifles docs it feed when it is really at its strongest! How near to extinction is it when the ' disparity of fortune ' and ' the dependency on each other ' afi'ords the so genial condition for its development ! " See the afi'ection in its native home — how confident, how indestructible it is ! And the services rendered and in- terchanged are — mirth for mirth I — the sport enjoyed to- gether — the common lesson, the ride, the nin, the emulation, the strife. For it is a plant so hardy that the gusts of natural passion or momentary anger cannot endure it — rather seem to promote its growth. Hardy and graceful, it bends and rises, and blooms, and laughs again : no flower of the field so braves the wind. " Xow follow it into the world where it is to be nourished by the sterling benefits which the disparity of fortune enables to be given and received. What a degenerate and MEETING WITH A UTOPIAN' rillLOSOPIIER. 155 miserable thing it has become ! How suspicious and dis- trustful, hard and captious ! The prosperous one of the family is already accredited with pride and coldness before he has even sho^ra these unamiable qualities. Let him be generous as he will, his prosperity cannot be forgiven him. Between him and the less fortunate, all those light, pleasant, evanescent acts of kindness which are the daily food of love, are rendered impossible. The benefactor can no longer ask for them — his request would be a claim ; and the recipient can give nothing, for he feels that he owes it all. The free- dom of interchange and intercourse is gone. "Wlien a brother lies under the cloud of adversity, he soon ceases to be loveable. His need and his irritability both make of him an unwelcome guest. Xot suddenly is the door closed on the old familiar face ; but it opens to his hand, Avith more difficulty, each succeeding visit. Without a repidse, without a harsh word bluntly said, he yet feels that the entrance has become embarrassing. It requires an effort to press down the latch, or to enter unsummoned. I see him raise the knocker timidly with his hand — pause — replace it silently — and walk unobserved from the door. The dis- pirited man at length resigns his fraternal claim, and the affection of his youth is transformed into a didl and smoul- tlering animosity. " Oh, why, Thorndale, do you set yourself in opposition to a faith in the future 1 Neither you nor I are conspirators. "We preach no revolution ; we incite to no discontent. "We say that the prosperity and intelligence of mankind is lead- ing to — other prosperity and higher intelligence. We offer additional motives and hopes to all the noble efforts which are being made to ameliorate the condition of the less fortu- nate of society. And for ourselves, we have a faith that not only makes us hopeful of the future, but which explains the past, and teaches resignation to the present. " It seems so bold a thing to say that crime will all but cease by the mere progress of our prosperity and our intelli- gence. Yet what are the all but invariable motives of those acts of violence and fraud which the criminal law takes cog- ir)r> nooK ii. — chaptefs vi. iiisancc of, iind wliicli a criniiiial juri.sj)ruilonce punLshcs 1 How liorrible a thing is njurder ! Yet I tell you what ha« often struck Jiie as still more horrible ; — the paltry, miser- able motive fur which murder is committed ; the piece of money that the dead hand, or tlie rifled pocket, must re- linquish to the murderer. Men kill for this ! I can hardly call to mind, in the annals of our own jurisprudence, any one deliberate murder, in Avhich this, in one form or the other, was not the motive. " Go through tlie dismal catalogiie of crime. It is always urod, or some power that gold has over want, which forms the condition in which only the crime could be developed. The plotted seduction of a young girl seems at first to come from a quite different quarter. But look closely into it ; you see that the poor thing has been houfjlit, and then flung aside. " Look at that which, has been called the ' •\'ice of great cities,' the source, in its turn, of every species of theft and corruption, and indeed the most prolific source of evil I could name. You have a class of women whose very trade (their means ' to take care of themselves ') is to propagate the vice they live by. It is their very business to break down the modesty of youth in every city of Christendom — modesty which is as natiu-al, as graceful, and as conservative in the one sex as in the other. That ver\' wise opinion so current amongst our youth, that discards chastity from the list of manly virtues, whence did it come ? From any Epi- curean pli'dosophy 1 I think not. Well, what is the origin of this moral pestilence that walks tlirough our streets ] It has precisely the same origin as other pestilences or plagues which occasionally desolate our cities — Avant ! Men and women may at all times seek pleasure unwisely or intemper- ately : but the trade of the prostitute, the foulest blot on our civilisation, does not arise from our passions, but from want. Thank Heaven ! one sees there is hope here for the Avorld. ^lurder and theft, and every vice that crowds our jails and peoples our madhouses, spring from a condition of things which is slowly altering even while we are look- ing at it" CHAPTEE VIT. REMIXItJCEXCES OF CLARENCE RETURN' TO EXGLAXD. " There is," said Clarence, " in Soutli America a grass which has this peculiarity, that the young plant grows up sheltered in the sheath of the old one. The old blade of grass withers, and the new one is seen already prepared to take its place. For a certain time the new grass and the old apj)ear to divide the field between them. Such is the mode in which neAV systems or principles spring up amongst us. They grow under shelter of the old, and the transition is so gradual that a time intervenes when we can hardly say here also, whether it is the old grass or the new that jiredominates in the field. " The spontaneous passions of man — love of power on the one side, trust and admiration, and craving for guidance, on the other — build up some sort of government, generally of the despotic character. But, under the shelter of this spon- taneous form of government, reflection upon government itself becomes possible. There is, in the first place, some- thing to reflect xipon — the want and tlie purposes of govern- ment which experience has now taught ; and there is that degree of security and of leisure and safety which renders possible the existence of the reflective man. Thus new ideas spring up, and a wiser polity graduallj- ])ushes its Avay into the world. So too in religion. Spontaneous passions and wild imaginations first construct for us a celestial Gov- ernor oftentimes of dark and terrible nature ; but here too, ])\' this spontaneous and imaginative faith, the action of u 158 BOOK II. CMArrKH VII. relif^ioiis sentimont Ijfrcomos known to us — contemplation upon ri'li;^'i(jn itself becomes possible — and the ideas of (}(n'ernor and Creator are afterwards modified as our know- ledge becomes enlarged, and as our own humanity becomes improved." Clarence is one of the very few men whom it has given me i)leasure to hear converse upon religion. This I attribute as much to the perfect sincerity of the man, as to the cheer- fiU and exalted character of his piety. I liked one saying of his that he repeated more than once : " In religion, as in astronomy, we begin with a complete antagonism between earth and heaven; the stars are ex- clusively celestial, and those bright luminaries are infinitely more exalted in place and nature than the poor globe we tread on. AVe end, however, by discovering that this earth also is one of the celestial bodies. It, too, lies in tlie heavenly region. Lo ! we are already amongst the stars ! God is here too ! The Eternal and the Infinite ! — behold they are around us ! " At another time he would say : " Great as is the truth of Inniu)rtality, I cannot possibly agree with those who repre- sent aU oiu" goodness, and vii-tue, and piety, as depende/it on it. It is because I have a love of man and a love of God, that I dare claim this hope of immortality. Of course this hope reacts in augmentmg and estal)lishing every noble sen- timent. But I nuist liaA'c something that I admire and love for its OAAni sake, or what is extended existence to me ] If I have no love for othere here — no piety to God Jiere — on what account can I wish or exjiect that my existence should be perpetuated 1 " " The love of God," he would say, '' is no fictitious or dreamy sentiment. Om- Avhole life is God's gift. And REMINISCENCES OF CLARENCE. 159 pray mark this : As the greatness and happiness of man's life develops, the gift is greater, and the love is greater. I could wish those who think there can be advancement in human life, and not increase of piety, to ponder this. It takes but a breath to utter, it would take but a line to Avrite it; but its significance seems to me immense." Again : — "Our scientific knowledge is not only new Poicer over the forces of nature — it is new Education for the mind of man. God's universe, better ruiderstood, is precisely that teaching of God about which there can be no possible cavil. If He exists (and who can doubt it T) this certainly is the manifestation of Himself to us. Now, unite these two to- getlier. On the one hand is Science teaching us to hnow God ; on the other, a Human Life growing ever more kindly, active, social, more opulent in all glad emotions and noble sentiments, prompting us to love God as the giver of it ; and how can you possibly doubt that Eehgion must advance ? " " St Boniface, we are told, walked along our pleasant earth, with St Jerome's treatise, De Bono Mortis, constantly under his arm. I cannot much blame St Boniface. Pleasant as the green earth was, with its azure and beclouded sky above it, the race of men that surrounded him was coarse and violent, and utterly averse to that ideal of excellence he ]iad funned. AVhat could he do but jjlace that ideal safely in another Avorld, and wait for death for the fruition of it ? Even the St Boniface of our own day may be excused if he shows the same tendency of thought. But this is noticeable, that the pious man of our own age sees more and more to admire and love in this tvorld, in this life — sees more of Heaven here ; aiul in future times a more perfect form of human society will be evolved ; and the St Boniface of that epoch, the pious man of those times, will close his De Bono IGO HOOK H. CHAl'TKIt VII. Mortis — lie will see his idnal, or a\m at it, here alio. Ilia etonial life will liav(! already coinnienced — he will have put uii his iniiiiDrtality." riarencp was fond of (^uotiiiff these nohlo Unas of Milton, in whieli the j)oet depicts the religious sentiment of Adam in his Paradise — "A creature who not prone, And hrute as other creatures, but endued With sanctity of reason, might erect His stature, and upright with front serene Govern tlie rest, self-knowing, and from thence Magnanimous to correspond with Heaven, But grateful to acknowledge whence his good Descends, thither with heart, and voice, and eyes Directed in devotion, to adore And worship God Supreme." " ^Magnanimous to correspond with Heaven ! " " Does it not," he wonld say, "stir like a trumpet? And it does require a magnanimity, a courage of the soul, — a courage due to the ' sanctity of reason,' to correspond with Heaven, to walk ' erect ' in the presence of our God, hut grateful to acknowledge "whence our good descends. " Does not this express what each of us, in his noblest moments, has felt? " I boldly claim for the future generations of mankind that religion "which our best and purest have claimed for themselves, icJien they shall he saints in Heaven. In that state they confess that Goodness and Piety are their 0"wn ends — not preparation for any other state of existence. They will become so here. Tliis life "will cease to be re- garded chiefly as a preparation for another, because it will have become identified with that other. If we are immortal soiUs, we are immortal here : — death is but our great pro- gression ; — let us begin to live as the immortals should." REMIXISCENCES OF CLARENCE. 161 I used to say, there could be no possible objection to his claiming for some remote posterity the religious faith of the saints in Heaven — if he could make them, or prove them to be, complete saints in other respects. — But I need not dwell on my own antagonism to Clarence, for he very soon had to encounter a far more formidable and uncompromising oppo- nent than I coidd be. Seckendoi'f joined our party. It was here that I first luade acquaintance Avith that ex- traordinary man, pitiless destroyer of all our day-dreams ; that is, if they pretended to be anything else than dreams, and laid claim to his conviction as truths. If he might look at them as the dreams of others, or as parts of human life, he tolerated, and even admired. Such was the prevailing temper of the man. There was no line he more frequently (pioted than one, to be found, I believe, amongst the occa- sional poems of Voltaire — " All, croyez-moi I'erreur a son nierite." Some day I shall try to recall the conversations of Seck- endorf. It wdl be no disagreeable exercise of memory. But I will not commence my task just now. I gained much from the clash and conflict of opinions, as carried on by two such intellectual champions as Clarence and Seckendorf. But after a time I .wearied of the strife, and was glad to pursue again my solitary route. I went forward into Italy ; Clarence and Seckendorf re- turned to England. I spent some months at Kome, some at Naples and Sorento, and visited the other principal cities of Italy. Why did I return to Englaudl I had no homo thci'e, more than in any other \Kn-t of the gl()l)e. Here I had the Alps — what more could mortal nuvn ask of nature 1 Hen; I had Eome, with her Vatican, her St Peter's, her churches, L 162 HOOK 11.^ — l.KAI'TKK VH. ht'i- <,'iillt'rics — Koine oltl and new; wliat more could I ask of arti On what spot of the earth could a solitary man find so much to t^ of their day. His only Avalk Avas to Westminster Hall. He did not think it quite safe to trust himself, he said, in the Temple Gardens. Then he descanted A^ery amusingly on the perfect stillness of his A^ery learned domicile, " I^o lane in Devonshire could be more quiet; no cottage in a Cumberland A^alley more secluded. Nay," he continued, " it is a great mistake to think you get quiet in the country. Did I not ahvays find at my cottage AvindoAV some old crone telling her intermin- able story to her neA'er-satiated neighbour 1 And did I not catch myself often listening to it 1 Or was there not some sauntering damsel, with her tin can swinging and creaking on its iron handle, Avho AA'ould pass and repass tAventy times a-day to get water from the spring 1 I must confess I rather liked at times to see her, and hear her singing to the creak- ing can ; but then I was very idle in those days. Or else there Avas to be seen coming doAvn from the lane opposite some red and roaring child, cramming bread-and-butter into its mouth, cramming and roaring at the same time. Xo one ever kncAv Avhat the noise Avas all about, and as the urchin's appetite Avas evidently unimpaired, no one seemed to care. It Avas a terrible interruption, yet I learnt to be a little amused at such display of harmless passion as he volun- teered. No such sights or sounds intrude here. Here we sit in profound abstraction. Nothing but abstractions. No place so quiet — above ground — as these, my studious chambers." Notwithstanding this boastful renunciation of poetry and of nature, Ave had not sat long together before the " old love," and his late bitter disappointment, became the subject of our conversation, and, in spite of some effort at irony, he treated 170 BOOK II. — CHAITEU Mil. the tlienic witli a groat doal more emotion than so devoted a student of hiw ought to have di.splayed. " ]>ut I am cured now," he finally saiil ; " I am cured, Thorndale, I am indeed. It seems a century ago since I was the prey to that turbulent and insane passion for fame, — in sane at least in me. ^ly lip curls with derision as I recall the folly. "Was it I indeed who was plunged in desj)air because the world would nf)t read my sonnets ! Simpleton ! How often had I said, "What care I for the sons and daughters of wealth ] How often had I sung out the old stave — ' My mind to me a kingdom is, Such great delight I find therein ' ! "But the sons and daughters of wealth held me in their power — they would not read my poems. I was a mere slave, after alL " And yet this passion was none of my seeking. Is it not strange that the love of fame should be given, and no answerable ability — the instinct to soar, and no wing 1 I can remember that, in my earliest boyhood, I paced my father's garden and the quiet lanes behind our house, mutter- ing the ' I also ! ' to myself. A certain noble mansion stands at the corner of Piccadilly, with a statue reared in front of it ; I have passed that house and looked up — how my cheeks burn as I make this confession ! — and I have said, ' Great general ! I am your contemporary — I am a poet. Kings, generals, statesmen, poets — the age is ours ! ' Fortunately I kept the secret of my greatness close within my OAvn heart. " "Well for me I did ; it spared me some humiliation. When the prophet at length stepped fonvard to reveal him- self to the Avorld, and not an ear listened, and not an eye turned towards him, it was some consolation thaf he was able to steal home in peace. Xo outcW* of any kind pursued him ; no one knew how gi-eat an experiment had been made ! So far it was well. But oh, Thorndale ! the do^nlfall there was within ! — within ! The life-purpose gone, the beloved occupation gone. " Ah me ! how pleasant was the illusion while it lasted 1 LUXMORE TUE POET. 171 Pleasant beyond all power to describe, to walk amongst tlie hills, or by the side of rivers, musing immortal verse. I envied no one. I had my great task. A^Hiat a proud elated sjiirit Avas often concealed in that simple figure that stole along with slow and modest footstep, shunning all observa- tion ! I sought no honour yet — I kept my incognito ; but I was the true prince — and I felt like a prince. " Pity that the day of trial must come, and that the illusion coidd not last." It was inexplicable to me that Luxmore should pass at once from poetry to law. Could he find no intermediate stage % I put the question. " They took me," he said ruefully, " when all things were equally indifferent; they did what they pleased with me. If they had proposed hanging outright, I might have gently expostulated, but I should have yielded in the end. ]\ly father had set his heart on my being a lawyer. I am one day to be a celebrated advocate — an orator forsooth ! For such celebrity I care not two straws. Were I as certain of attaining it as I am that it is utterly out of my reach, I shoidd not value it a rush. But here I am a student of tlie law, and I will be nothing hat a student of the law — if I can." His resolution was kept for some time. It gave me pain to see him labouring at a vocation so foreign to his tastes and capabilities. But he kept steadily to the new task he liad assigned to himself, and Avould hear of no other plan of life. Poetry was held steadily at ])ay. One day, however, this Tempter waylaid him in a very insidious maimer. I think I see him, as he descri})ed himself to me, return- ing in dreary mood from Westminster Hall, where he had been to hear some case argued, on tlie pleadings of which he 172 BOOK 11. — CHAPTEn VHf. }ia(l l)con eiif^agc'd. I k(!0 liiin creeping slow!}' hack to the Temple, Avcaricd with the heat, and din, and jostHng of the court, and utterly unahle to think another thought ahout his jileas and liis cases. As he coasts along by the shop- windows, he looks up from time to time at that strip of dim and defaced azure overliead, which is all that here remains to him of the natural sky ; and he takes advantage of the projecting step of some doorway, or of an iron-grating in the pavement, not trodden on by the passers-by, that he may pause for a moment, without being swept away by the crowd, to look iip even at this poor residue of that fair region where the clouds are wandering. And now, as he is coast- ing thus along the Strand, he halts before a book-stall, because it offers an excuse for standing still, not from any curiosity to look at its literary ware. He does look, how- ever ; and opens and pries into sevei-al volumes, till he begins to think that the proprietor of the book-stall, who has been eyeing him, will feel aggrieved if he departs without making any purchase. A torn and dingy little volume, very port- able and very cheap, presents itself as a suitable purchase for the occasion. It bears the title of * Shelley's Miscel- laneous Poems,' a cheap piratical edition, that often finds its way to the book-stall. But of course the size of the volume alone determines his selection. He invests some eighteen- pence in the perilous commodity, and walks off with the forbidden fruit in his pocket. Luxmore has done with the pupils' room for that day. He ascends his own flight of stairs, and enters his o^vn dark and dusty retreat. Seating himself at his library table, he may enjoy at least that perfect stillness he applauds so much. There is not a sound to be heard. Drawing from his pocket his new purchase, he notices that, soiled and dirty as the book is, it could have been very little read, for half the leaves are uncut. He will, as he rests himself from his walk, c\it open the remainder of the leaves, and then lay the book aside. As he proceeds Avith this mechanical operation, he peeps into the volume here and there. Gradually both the eye and the spirit of the man settle down upon the page. LUXMORE THE POET. 173 "What is it that enchains and enthralls him 1 He has stumbled upon one of his earliest favourites, " Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude " — so full of the passionate love of nature and of beauty, and, to his mind, overrun with so many asso- ciations from his own past history. There, in the silence of his dim chamber, he reads on undisturbed ; I see his chest slowly heave, I mark a suspicious moisture in his eye. That library table, and all that is on it, and all the dreary learning mustered on the walls around him are utterly forgotten. The old brass lamp of Aladdin never wrought such mirac- ulous transformations as did that dingy little volume in the hands of its entranced reader. The solitary silent room — lo ! it was full of music, full of beauty. Vision after vision of mountain, and sky, and stream was passing along its walls. Those Avails were not. And the dim air which lay so thick upon the windows — it was gone, and he was out in tlie broad bright Avorld ; he was amongst the mountains, by the seas and the rivers ; he was in those palace-homes of Humanity, which that little magic book, this new lamp of Aladdin, was building up so fast around him. The mischief was irreparable. AVhen the music of the poem ended, when the speU was over, when the magic book was closed, and he looked again on the four walls that sur- rounded him, he coidd scarcely believe that he had ever con- sented to this voluntary but terrible imprisonment. What ! Avas he, a worshipper of nature, simply because his own hymn was not Avanted — Avas he to turn self-banished from all her glories 1 He Avould rather be a shepherd, and AA^atch sheep upon the hills. SomehoAv he would break from this horrible imprisonment — Avould break forth into the real life of man, and the eternal realities of nature. When I next climbed his stairs, and tapped at liis door, I Avas ansAvered by a loud, ringing, manly voice, bidding me to enter: and on entering, I saAV Luxmore striding to and 174 notjK II. — cnAPTEH viii. fro, cliul in srjiuc. tfiTilio-lodkiiig watcrjiroof garments, an oil- skin cap n])on his head, and flourishing in his right hand a keen and glittering axe, lie had resolved to emigrate. He would clear the. f(jrest and the jungle. He would grow com where corn had never yet hcen grown. The hanks of the •Mississippi already lay in imagination hefore him, and he was just then making trial of some of his newly-purchased accoutrements. He laughed heartily at the bewilderment which, I suppose, my countenance expressed. " I am for the woods, Thorndale," he exclaimed. " Will you go Avith me ] Leave this philosophy of yours, as I shall leave this labyrinth of law. Let us go where the great rivers are flow- ing. lieHeve me, no Avood can be so thick, no swamp so deep, no wilderness so impenetrable, as these studies we shall leave behind." I, in reply, entreated him to stay with me in England. T thought him wise in relinquishing the ungenial study of the law ; I counselled him to devote himself to letters. I im- plored him to come and live with me. There was enough, I said, in the chest for both. A poet and a philosopher did not want the treasury of a Crffsus. " Stay Avith me," I saiil, " and AVTite another poem. One verdict is not a final deci- sion in the courts of criticism, any more than in those of Westminster Hall : we appeal, and again appeal — not to pos- terity, Avhich is folly, but to our next volume ! Come, live with me. ' Go halves,' as the boys say at school. I want your companionship, your friendship, far more than you can want anything on earth that I can contribute. It shall be yours to pitch the tent where you vnH, and strike it Avhen you Avill. We are both somewhat nomadic in our disposi- tions, and, for my part, I Avould rather that another chose the route and the camping-ground than be compelled to choose myself. Stay with me till the next poem is written. What lovely spots there are in England, no one knows better than you. Like the Persian monarchs, we will have our LUXMORE THE POET. 175 summer and our winter palaces ; they are already built for us amongst tlie hills of Cumberland, and on the coast of Devonshire. Pledge yourseK to poetry and to me, for at least so long a time — and may the next poem be for ever writing ! " Luxmore pressed my hand with emotion ; it was the only way in which he could express his thanks. " I too," he said, " if our positions were reversed, could offer, I think, as you do ; and you, m my position, would refuse, as I must." Then, in order that he might put his refusal on grounds to which I could not object, he declared that his present pro- ject of emigration was one that he greatly jiref erred to the scheme I designed for him — that of cultivating letters at home. " 1^0 ! " he exclaimed, " I will live a free and manly life with the grandeurs of nature about me. I Avill feel poetry ; I will not A\Tite it. This passion for poetic fame is fatal to one's peace. It shuts you up from real friendships, real loves. You muse upon a thousand beautiful affections, you sjonpathise with imaginary griefs and joys, and mean- while you yourself are forgotten by every living soul. I will have none of it. And as for this your England, I dis- parage it not — but only think what glorious things there are lying out in the wide world which I have not yet beheld. I have never been in a tropical climate. Coidd I quit the Avorld without having once seen the palm-tree spread itself beneath its native skies 1 " My entreaties Avere in A-aiu. T had to listen to his schemes ; he Avould not listen to mine. He had indeed some relative in the United States, and the where Avithal to purchase a fcAv acres of land. So much there Avas of practi- cability in his enterprise. But then I soon after learned that, although bound for the lianks of the ]\rississippi, lie had taken his passage to Rio Janeiro ! lie must see the in- comparable scenery of Brazil, and the mountains of South 170 HOOK II. CHAI'TKK VIII. Aini'iica. lie would work liis way round afterwards, Ity land or by water, to his final destination. What can one auf,'ur of such an emigrant 1 "NMiere arut if another raised the sacrilegious spear, I am sure that I should Ixave rushed forward for the protection of the idoL "What have I then to do with teaching the strict stem truth to others? I leave that task to other men — to you, if you persist in undertaking it." " I know not," I replied, " that any of us can do very much. Some of us wiU do little enough, and yet even that little may be worth the doing. Before the hay is finally stacked, it is tossed about in the sun and the air, and very little hands may be seen busy in the field. If too hastily packed together, it would smoulder and corrupt. I too, with otlier children, toss about the hay in the field. A stronger arm Avill stack it. It is a trivial service, but not a needless one." " Very modestly said, my philosophic friend," answered Luxmore. " Toss, then, this hay about ; only do not blind yourself, as I have seen some little children do, whilst tlirowing it too quickly over their heads. " God fashions some in one way, some in another, ^fe He made — so far as this thought -power is concerned — a much -musing, but weak and useless creature — all ear, all eye — and plunged me in tliis maze of beauty and of wonder. I have had no other business than to look, and dream, and eternaDy admire. And I will still admire, earning the while the needful daily bread, with daily and inoflensive toil." CHAPTEE X. CONCLUSION BY THORNDALE OF HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 1 LOST my friend. I bade farewell to him in tlie great steamer, as it lay off Southampton, which was to bear him across the Atlantic. "What would I not have given to detain him 1 I loved liim as a brother, and as an elder brother. I was accustomed to jdeld to all his humours. If he said Walk, I walked ; if he wished me to sit with him, I sat. I felt a pleasure in this sort of submission. The mutability of his temper never vexed me ; whilst the utter frankness of the man, the full heart, the incessant spring of life and thought within him, were to me inexpressibly dehghtful. Woidd that, by any grappling-hooks, I could have bound him to me ! When I parted with Luxmore at Soutliampton, I went across to the Isle of Wight with no other than the old com- ]union — the box of books. Even those books, how much more would they have yielded to me, if the social affections liad not been so utterly baffled and repressed ! I was mifortunate in friendship as in love. The exhil- aration of general society I have occasionally shared. But what my nature craved was some attached companion, living under the same roof with mo, to make of my dwelling-place 18G BOOK II. CIIArTEIi X. a home. "Wanting tliis, it seemed tliat all other enjo}Tnent.s were robbed of their natural zest. ]\roro desolate and life-weary I never remember to have felt, than I did in my little cottage at Shanklin. But just as the question, "What was I to do with this great gift of life ? had reached its climax of embarrassment, there came intima- tion that the gift itself would probably be soon withdrawn. The difficulty Avoidd be solved in a very decisive manner. Symptoms of ill-health, whicli I had been able to disregard whilst in the company of Luxmore, now forced themselves on my attention : they became more serious every day. I could not but remember that my mother died of con- sumption ; and these symptoms seemed to assure me that I had inherited the peculiarities of her constitution. Since my return to England I had not even written to my relatives at Sutton Manor. I allowed them to think that I was still on the Continent. Xow it became necessary, on some matter of business, to communicate with my unclr. I -wrote. Amiable messages came in return ; abundant r^ grets to hear of my ill-health, and an especial chiding from "Winifred for my unsocial habits. Unsocial ! I think that the pain of solitude Avas at this time, more than any other cause, fostering that malady under which I was growing weaker every day. Was that drama of the ^loth and the Flame entirely played out 1 Yes, I thought so ; yes, and yet a scrap of Avriting in her hand, containing a kindly word, such as she might bestow on any old friend, had a strange power over COXCLUSIOX OF AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 187 me. But let ill-liealth and a fevered brain bear the l)lame, if Hope, and wild imaginations such as Hope creates for her own support, did at this time revisit me. I can recall one singular delusion. I was reclining on my couch on a sultry d^y. The window of my cottage was open, and it looked directly into a garden. In tliis garden I saw the figure of a lady standing amongst the flowers, and occasionally bending down over them. Her back was turned towards me, and I could see only the figure and one light tress of hair that had escaped between the bonnet and the silk mantle. That little tress was enough to set Imagination at her work. The most absurd fancies took possession of my mind. What if it were Winifred 1 She had heard of my illness ; she could not hear of it with indiiFercnce. AVTiat if her affections were still disengaged] what if, secretly, they had all along been engaged where she herself was most beloved 1 She had heard that I was suffering — in illness — and alone ; she had resolved to come and see at least her old friend and playmate. Yes, it might be — it must be — it was Winifred Moljerly ! That fair tress could belong to no other ; I had seen the winds playing with it a lumdred times in the park at Sutton Manor. She had per- suaded some of her family, or some relative, to accompany her. She had left them behind at the hotel, and had come on alone. She seemed to be occupying herself with the flowers, but she was only in reality preparing herself for the inter\'iew with her stricken cousin — stricken in health — stricken, as she knew, in more than health. I watched breathless — my heart beating \'iolcntly — till the figure should turn towards me. It turned — looked up a moment at the cottage, and walked trippingly away. It was a fair young girl — very fair — but not Winifred, Some flowers in the garden had attracted her, it seems ; and as I sate out of sight, the open window led her to conclude that there was no one in the house, and that she might gratify her curiosity unnoticed. Winifred Moberly was in her own beautiful garden, or sitting in her own drawing-room, with many friends around 188 noOK ir. (IIAPTKK X. hur. Wliy should sliii fiiiifriii lirrsclf witli tlic sick oxilo out hen; 1 How could I be so m7 greed in the fellow ! "\Yliat a native untutored ladyhood in that silent brief glance at the devasted apple ! I like these statues in the public garden. They form a mute society for the mute and solitary loiterer. They give him also, to the eyes of others, a manifest excuse for loiter- ing and musing there. He may lean upon the ii'on rail that encloses the stone god or goddess, and whether he meditates or observes, or whatever thoughts or emotions may be stir- ring the depths of his soul, he stands there a manifest wor- shipper for the time being of some Diana or Apollo. His pensive himiour is thus disguised ; and I take it there is no greater departure from good behaviour than that of fronting the world with your own earnest thoughts. " If there is any antidote," poor Luxmore used to say, " which is at all times effective against the poetic mood, it is the presence of a fashionable woman. I was never caught riding my Pegasus by one of this order that I did not dis- mount in trepidation, and Avalk rapidly on, utterly disoAvning any connection with it. The fair sex," he would say, "stands to us in the two most opposite relations imaginable. They are the most ideal objects in our Avorld of thought ; they are the very embodiment of wdiatever is artificial and conven- tional in civilised life. I hold it orthodox doctrine to be- lieve — for Milton has taught it — that the flowers in Para- dise were created as Eve's especial dowry, and that such of them as she was permitted to carry away with her, have de- scended in due course of inheritance to her daughters. The rose is woman's ensign, her crest, her universal emblem. She is the spirit of beauty here below. Nay, what, I ask, is our angel of heaven but some beautiful girl seen paler in the celestial light — paler, brighter, not more beautiful 1 Such is woman in om" ideal world : she peoples heaven, or makes earth seem like to heaven. " Now look at her," he would say, " in all the glories of millinery, and invested with the onniipotence of fashion. 198 BOOK III. CIIAPTKIC I. (Jh, yc gofls ! convert us into apes, or dancing-masters, that wo may not sink lindcr the glance of her ridicule ! Well, ]»ut she is very charming lien; also, very pretty in all this lace and satin. Yes ; and with her quick l^right glance of exquisite impertinence, Ijow well she rules the manners and the talk of every drawing-room ! Every coarse ungainly foUy flies at that bright smile of derision which she so proudly throws around her — every coarse, ungainly folly, and also every earnest, free, and manly thought. A soft modulated cynicism whispers around her ; a bland, courteous, hypocritical adulation. Uefore the lovely xcornan we may be mad enough ; for we take the lyre, and we kneel and wor- ship. Enter the decorated ladij, Ave stand erect, and bow graceful, if such art is in us, and change the poem for the pasquinade." To some such tii'ade I replied that it was the male co.x- comb only that I should venture, or feel disposed, to assail. There is a certain ostentatious imbecility in his character that renders it utterly detestable " Detestable enough ! " he cried. " See that supremely idle gentleman drawn in his luxurious carriage : he is drawn along the earth by two of God's most beautiful creatures (those horses should be immortal !) — and he sits stem and lethargic, feels, or affects, the most perfect indiflerence to all that state and all those means of enjoyment which, never- theless, I and the rest of the world are called upon to admire. " iS'"ow this I hate. I am to admire this man twice over ; first for his gilded trappings, and next for his supreme in- difference to them. My honest friend, the purple-breasted peacock, swelling with uncompromising vanity, spreads to me his whole orb of feathers, and struts like an emperor before it. Him and his purple pride I like. He /.n" magnificent ; let him know it and rejoice. But this other most unnatural birtl displays to me what pomp he has — or borrows — and walks himself with snifting disdain before it. After applaud- THE CISTERCIAN' MONK. 195) ing his magnificence, I am to applaud still higher because he flings my applause back into my face. " I am no reformer of societies — have no faith in imaginary systems — think a M. Fourier simply an ingenious lunatic ; but if his phalanstery threatened no greater evil than the extinction of the race of coxcombs, male and female, he should have my permission to try his experiment. These youngsters we see tapping their lazy heels with their absurd cane, or poisoning the fresh morning air with the hot stench of their tobacco-smoke, are not the breed of men I am solici- tous to preserve. " JSTever have I met Avith such weary dreary gossip as from young men of what is called fashionable life. It is not non- sense, for nonsense requires some invention ; it is mere parrot- like noise. They travel mightily ; they pass from Paris to Vienna, from Vienna to Rome, from Rome to Constantinople, and you shall hear from them always the same tattle they would have amused you with in Regent Street. Cosmo- politan indeed ! as I sometimes hear them call themselves. Cosmopolitan as dogs are, who are as much at home in the streets of Paris as of London." "When I had quitted to-day the Villa Reale, Bernard tliought fit to drive me through a part of the town of Kaples. Life in the Toledo Street cannot be accused of Avant of ani- mation. With what noise and fury the old game of buying and selling is carried on here ! What variety of parts and characters in this perpetual masquerade ! Masquerade it is not. Each one lives most thoroughly in his own luuited personality. That is one of the most striking things in life. Just as a cat or fox is most entin-ly and solely a cat or fox, and has no thought of being any other beast whatever, so that noisy huckster is entirely the huckster ; and if the Virgin Mary will be kind, and prosper him in his bargains, he will live and die contentedly as a huckster. 200 ROOK HI. CIIArTER I. Every man carries, and ran (.arry, llic Ininlon of liis own gi'icf. 'J'luiui^litful men, of the proplietic onlcr, would take up the l)ur(hii of tlu; wliole world. No wonder that they cannot bear it — that it crushes them to the earth. 1 am glad to regain my own retreat — this elevated and beautiful sanctuary of mine. How still it is ! what a sacred serenity ! I can under- stand how ecstatic visions and mysterious voices may "\asit the lonely imagination. A very little more, and I too could hear the whisper of some spirit in the air, whispering to me my own thoughts. It is in such a calm as this that the voice of the angel becomes audible. This calm, that seems so natural, and puts on the aspect as if it had been, and would be, eternal — I have bought it with a whole life of turmoil and unrest. So it is. Yonder sea may be eternally serene, but my felt serenity has the tempest for one of its conditions. Eternal calm would soon be eternal sleep. This often recurs to me when thinking of our ideal futurities. We will make such a garden of this world, says some gentle enthusiast, that all good and peaceful affections, and none but the good and peaceful, shall flourish there. Only the angeHc part of our nature shall be developed in this Paradise. • I look through the golden gates of this new Eden : with hand raised before my eyes, to shade them from the perpetual glory, I look through, and in the serene air and eternal summer of the place I do at length descry the THE CISTERCIAN MONK. 201 angelic mhabitant. I see him beneath the tree of life, pillowed on his wing — and fast asleep ! There stands my Cistercian monk on his favourite spot. In him there are unspeakable fears that perpetually sustain illimitable hopes. A constant sense of escape from peril gives constant sense of the near-attained heaven. The element of the tempest is, or has been, there in abundance. There he stands serene, self-centred. He will tell you that he was born but yesterday, and will leave the world to-morrow. Yet such as he stands there, he is the pro- duct of all the centuries and half the nations of this world. Not only the Helirew, but the Egyptian and the Persian sage, the Indian and the Greek, have contributed to his religious culture. Yet he feels himself alone, a transitory wayfarer through a quite foreign world. And to himself how simple and beautiful is his own life. Some manual labour (tliis the Cistercian rule requires), his prayers, and some charitable offices, give employment to his days. All his vacation-time is spent in heaven. Prayer is at once his means and his end, his occupation and his joy. " Progress of Society" concerns not him. Xo genuine saint was ever solicitous about the future destiny of this poor planet. He has no salvation for tliis teiTcstrial humanity. He has one for you and me, for this and that human soul, for all who will obey and tread the narrow path by which, one by one, they shall ]iass onward into bliss eternal. What is Utopia to him 1 AVliy sliould he care for the Avell-being of successive generations of mortal men 1 The eternal beatitude of one immortal soid outweiuhs it all. 202 DOOK III. CUAPTEK I. Wliat is Utopia to him 1 Sentence has been passed against tliis -vvorlil, tlio execution is only delayed ; flames ■will consume it ; and, for final result of all its painful his- tory, lo ! his little flock of angels winging tlieir way into th*; sky! Your bright terrestrial futurities would only disturb his thoughts. He wraps the world in shadow, that he may better see that future home amongst the stars to which he is bound. I find the piety of my Cistercian monk to be one of the most beautiful things on earth, but I could secure no place for it in an imaginary society such as the hopeful Pro- gressionist depicts — a society of cheerful activities, of general temperance, of established equity. It would have performed its part in promoting the advent of such a society — in form- ing the future man ; but it would vanish and be absorbed in the success of its owti work. The perfect saint woidd become the perfect man ; the worldly character and the heavenly would blend in harmony. This monk's piety lives neces- sarily in a world of sorrow and of penitence, and its para- moi;nt sentiment is that of renunciation. " Tlirones, sceptres, crowns," are metaphors which at times run ■wildly enough through his discourse — descended to him probably from the earlier notions of the Hebrew ^lessiah ; but they do not express the real nature of his spiritual joy. This is ■wrung as much out of Sorrow and of Penitence, as out of Love or Hope. Not of gold or of velvet is that cro^wn made which the saint presses on his brow, and carries with him triumphant into heaven. I see my monk kindling the sacrificial flame before the altar. He throws in his wealth; he throws in Ms pride. He had thrown in his love to woman first of alL At each renunciation the flame burns higher and higher. Such fuel there was on earth to feed this flame ! How will it bum in that other sky where there will be no guilty pleasures, and no sorrow-laden happiness to throw upon the pile ? THE CISTERCIAN MONK. 203 From niy watch-tower here I often observe how, as the day goes down, the sea becomes illuminated by the moon, which till then had shed an unnoticed and ineffectual light. At first a luminous track, scarcely perceptible, glimmers over the trembling waters ; but as the sun still farther retu'es, the broad pathway of light grows bright, distinct, and perma- nent. I find it difficult to believe, when my eye is fixed on this new and beautiful radiance, that it is really grooving darker and darker all around me ; and that this luminous pathway to the skies, thrown, as it were, upon our troubled ocean, becomes visible only when the earth lies in darkness or in shadow. "Wlien my Cistercian monk appears on this curve of the shore, stands there in meditation, and then slowly departs, I foUow him in imagination to his cell, and speculate on the causes which may have conducted him to that last retreat. Has he sought a shelter there from the temptations of the world, from the turmoils of life, from the violence of pas- sion 1 Or has he shut himself up to tame the restless intel- lect 1 And is it the conflict of human opinions that he has sought to avoid 1 Whatever may have been his motive, Philosophy herself, I think, would bid him rest in the retreat he has chosen. The iVngel of Goodness stands at his pillow, and Truth waits for him in the antechamber. AVith how sweet a smile, even on his delusions, will she welcome him, when the life-dream is over ! CHAPTER II. A VISIT TO THE MONASTERY. In my ride yesterday I passed a group that could not but arrest my attention. It consisted of two monks, one of whom, much the younger of the two, had sunk exhausted by tlie roadside ; the elder monk Avas kneeling by him, support- ing the head of the fainting man in his lap. I stopped the carriage, and, leaning forward, asked if I could possibly be of any use, at least in conveying one or both of them to their monastery ? The ready Bernard was of more use than I, for he had alighted from the box, and before any one had time to remonstrate, he had applied a flask, whose contents were not drawn exclusively from the crystal well, to the lips of the exhausted monk. It revived him instantly, but he was still so weak that my proposal to carry them to their monastery was accepted. The elder monk assisted his companion into the carriage, and then followed himself. On looking at the pale sufterer, I recognised in him the same youthful monk whom I had been in the habit of watcli- ing from my terrace. Few words passed dimng our ride. '\Mien we reached the monastery, the elder of the two invited me to enter. Curiosity, and perhaps some interest deeper tlian curiosity, prompted me to accept the invitation. How stiU it was within those high walls, and along those A VISIT TO THE MOXASTERY. 205 courts and cloisters ! Here the liuni of hmiiaii life seemed hushed by some mysterious terror hanging in the air. li'o sound of joy, no voice of affection, no spontaneous utterance. The very greeting given to the two returning monks was a monotonous ejaculation in a dead language. Eetirement from the world I can understand ; hut why should these walls shut out the view of nature on every side 1 Is there guilt on the brow of those ethereal hills 1 Or does the genuine saint of the Catholic Church see already, in all this beauty, nothing but a world in ashes and a condemned planet 1 With head bowed down, and looking neither to the right nor to the left, he has but to steal through it safe ; he, for his single part, to steal through the general ruin and per- dition — safe ! — safe ! — safe ! The younger monk retired immediately to his cell. The elder monk remained with me in conversation. He gave me some account of the ndes of the community. He and his brethren were of the Cistercian order, and adojited the Bene- dictine rule in its original strictness, working with their own hands, and supporting themselves entirely by the cultivation of their own land, of which he intimated they had not an acre more than was necessary. Most of the simple articles of clothing and furniture they reqiiired Avere manufactured by themselves, and aU procured directly or indirectly by their own labour. He was solicitous to impress upon me the distinction between their order and that of the mendi- cant friars, who carry round their sack from door to door, and whose mode of procuring subsistence he seemed by no means to approve. A few of their numl)er, who possess a certain amount of medical knowledge, emiiloy themselves more particularly in attendance upon the sick. The com- munity could also boast of having some learned brethren amongst them, whom the rest very willingly relieved of their share of manual lal)our, in order that they might devote their time to study. There was much in this social oryanmdiou 206 ](0()K III. rilAI'TKR II. wliich one could not lie-ljt adiniriiij^. If Clarence had been present, he would have told the good monk to throw down these high walls — to let in the light, and jfiy, and heauty of nature ; to have the niu.sical voice of children heard upon the turf ; to let in the love of woman, and make a haj>py world of it at once. If such a thought passed through my mind, I certainly did not give expression to it. As we were conversing, a message came from the younger monk : he woidd he happy to see me, and thank me for my poor services, in his private cell. He had quite recovered from his temporary indisposi- tion, the result merely of too long a walk, taken in his voca- tion of visiting the sick, and of a diet altogether too abste- mious for health. I entered a little cell — study and dormitorj^ both — most simply furnished, but clean and neat as a young maiden would have wished it. A pale youth, in the white robes of his order, was sitting there. Hitherto this monk had only spoken a few words in a low voice, and those in Latin. AVhen he now addressed me, he spoke, to my siu-prise, in English. But he not only spoke in English, the voice was perfectly familiar to my ear. Through all the disguise of the monk- ish dress, the truth at once flashed upon my mind, and I exclaimed, " "What ! Cyril — you ! " At this exclamation, a mutual recognition immediately took place, for illness had thrown a temporary disguise over me also. I had not seen Cyril since that meeting in "Wales. If I had given myself a moment's time to reflect, I shoidd have hesitated before pronouncing his name ; I should have feared that the recollections which / shovdd awaken would have been painful and embarrassing. ^ly anxiety, however, would have been very needless. The previous states of mind he had passed through (as, I believe, is the case with most convertites) seemed to have been obliterated from his recol- lection. He spoke as if he had been a confirmed Catholic A VISIT TO THE MONASTERY. 207 all his life ; he already manifested no other anxiety than to assist me in becoming one also. A conversion which a few years ago would have been thought unaccountable, has now become a commonplace event. The road to Rome (with various diversities in the track) has been trodden by many of my contemporaries. The Calvinistic tuition of Evangelical parents — the Book all in all — Criticism — Rationalism — Scepticism — retui'n to the Book with the aid of Church authority, traditional faith, and a living, Heaven-appointed Priesthood — such are the chief stations in a route that has been lately a good deal traversed. I speak of the more thoughtful of our convertites ; a greater number have perhaps slidden off more easily from the Ar- minian side of the Church. I wonder what posterity, a hun- dred years hence, will say of this phase of our intellectual condition. " On the wings of what logic did these our an- cestors fly 1 " they will perhaps exclaim. " How did they contrive to reason themselves back to the abnegation of their reason 1 " But there are other wings than those of logic, and other powers than that of reason. A great Hope, or a great Fear, once kindled in the mind, will not be destroyed, and in one way or the other "will remake fur zYi'eZ/ whatever postu- late it needs for its support. I expected to hear much of the unity of the Church, of the necessity of obedience in matters of faith, and other topics of a kindred nature. I was agreeably disappointed. Doubtless (>yril is a llrm believer in the Catholic Church, and all these topics have weighed with him : but I suspect that it was the life of the monastery wliicli he especially sought in joining the Catholic Church. He wished to surrender himself to Faith and Piety — to have no more questioning — to make of his religion a life ; and this was the method he adopted. " I myself entered the Catholic Church," he said, " by the gate of the monastery. A retreat from the world, which should not involve the intolerable condition of absolute soli- 203 BOOK III. CHAPTKIl II. tude, and wliicli slmulil In; accompanied by punctual offices of devotion, was what my licart crav(;d, wa.s what my soul needed. The Catholic Chui-ch opens this fold within the fold. Say it was my weakness which made this retreat so inestimable to me ; with utmost candour and unfeigned humility I will admit it : but, whether from weakness of faith, or strengtli of devotion, I not the less stood in need of it. Thus only a peaceful, piou.s, harmonious life seemed possible for me." " And you have gained what you sought 1 " " Oh yes ! yes ! Thorndale, I have ! I have ! I cannot describe to you what I feel in my happier and more favoured moments ; what I feel when the simple chant of our choris- ters lifts my soul to heaven. Yes ! to heaven ; for in these moments it is fruition more than hope that is given to me. Ineffably subUuie must be the home of angels and of saints, but to my present capacity for bliss this humble earth suf- fices. To my ear this chapel melody tells aU that is ringing elsewhere from innumerable harps of gold. Shall I confess it 1 I have already moments of ecstasy higher and more thrilling than I know liow to sustain. Some poet's image, learnt in other days, is floating in my mind, of an angel- harpist, muffling between his wings, which he draws close before him, the very strings of the harp he touches : its music is so piercingly sweet. Some such image I might adopt to shadow forth this state of repressed, and all but in- tolerable, ecstasy." And as he spoke, there stole over Ids pale and emaciated countenance a glow of rapture, to which, I think, the ardours of the poet or the lover woidd seem tame, trite, and evanescent. Think coldly or contemptuously — as you probably will, if you are a strict uncompromising advocate of truth — of many of the doctrines interwoven -w-ith his creed ; but teU me if, looking around you at the existing crowds of men, you can anywhere find a more beautiftd life than this wliich Cyril A VISIT TO THE MONASTERY. 209 now lives. His hands have their labour, his heart its chari- ties, his soul its aspirations. It would be idle to object that, if all men were to retreat into a life of celibacy, there would be soon no living world to retreat from. All men, we know, will not adopt, nor feel the least disposition to adopt, any such mode of existence. If a few choose to live apart thus, and to set in many things a peculiarly high example to the rest of mankind, they are doing a good service to the world. Very praiseworthy is the active navigator ; he comes and goes, and brings the treasiu-e of all climes together ; but he who keeps the beacon-light upon the hill — he, too, is at his post. On my departure, CjTil inquired where I was living, and finding that it was not an abode likely to introduce liim into much mundane society, and as quiet withal as his own monastery, he proposed to find his way to Yilla Scarpa. I know the motive that will bring him here, but he shaU be very welcome nevertheless. And he shall preach or teach his Catholic faith if he is so minded. And this, then, was the solitary monk I so often watched and speculated on, as I sat here under the acacia-tree ! My poor friend Cyril ! he whose past history and trials have constantly dwelt in my mind, as amongst the saddest of tragedies I have ever personally become acquainted with. CHAPTEE III. A MENTAL C O X F L I C T. There is a contradiction — denied by no one, deplored by many — between the books and teachers that, in our gene- ration, contribute to form the religious conviction of every incjuiring youth. Books which he is not only permitted but invited to peruse, tacitly or openly contradict each other, and contradict that teaching wliich he has received from schools and catechisms. The evd. is irremediable. Every one who reads and thinks at all must enter into the conflict, and re- concile his various teachers with one another as best he caru The evil is irremediable, but it is an evil nevertheless. A pious and affectionate youth may, without blame on his part, commence his career of independent thinking by a re- bellion against some of his most sacred feelings, by a violence done to his best afi'ections. His peace of mind is disturbed, and the harmony of the family circle is broken, by an in- visible enemy, who has stolen upon him in the very hours of study and meditation. Those earliest and dearest friend- ships, as well as those first and sacred convictions, which should have lasted him his whole life, are put in jeopardy at the very outset. For some time our inquiring youth keeps his doubt a close prisoner within his own bosom. At length, one day, being more daring or more despondent than usual, he gives expres- sion, in the fauiilj^ circle, to some of those sceptical question- ings he has been secretly revolving. As soon as the words have passed his lips — how those lips trembled as he spoke ! A MENTAL CONFLICT. 211 — he feels that it was not an opinion only he has uttered, but a defiance. And it is not an answer, but a reproof, that he receives. An elder brother frowns, a sister weeps, a parent solemnly rebukes. Sad and inauspicious entrance on the paths of inquiry. He retreats into himself, perturbed, disdainful, with a rankling sense of injustice done to him. Beyond the family circle the case is little better. In general society he soon learns that the subject of religion is altogether inadmissible. There is but one thing more dis- tasteful to well-bred people than a rehgious sentiment or opinion, and that is the least show of opposition to it. You must think over these matters — if you must think — in per- fect retirement. The one half of society requires that you respect its faith, the other half that you respect its hypocrisy. If it happens that, whilst our youth is still in this state of doubt, the needful business of life — commerce or a profession — carries liim off to quite other trains of thought, no great harm seems done. A subject of inquiry to which nothing invited but its own disturbing interest, is gradually laid aside, and he joins a consenting or conforming multitude. Yet, even in this case, the question mooted in his earlier days has never been decided ; forgotten it may be, not de- cided. Two English gentlemen, it has been said, may be intimately acquainted for years, and yet never know each other's religious belief. The probability is they never knew it themselves. If instead of yielding to the himnesn, our youth yields un- fortunately to the pleasu7-es of life, and becomes a libertine, it is possible that the sort of half faith he retains may even render him a weaker and more vicious, as it will certainly render him a more miserable man, than if he had been left, from the commencement, to the mere teaching of moral pru- dence. For he has an old enemy whom he calls Supersti- tion, and whom, in liis jovial hours, he defies and derides. In the hours of lassitude and disgust this old enemy steals 212 noOK III. CHAPTER III. back upon liim, — returns in the sliapo of a romorsc inoffec- tual to reform, Itnt powerful enough to disturb. liepose is denied to liini ; a cahn liour of refle-ction has become im- possible to him ; and he recurs to a ruinous pleasure, not only for its own sake, but as an escape from himself. ^lere terrestrial morality has this in her teaching, that she is at all times ready to receive back her penitent. Her prudent counsels, and hor limited rewards, are still repeated as calmly, still oftered as freely, as at firet. If her pupil has riotously wasted his share of Nature's bounty, she stiU holds forth what poor residue remains to tempt him back to wiser courses. A half-extinguished creed wakes up its smouldering fires at the ap]iroacli of the renegade, and scares him back to what is still oblivion, if it has ceased to be enjoyment. But if neither the occupations nor the pleasures of life step in with their counterbalancing attractions, there may ensue a state of religious doubt, which it would be too painful to describe, and to which no certain term can be assigned. It is a mental anguish sustained and perpetuated by ever-shift- ing views, now tending to faith, and now to denial. It has no alternation of fervour and of hope, such as the religious man is familiar with who broods at times over his own frailt}- and nnworthiness. It alternates only from perplexity to perplexity ; from fear to the defiance of fear. It may be nothing less than the blight of a whole existence. "When I have heard men enumerate the evils of our imperfect state, when they have summed up the several items in the account, as war and disease, corroding cares, incessant rancours, pov- erty, and all the widespread anxieties and animosities that our commerce generates, I have thought that I coidd still add one other evil to the list, which, in point of intensity of suffering, may surpass them all — this of religious doubt. With some few men this gloomy contest, carried on apart and alone, has absorbed all the energies of their intellect. Coerced into silence, they gain no help from other minds ; the cloud hangs over them perpetually ; no word from an- other disperses it for a moment : perhaps they are ashamed to confess the secret terrors they more than occasionally feel. A MENTAL CONFLICT. 213 They seek no distraction ; for them there is no obli-vion ; they must front their enemy with a steady eye, or they smk vanquished, and lose entirely their own self-respect. Per- haps there is no interest or pleasure so absorbing as to shelter them during one Avhole day from some recurrence of their sad and interminable controversy. They live on, knowing nothing of philosophy but its doubts, and retaining nothing of religion but its fears. Such a one, when I knew lum, was Cyril. A youth of more blameless manners there could not be. His j^arents were distinguished for their evangelical piety, and were de- lighted to watch the development of his ardent and un- affected devotion. His nature had entu-ely responded to the rehgious training he had received. How came doubt, it will be asked, in such a mind 1 "\^^lat sceptical works was he likely to read? And if he had been persuaded to read any such works, would they have produced any other impression on a person of this description than pain and offence 1 Let their statements or reasonings be what they might, such a person would only have been stung, irritated, woiuided by them — not convinced or shaken. But the enemy may approach in a far more insidious manner than by a direct attack. His father took a great interest in the subject of Refonnatory Punisliment, as it is sometimes called. (The combination of reformatory antl educational measures tvith I'unishment, would be a more accurate expression for the object Avhich such philanthropists have in vieAV.) Schemes of prison discipline formed tho most frequent topic of conversation at his own home. Tho house was full of books treating upon this subject in every possible manner, either investigating the rationale of Pun- ishment, or proposing new methods for the moral restoration of the criminal. In short, it was the paternal hohhij. Xow, in works treating on the subject of criminal jm-isprudencc, there will invariably be intermingled ethical discussions 214 BOOK III. CIIAPTKH III. on the nature and objects of Punishment itself, and on the meaning wliich is to he attached to .sucli words, for instance, as RdrihiUive Punisliment, and of Penalty, when imposed in order to secure obedience to a promulgated law. As I understood him, the perusal of these books, together with the constant reiteration in the family circle that the reformation of the criminal himself wa.s never to be lost sight of as one of the ends of punishment, forced upon his mind the perception of a strange contrast between the ethical principles which his father advocated when discoursing upon this favourite topic, and the ethical principles which he advanced or implied when he expounded his Calvinistic divinity. Cyiil, at least, covdd not reconcile the two. He could not help saying to himself — though he recoiled at first with horror from his own suggestions — that his father claimed for a himian legislator, principles more noble and enlightened than those he attributed to the Divine Governor. The idea was at first repudiated ; it was thrust back ; but it would return. The subject was not allowed to sleep, for every fresh visitor at the house called forth from his father an exposition of what he deemed to be the true principles of crimmal jurisprudence. To punish for revenge, he pro- nounced uncluistian and irrational ; he admitted no ends for punislunent but the protection of society and the reforma- tion of the criminal, which also was the best protection for society ; nor Avould he allow that the first of these was an end which could be legitimately pursued without being coupled with the second. That the future punisliments of God shoxild have for one end the reformation of the ofiender, does not appear to be a heresy of a very deep dye, nor one that ought to have dis- turbed a pious mind ; but it shook the whole system of theology in which Cyril had been brought up. If punish- ment has in itself wise and merciful ends, — if it is conducive, or accompanied by measures that are conducive, to the res- A MENTAL CONFLICT. 215 toration of the criminal, what becomes of all those ideas at- tached to the word Salvation, in which he had been edu- cated 1 — I only indicate the train of thought awakened in Cyril's mind. Those only who have been educated as he was can understand the terror and anguish of heart which such a train of thoudit brought with it. The first murmur of dissent he ventured to raise against the system in which he had been educated, was on the doctrine of Eternal Punishment. It was the doctrine he most frequently discussed with me. The more he studied it, whether in works of ethics or works of religion, the less could he assent to it. Yet the denial of it shook all the rest of the system ; his doctrine of Atonement must be entirely remodelled; in short, he was plunged into the miseries of doubt. I became acquainted with Cyril — as I formed the rest of the few acquaintances I made at Oxford — by meeting him at Luxmore's rooms. The two men were not very congenial. In one respect there could not be a stronger contrast. Poor Cyril was tormented every hour of his life by the anxious question, What he was to believe ? On right belief must depend his future safety. My j)oet, where he could not see the truth, left tne truth with God — left it with confidence thei-e. Cyril had the terrible responsibility thrown on him, at his own peril, to see the truth himself. You would say that the one felt tliis responsibility too much, the other too little. Luxmore was interested with Cyril at first, but soon wearied of him ; and Cyril, for his part, could not under- stand, and was not a little scandalised at the perfect tran- quillity with which the poet would admit, on some most momentous subjects, his profound ignorance. As I had manifested more sympathy with him, and certainly more 216 BOOK III. CUAPTEIl III. j)atiencG, Cyril transferred lii.s confidence to me. I could not refuse liim what ])oor comfort there might be in talking over his diflieulties and aflliction ; but I confess that I also grew very weary of a companion who constantly recurred to the same querulous and painful subject of conversation- It was with a feeling of dismay that I, at length, heard his low tap at my door. But he was of so gentle a nature, and so thoroughly (jood, that I could never find in my heart to receive him otherwise than cordially. Shy, meditative, and yet of ardent temperament, CjTil was one of those who know no ludf friendships. He must either pass you without revealing himself at all — cased in impene- trable reserve — or he must open his whole nature to you, and let you see every wound and every weakness. Men of such quick susceptibilities seek, with a sort of feminine in- stinct, to lay their heads on the shoulder of some one who stands firmer than themselves. I certainly was not that pUlar of Avisdom he should have chosen ; but as he had selected me as a sort of Mentor — as one calmer at least, if not wiser, than himself — it Avas surprising what an air of moderation and serenity I assumed. I smde to myself when I recall how readily 1 adopted the character assigned to me. How cautious and discreet I became ! How fixed and stable that I might give stability to another ! I remember him one day bringing to me, in a quite breathless state of excitement, a work of Dr Chalmers. It was his "Bridgewater Treatisa" The Doctor argues there (as many others have done) for the great doctrine of Immor- tality, on the ground that there are spuitual faculties in man, which, in his present condition, are but partially de- veloped, and which, in fact, are but partially adapted to his present condition. Everything, he says, tends to prove a future state, in which such faculties will have their full development, both from the advance of the human being himself, and from the higher world in which, and by which, A MENTAL CONFLICT. * 217 these facilities will be exercised. This argument he illus- trated by the condition of the chUd whilst yet in the womb ; and quoting a description of the foetal state from some medi- cal authority (ui which the adaptation of the foetus for a yet higher stage of existence than it then occupies, is set forth and ingeniously applied to this very subject), Dr Chalmers concludes with these words : " Such are the prognostics of a futiu'e destination that might be collected from the state of the foetus ; and similar prognostics of a destination still future might be collected from present appearances in the life and condition of man." Cyril brought me the book, with his finger on this passage, and pointing it out to me, with an air of troubled triumph in his countenance, he said, — " I believe it ! It is most true that, so far as our spiritual life is concerned, we are here in a sort of foetal condition. The analogy is permissible. But, good Heaven ! am I also to believe — what Dr Chalmers and his Church will jjroceed to tell me — that the conduct of this sinritual foetus is to determine for ever the condition of that higher being who is to be born into some higher world ! I have a greater reverence for Dr Chalmers than for any living man ; but how am I to reconcile the argument in his book with what he and all his Church teach in the pulpit 1 He argues here for our immortality on the ground that we have faculties for a higher and more spiritual life than can be here fully developed. I admit the fact; I constantly maintain it ; of nothing am I more thoroughly persuaded. Oh ! what to me would be this earthly existence if I did not believe tliat it would usher me into another, where the knowledge, and worship, and love of God shall till my whole soul ! But how can I, or any man, use this argument for our immor- tality, and at the same time maintain that tlm life, where our spiritual powers are thus scantily developed, shall be the only trial-scene for determining the eternal condition of that other life, where our powers will be thus exalted ? Is the status of a man in the eternal life to be wholly and irredeem- ably determined by his conduct in this mortal life, in Avhich it is confessed that tlic very faculties peculiarly ajipropriate 218 liOOK III. CUAVTlin III. to that eternal life are but imperfectly developed, and cannot be fully exercised 1 " "We say, indeed, with truth, that the man grows out of the boy, and each subser^uent stage of existence must be influenced by its predecessor. I5ut, on the other hand, if the subsequent stage brings with it new powers, it cannot be wholly determined by the state that preceded. The man does in fact recover from the faults of the boy. And most certainly you woidd not judicially determine that the con- duct of the boy shoidd for ever decide the condition of the man. In like manner, how can any one assert that the Im- mortal is to suffer eternally, without possibility of recovering himself from the conduct of the Mortal ? Are higher facul- ties to be given for no other piirpose than to feel greater pain, and anguish, and remorse than the sinner could have done in the state in which he sinned 1 " I cannot be wrong ! " he exclaimed ; " it is as clear as any demonstration in Euclid. And yet " — (his tone of triumph changing suddenly to one of anxiety and distress) — " I dare not say that I am right. How can I separate myself from such men as Chalmers, and forego the hopes of the Christian Church, and that sweet community of faith in which I have lived ? If this present life does not decide the destiny of the future life, the whole system of Divine truth in wliich I have liitherto believed crunibles to the dust." To appreciate the distress of Cyril, it must be borne in mind that he had been brought up in the conviction that unbelief was a sin of the greatest magnitude — that it could not fail to incur all the penalties of extreme guilt, as the unbeliever was cut off from the only means of salvation. Say that he was wrong, then his very denial had sentenced him directly or indirectly to that final doom he called in question. His unbelief had incapacitated him from seizing upon the sole means of escape. This terrible responsibility A MENTAL CUXFLICT. 219 was for ever with him. A voice would peal incessantly in his ears — " You may be wrong, and then " He has confessed to me, Avith burning blushes on his cheek, that the sight of an open grave, newly dug in the earth for the reception of that dead body — the like to which he too must soon become — has filled him with a secret terror and consternation. He had perhaps met such an object in his morning's ramble ; he had approached to the brink ; he had looked down into that dark, steep, rectangidar pit, significant of so much. There it lay as the sexton had just left it, ready for some defunct brother on whom it would close for ever; there it lay, black and unsightly in the broad sun- shine. He thought it cowardice to flinch from looking down into it; but he brought home with him an image which haunted him throughout the day. And in the dead of night, when there was no busy world, and no broad sunshine to compete with the vision, he would find himself standing alone by that open grave. Other theological difficulties, no doubt, occurred to him, noAV impelled unwillingly along the path of hazardous in- quiry, but our conversation generally revolved on this sub- ject of eternal or retributive punishment. There may be two theories, he would say, about the sentiment of justice ; but you cannot maintain two conflicting theories, so as to have one justice for jurisprudence, and another justice for theology. " But they toss me," he would exclaim, " from the idea of a judge and a judicial sentence to that of an off"ended Deity, whose infinite anger is roused against sin. If I ask for ex- planation of the justice of the sentence, I am told that Ave cannot measure God's righteous anger. If I ask for explana- tion of this anger, I am told that it is just, and that man deserves whatever punishment it inflicts. Surely the penalty imposed upon the oftender is, like every other part of the Divine economy, the dictate of an eternal and immutable 220 HOOK HI. CHAPTKIl III. wisdom. Surt'ly it wa.s from tlie Ijoginning, and ever mu.st be, such a iK;iialty fus is in perfect harmony with the good of tlic wliolo of Ilis creation. For me, I can submit — submit with the resignation of a child — to whatever punishment a ])ivine wisdom lias appointed, for I am confident that it has been appointed, like all oth(tr things and events in creation, for the good of each and all." Cyril had not failed to pursue his subject into those meta- physical discussions upon the nature of the conscience and the moral sentiment, Avith which it is mingled up. He had been told by some who had a reputation for profound thought, that he should find the answer to his difficidties in a more abstruse system of metaphysics than that which I^ocke teaches, or Palej'' implies. It was with sincere desire to find relief for his perplexities that he applied himself to Avriters who have a credit for greater profundity. Especi- ally he laboured to understand the exposition (followed or appealed to by many English writers) which Kant gives of the Conscience or of the sense of But)'. But from this (piarter he got no aid. The conscience may be precisely what Kant describes it to be ; biit though it may give us an intuitive knowledge of right and wrong, it does not give us an intuitive knoAvledge that we shall be 2mnished if Ave do Avrong. And it is this last Avliich Cyril had to seek for. So far as he could understand the matt<.^r, it AA'as the belief in future punishments that educated the conscience on this particular ; not the conscience that gave us belief in future i)unishments. Say Avith Kant that there are in our nature tAvo voices, neither of wliich admits of any explanation — both self -author- itative. The one is " Seek your happiness ; " the other is, "Do your duty." But "do your duty "does not directly im})ly that you will be punished if you do not For if it did, it Avould instantly become one A\-ith that other A^oice, "Seek your happiness." It would have lost (in the A-ery A MENTAL CONFLICT. 221 moment of its birth) that self-authoritative, absohite char- acter which had been assigned to it. The sublime impera- tive sense of Duty would be reduced instantly to a calcula- tion of our own interests. CyrU did not presume, he said, to pass judgment on the metaphysics of Kant, or of others who have given this account of the moral sentiment. He limited himself to the safe and indisputable proposition, that this stoical theory of morals gave to the sentiment of Duty a final and absolute character, and could afford no peculiar assistance to those who have to discuss the doctrine of future rewards and punishments. It leaves our knowledge of these rewards and punishments to be gathered from quite other sources. You are to do your duty independently of these. " Do not," Cyril would add, " confound discqiprohaiion with punishment. The good man must always disapprove — the highest type of stoical wisdom must always, Avithout mitigation, disapprove — of vice and crime. But when and how the ideal good or wise man shall punish, depends on many considerations. Least of all does he punish all crimi- nals alike, and without any regard to their own possible amendment." I cannot describe, and do not wish to describe, the depth of terror and affliction Avhich Cyril felt as his earliest faith was being rent from him. A soul athirst for piety seemed driven from the only Temple in which it could worship. He grew restless, gloomy, at times even morose. It beciime very difficult to converse with him. If I as- sented to any of his new views, he recoUed from my assent ; he was afraid to find himself right. He immediately began to quarrel with the terms of my assent. If I controverted his scepticism, he became vehement and angry, railed at the hypocrisy of the intellectual classes, and overwhelmed me with eloquent tirades on the love of truth. Some philoso- jthers there Avere, he said, who delighted to show that no- thing coidd be proved ; there were others who delighted to use their philosophy, and knowledge, and ingenuity in show- 222 BOOK III. ClIAI'TEa III. ing that notliing could he dixprnved ; that what seems most ahsurd to tlie man of common sense may yet, from a certain point of view, wear a perfectly rational aspect. Amongst this latter class he would sometLines rank me. The cloud was darkening over him. At length he rarely came to my rooms. Hearing he was imwell I went to see him. I asked him after his health ; he did not answer the question — took no heed of it ; his thoughts were elsewhere. " Oh, Thorndale ! " he said, " to pass long sleepless nights — sleepless and in pain — and not to know how to j/ray I " And as he pressed my hand he burst into an agony of tears. He had my most sincere sympathy ; but how distressingly powerless did I feel in my attempt to relieve him ! Soon after this I quitted Oxford, nor did I see CjTil again till I accidentally met him on the sea-coast in AVales. CHAPTER IV. THE INTERVIEW AT BARMOUTH. I WAS at Dolgelly in AVales, when, accidentally hearing that Cyril was passing his time alone at the neighhoiu'ing w^ater- ing place of Barmouth, I rode over to see him. It was evening when I reached his lodgings. He w'as absent, but I had not sat long at the windoAV of his apart- ment before I saw him toiling up the steep ascent that led to it. He had just come off the water, and wore, as I had occasion to remember, a rough pilot-coat. I observed in him, as he walked slowly tow^ards me, an air of greater lassitude and distress than the fatiguing ascent on which Earmoiitli stands could account for ; but this expression was dissipated the moment he perceived me. His step quickened, his countenance lighted up with joy. Never have I been greeted with so cordial a welcome. One would say that I had brought health as well as joy at once into his solitary lodging. He told me, speaking very quickly all the time, that he had just returned from a long day's sail. He, vAth a man and a boy to manage the boat, had sailed out, he said, " due west — Columbus fashion — to discover new worlds ; but thinking it prudent to return before night-time, such discoveries had been postponed to a future time." A bolder voyage, lie said, or a longer one, he, a mere landsman, had never undertaken ; and then to meet with an old friend on his return ! And again he grasped me by the hand, greet- ing me with an excitement I could not quite comprehend. We sat down to our supper. He was in excellent spirits. 224 BOOK III. CIIArTKIt IV. When ■well, and front moralities. They are pretty and teas- ing, as the snowflakes that bliiid you for an instant with their brightness. Nothing lighter or colder falls through the air. 254 BOOK IV. CHAPTER I. But you arc speculating, Claronce, on the (levclojiment of the thinking faculty amongst all classes of men. Pray look around you. Scarcely one in a thousand of (imj cla.ss, under any circumstances, can he got to think. I have lived in most capitals of Europe ; I have seen your highest and your lowest ; I have mingled with all classes, I tell you that men do not love the labour of thinking ; rich or poor, they love it not ; it is a toil, a disturbance ; it wearies, it afflicts them. Here and there the propensity is developed, and chiefly, like some other plagues, where the diet is low, and the dwelling is dark, and the air is stagnant. In some con- stitutions, whatever may be the surrounding circumstances, the fever will break out, and then it makes of the man — as chance or the multitude will have it — a god or a demon. Your Cheap Book ! your sheet of printed paper ! A sail blown by all winds — nothing but this rag of canvas, and a hull to move huge as a mountain. Gossamer sail, and a stowage like Noah's ark. !Xot much navigation here, I think. CLARENCE. But this hull, this ark, docs sail. It moves ! it moves ! SECKEXDORF. It rocks ! it rocks ! I marvel, Clarence, that you do not see that the pensive labours of the brain belong, and must belong, to a small and especial class. You, Avho give them to all, of course calculate upon uniting in the same person manual and intellectual toils. You will do so Avhen you can build a house, or make a railroad, by scientific delicate manipulations. Bring me a blowpipe, and blow me a bridge over the Thames. You cannot ; you want the Cyclopian forge and the brawny Cyclops himself. Did you ever note a common bricklayer — how lightly he tosses that brick in his hand, chipping off with his trowel, if need be, a bit from this end or from that 1 A most light and facile operation, as it seems. Try INTRODUCTION TO SECKENDORF. 255 it some day. That brick lie handles and plays with like a toy, will scarify your hand, and jar your brain, and yet probably suggest a useful thought or two. We must wait till we build houses as we blow bubbles in the air, before the same nervous system will suit the man who builds the house, and him who lives meditative or pleasurably in it. I, all cynic as I am, or as men please to report me, admire the results of civilisation, and what the Labour of one class has effected for the Eefinement of another. Our huge Her- cules holds a graceful nymph in his brawny arms. I, the cynic, admire and would preserve the classic group. Poets and philanthropists think his brawny arms are tired — beg him to rest and relax — and, alas ! alas ! my delicate god- dess falls into the dirt. CLARENCE. Not so ; but in that classic group you seem to have in your imagination, does the brawny Hercules carry the nymph for some other, or himself 1 I think for himself. Eefine- ment there fills the arm of Labour : the reward is not sep- arated from the toil. To leave metaphor alone, I do not think it impossible that, in some future age, the labour of all classes will effect the Eefinement of all classes. SECKENDORF. You would divide the labour and the results of labour more equally ; you would destroy both. You would divide the labour, you would double the distress of it. Set up in any human being two contradictory and antagonistic trains of thought and feeling, and all the luxury of the world will never fondle that man into peace and contentment. With harmony of thought and action, and nature's all-healing force of habit, there is no condition in which the liuman frame can be supported, in which life is not very tolerable. Men live in i<^amschatka, boastful of their climate ; men labour in the mines, forgetful of the sun ; the citizen of London lives contented amidst smoke and bricks, and leaves 256 nooK IV. — cii.\i>tku i. clear skies, fresh air, and unpolluted rivers, to the ])itial)le savages who know nothing of commerce. But interfere with. this kindly process of accommndution, and you immediately have ([uenduus, distorted, feehb;, miserable men. Trust me, Clarence, the man who works hard, and sleeps soundly, is not a creature to he pitied. Introduce desires with which his work is not compatilde, and you will make him one. Man was set down here upon the earth with none to help him — but man ; with none to help him, and so much to do. " On his first entrance upon this newly formed planet," says a legend I somewhere remeniljer to have read, " certain of the angels looked on with admiring solicitude. It had been rumoured that the new creature was to be in some measure rational, and so far resembling themselves ; and when they observed how very little preparation had been apparently made for his reception in the planet he was to occupy — not a blade of grass anywhere growing that he could eat, and the very tools he was to work with lying a formless mass buried in the earth — they naturally watched the progress of affairs with increasing wonder and suspense. \\'liat new power, or what auxiliary creature, would next appear upon the scene ? K^othing of the kind appeared. The same man, the same creature, did alL It was the same accommodating human claj^ which rose into the i)hilosopher, and roughened into the ploughman. JNIarvellous was it to behold. And when, moreover, they observed that the ploughman never wished to be the philosopher, nor the philosopher the ploughman, they could contain their admiration no longer, and, striking upon their golden harps, they broke forth into a hymn," — which I regret exceedingly to be unable to repeat to you. The arrangement which gave so great delight to these angelic critics, our speculative philanthropists are disposed to set aside. Since man is everpvhere the same original clay, why not everywhere developed into the same form ? What- ever else he may be, he shall, at all events, be the meditative man. It shall be Clarence here, and Clarence there, and Clarence everywhere. Meanwhile we may note, that these meditative men, unless they happen to be living altogether 1 IN'TRODDCTIOX TO SECKENDORF. 257 for another world, which is the most fortunate tendency they can display both for themselves and for us — have really no occupation or amusement except that of reforming man- kind. Each one of them requires a world to reform for liis amusement — can be amused or occupied on no other terms. Of such a class of men one may say, in the language of the political economist, the demand must be necessarily very limited. I vnU. not add, that the supply already seems ex- cessive, lest my friend Clarence should take it as a personal allusion. CLARENCE. No one knows better than Seckendorf that it is not neces- sary for a man to be only, or pre-eminently, a thinker or philosopher in order to share in such knowledge as thinkers and pliilosophers have given to the world. There is a certain universal culture of which each one already begins to par- take. Every child may now know what Copernicus and Galileo discovered or taught. SECKENDORF. Every child, every fool may know it, and remain a fool. 1^0 one knows better than Clarence, that it is not that know- ledge which has been merely dra\Aai in by the ear, which can answer his purpose. He is looking forward to a self-govern- ing multitude, each one of whom embraces in his compre- hension the whole society, and takes his place therein, Avith full consciousness and approval of his own relation to that whole. It is knowledge, therefore, laboriously acquired, and inducing habits of thought — it is the reflective character that he Avants. Now, this reflective character, I take it, must necessarily be rare. It is a very low standard of it that most men attain to ; nor is it, as I have said, compatible with the ordinary and indispensable avocations of life. Per- haps an illustration from our physiological studies will be more acceptable than my golilen legend. As you well know, it is only in the lowest forms of organ- R 268 BOOK IV. CHAPTER I. isation that we find the various susceptibilities or powers of animal life diffused indiscriminately over the whole substance of the animal. In certain zoophytes each part shall be cap- able of every function. One uniform tissue, in some mis- shapen creature, shall digest, shall feel, shall be susceptiVjle to light, shall have the contractility necessary to movement, shall, in some sort, be hand, and eye, and foot, and stomach. When we rise to a superior organisation, these several cap- abilities are withdrawn from the common substance, are lodged in a specific organ, and at the same time immeasur- ably exalted. In like manner, with regard to human society, the degree of reflective power diffused over the whole surface of it must necessarily be slight. If it is to be highly de- veloped, there must be a special organ to which other organs are administrative — a select class for its peculiar localisation and development. I have heard you quote with great zest a line from yoiir favourite philosophic poet — " What is one Wliy may not millions be ? " I will undertake to answer the question of the poet : first, because nature creates for variety, and this variety is inter- woven Avith the very scheme of things ; and secondly, be- cause that " one " whom the poet has especially in view could not exist without the " million " very much unlike him. What educates a thinking man ] Science and Himianity. Chiefly the last — the study of his fellow-man. And what would he have to study, if all men had resembled himself ? What would he have had to think about, if it were not for the passions, follies, and superstitions of mankind 1 " What is one Why may not millions be ? " Because the millions have lived for this one — not only toiled for him, but dreamt absurd dreams for him — acted the wildest tragedies for him — framed the most terrible super- stitions to feed his reflection withaL A whole world of INTRODUCTION TO SECKENDORP. 259 error, as well as of labour, goes to make this one reflective man, " All men are to be wise," — " easier for aU to be wise than one." I tell you, Clarence, paradoxical as it may sound, that "all men wise" is tantamount to "no wise man." The materials of thought are gone — the materials which spontane- ous humanity gives to humanity reflective. CLARENCE. Such materials live in history. Past ages are to Humanity what past years are in the life of the individual. SECKENDORF. Live in history ! Who cares for dead mythologies 1 The driest skeletons I know of. Who cares for druidical sacri- fices, or the hall of Odin, or the worship of Nero 1 Let the dead bury their dead ; it is the living who teach the living. THORNDALB. It certainly does not seem to be in the order of things, that what is most excellent should be most common. There is more sea than land : three-fourths of the globe is covered with salt water. There is more barren land than fertile; much is sheer desert, or hopeless swamp ; great part wild arid steppes, or land that could be only held in cultivation by incessant toil. ^Vliere nature is most prolific, there is more weed and jungle than fruit and flower. Of the animal creation, the lowest orders are by far the most numerous. The infusoria and other creatures that seem to enjoy no other sensations than what are immediately connected with food and movement (if even these), far sur- pass all others in this respect. The tribes of insects are in- numerable ; the manuuulia comparatively few. Of the human inliabitants of the earth, the ethnologist tells us that the Mongolian race is tlie most numerous, wliicli 260 DOOK IV. — CIIAPTICR I. is not certainly llio race in wliich the noblest forms of civili- sation have appeared. As in tlie tree there is more leaf than fruit, so in the most advanced nation of Europe there are more ignorant than wise, more poor than rich, more automatic labourers, the mere creatures of habit, than reasoning and reflective men. SECKENDORF. "We cannot pretend always to assign a law for such pro- portions ; but, as a wide generalisation, we may say, that what we call a higher excellence is a greater complication, and its manifestation must be more restricted, because a larger number of antecedent conditions are necessary for that manifestation. All matter has the property of inertia, or mere space-occupancy. It is doubtfid if all matter has the i^roperty of gravity. All matter may have some chemical properties, but each specific chemical property (or that pecu- liar molecidar movement or attraction supposed to constitute it) must have a restricted area of manifestation, since it is by relationships between these that chemical phenomena are produced. The phenomena of life manifest themselves in a still more restricted area, since the organic depends at each moment on the inorganic. Thus, as we rise in the scale, the requisite conditions l)eing more multifarious, the more excel- lent thing is comparatively rare ; and the same law is vaguely traceable in human society. Certain properties belong to all mankind, as to all living creatures ; such, for instance, as pertain to self-preservation and the perpetuity of the race. They are as general as gravity in the inorganic world. But if such characters are to be developed as the strong, the weak, the virtuous, the vicious, the tender, the heroic, then our common humanity must submit to certain subdivisions, just as the inorganic world had to submit to certain sub- divisions in order that chemical phenomena should be dis- played. And I think you will iind that the higher we advance in these human characters, the more complicated must be the society out of which they are elicited. — Lut we will not lose ourselves in these generalities. CHAPTEE II. THE SILVER SHILLING. Clarence could not make head against the vigorous attacks of his keen adversary. He more than once rallied, but Seckendorf fairly talked him down. After some interval, I remember the controversy broke out again in some such manner as this : CLAREXCE. You will never listen patiently, Seckendorf, or hear me to the end ; you will never let me develop my idea completely. I cannot be accused of wishing to introduce novelties or con- tradictions into men's habits, by mere acts of legislation ; on the contrary, it is the slow modification of habits and modes of thought which, I presume, will ])roduce new legislation. SECKEXDORF. Not listened patiently! Who, except that long-eared melancholy mule on which you ride about these mountains, and to whom I know you preach Utopia, has ever been com- pelled to listen to you so patiently as I have done 1 I wish you would look at real life with half the pertinacity you ex- plore the ideal history of future ages. If, after thoroughly appreciating the organisation of society that at present exists, you can invent a better, I will say you are not only a pro- phet, but a creator. That changes will ensue, who thinks of denying] In a world, where the very rocks are but records of change, what is it we expect to be stable 1 But 262 BOOK IV. — CUAPTKU II. I deny that cliangos of this kind can be po.ssibly forescf-n. The predictions of science are predictions of repetition — not of novelties ; of repeated d(!velopnients — not new develop- ments. "Who can foretell Avhat new animal (su])posing new animals are still to he producetl) will come upon the scene? Thk (holding up a silver shilling), this is our last great organiser of society, — this, or the law of property it typifies. Let us well understand what miracles this silver shilling is daily performing, before Ave think to displace it from the head of the Government. You have amongst your collections of English poetry, a poem by one Philips, " On the Silver Shilling." "What he has made of his theme I do not know ; I have only read the title of the poem; but a nobler theme no poet could desire.* It is really a magical talisman, which transports me where I wQl, and finds me food and raiment, and everj^vhere a wel- come. And there is something poetical withal in the sense of power which this talisman gives ; for with what a halo of enjoyment does the imagination invest it ! Mere barter, the exchange of one thing for another, is a poor limited process, and felt to be as much a loss as a gain. ]My Silver Shilling represents not this or that paltry commodity, but all possible shdlingworths of everything on earth. This glittering coin gives me command, as \x\\.\\ a sceptre, over all the varied products of human industry — up to a certain point. Is not this a perfect realisation of democratic equality 1 Each man, in his turn, commands, up to the amount of his coin, the whole labour of the community. Beautiful invention ! Some god inspired it. Could any niimber of world- reformers pro- duce me such an organisation of society as this ] THORNDALE. I suppose that Clarence would be contented with it, if * Seckendorf had forgotten even the title of Philips's mock-heroic poem ; it is The Splendid Shilling. The mistake may be e.xcused in a foreigner; at all events we have not thought it worth while to correct it in the text. —Ed. THE SILVER SHILLING. 263 you could but secure that the coin should fall into the right hand. If it always represented fair remuneration for some labour or ser^-ice rendered to society by its possessor, then the power it gives over the labour of others would be a most equitable and admirable arrangement. SECKEXDORF. In the main it does. It has introduced aU the equity we can boast of in this matter of remuneration of labour. Talk of philanthropy ! It was the Silver Shilling that knocked off the fetters of the slave. How was the substitute of wages for the lash to be introduced till there was this " circulating medium " by which wages could be paid 1 I am amused when I hear of great ideas governing the world. There are great facts governing the world, which, when man comes to understand them, are then his ideas; but they governed the world long before he had worked them into his theorem. After many centuries, he gets some in- sight into the laws by which society, or the planetary system, proceeds ; but he had as little to do with the construction of the one as of the other. The man who first coined money knew as little what he was doing, as the ox whose image he is said to have stamped upon it. He was bringing in a new era — new relations between man and man — new forms, and new government, or organisation of society. JSTo doubt, as the Pagan would say, some god invented money — some Mercury or Plutus. Those old heathens had a certain modesty in them, and always recognised, in Avhatcver shape it came, that the " Promethean fire " was not their own. Some god had given it, or peradventure had stoleyi it out of heaven ; for, to their benighted understandings, it did not seem that the celestial powers had originally intended to be very liberal towards man. Well, if all of lis cati jday at earning and keejmig this silver talisman, the wliole multitude are amused, are peaceful, are organised, are obedient. !My dear Clarence, I beg of you to recognise this simple truth — wliich those who talk much about benevolence forget 264 BOOK IV. CHAPTEK II. — that the great sul)i=5tantial ploa.«?uro of life i.s neccs-sarily effort for oursdf. ^ly dear Clarence, we don't want your philaiitliropy — thi.s workinfi; j)ainfiilly for the general good. 'J'lie iiliilanthropic end is brought aljout in a far more genial manner; and mainly through the instrumentality of our Silver Shilling. Each man has all the keen enduring plea- sures of selfishness — of strenuous effort for himself and for his family — whilst working out the very objects of benev- olence. For your benevolent sentiment, whatever you may think of it, is, after all, a very Aveak and mawkish business, when set side by side by the genuine striving after self- advancement. The first passion of all organic nature is what we are pleased to call selfish ; the sympathetic and the benev- olent are beautiful creations, but are feeble in comparison, like reflected light. Sujjpose a traveller, knowing nothing of this subtle " cir- culating medium," shoiild come — say from the moon, if you will, for we must go far to fetch so unsophisticated a creature — suppose a traveller, ignorant of the subtle operation of the Silver Shilling, should visit our great cities, what a benev- olent, what an angelic race he would take us for ! Down comes the rain — if he should happen to alight in London, and bo plodding through its endless streets — pelting, pitUess, drenching the pedestrian to the skin. Every one flies for shelter. Eut the rain pursues them. T\Tiat are the delicate and the infirm to do 1 — this lady all elegance ? . Even yonder dandy you pity in his all too permeable attire. But no ! every one does not fly. Here are men of heroic moiild, heroic garments, cased to the throat in capes of oilskin, who take their stand with horee and covered carriage, ready and solicitous to bear off whomsoever -wishes, safe and dry to his own home. Heroic men ! they even came forth in greater numbers as the shower threatened. "Wliat company of saints ever performed so acceptable a serA^ice 1 Our traveller must indeed have visited other planets, if he ever met with such ready, constant, serviceable saints as these — who, neverthe- less, are not reputed to be saints at all. There is no end of the heroism he would see displayed in THE SILVER SHILLING. 265 London. Here is a scavenger, np to his knees in liquid mud, shovelling the pestiferous mass into a huge cart ; himself all mud, that others may go clean; and most unsavoury, that others may breathe fresh air. Greater self-denial can no man show — -^ more trying martyrdom no man endure. Our traveller, coming from the moon, "where, doubtless, all is done for honour and the public good, looks eagerly for the " order of merit," which surely must be glittering round the neck of this burly philanthropist. In his enthusiasm, he perhaps snatches some moonshine of this description from his own neck, and, stretching from the pavement, seeks to hang it on the bosom of his hero. Quite unnecessary. The silver medal in his breeches-pocket had done it all. How would Utopia ever get its scavenger ? Is there any way of feeding and rearing a man at the public expense, by which one could develop him into a scavenger 1 What sort of hee-h-ead, I wonder, would convert an ordinary worker, in our human hive, into so remarkable a " busy-bee," one of so abnormal an industry? My notion is, that without the Silver Shilling one must go back to the days of the captive and the scourge — back to those times when nations Avarred with nations, and stole each other, and so got their scavengers and the like. These men of heroic lives, these huge coal-heavers, and those who dive into sewers, or work in the dark bowels of the earth, what coUege, or what pious institutions, raised these seK- devoted? The ale-house rears them; gin and porter inspire them ; their speech is very rude ; very little tenderness or sentiment of any kind, Avill you get from that pavier, pounding with his huge pestle those granite blocks ; — I am afraid he would pound your ribs, if they were under Ixis pestle, with almost as little remorse. But see Avhat they do. What are systems of philosophy, or systems of theology, your institutions, and your churches, to what these rude men effect — what only such men coxdd accnuiplish 1 Admire with me how the magic of the Silver Shilling lias constrained such men to the severest works of patriotism and i)hilanthropy. There would be no end to the astonishment of our moon- 266 BOOK IV. CUAPTKIl II. born traveller. Ifavo you a want 1 Have you a whim ? Down every street you wander, what kind solicitude to gratify it ! 8ilk, and ^old, and jewels, and bland servitors to offer them, and smiling at you as you carry them away. I luiow not whether his astonishment would be greater at all this practical philanthropy, or on the discovery of that beautiful invention of the Silver Shilling, by which it is all brought about. CLARENCE. Beautiful invention ! terrible power ! What is to become of him who has 7iot the talisman 1 He must be the slave of him Avho has. Let us hope, one day, as Thomdale has sug- gested, that the talisman may be in the hand of every one ; then the government of the Silver Shilling will be tnily, and in the very best sense, democratic. And I think some- times I see how this result will be gradually accomplished. SECKEXDORF. Before you explain how this universal money-liood (which would be indeed a very agreeable addition to the old hrother- liood we hear of so much) is to be brought about, let me complete my poem on the Silver Shilling, and show what sort of rule and government it has at present. "VNTiat, in all our disputes, is the last umpire % Force ! What is the ultimate rviler in every state ? The sword. And the Silver Shilling buys the sword. Xote how the social mechanism Avorks. "When the hahit of obedience (how much there is in that little word hdh'd .') is from any cause broken, it is the military power which steps in to restore order and govern- ment. The rabble of every great city is constantly kept in peace by a certain visible array of the musket or the con- stable's staff. Even dui-ing the most peaceful pageantries, I hear at least the rattle of the sheathed sabre on the pave- ment. But how is it, since Force is supreme, that we are not always under military rule 1 how is it, that wealth and refinement are not subject to the harsh tyranny of the sword 1 Because our Silver Shilling buys the soldier! recruits bim, THE SILVER SHILLING. 267 marshals him, buys him from the drummer to the general. Wealth still rules, and through the sword. There is still another power, which boasts to have much to do with the stability and the government of society, and which, if uncontrolled, could at any time shake it to its foundations. There is a power which holds the keys of Heaven and of Hell. The priest can at any time excite a spirit of rebellion, which mocks even at military force, since the sword that kills the body liberates the soul for Paradise. The priest — if we could see him pure priest — would be found naturally arrayed against wealth ; he preaches an ascetic morality ; it is to the poor he can always open the gates of heaven ; the rich man is very often contented with the earth, and does not look that way, and is slow of faith. He could, at any juncture that was propitious to his teach- ing, revolutionise society. But our Silver Shilliiig buys the priest — has bought hiui long ago — puts him permanently on the side of order and of wealth. He whose natural function would be — with a believing populace at his beck — to lay civilisation in the dust, is too civilised himseK, has too plea- sant a share of this civilisation, to do anything of the kind. He preaches a very modified asceticism, and, above all, ho preaches to his Avonder-loving flock a patient obedience to tliat wicked Dives, whom they are only hereafter to triumph over. Our Silver Shilling reigns supreme. It has organised our hierarchy. It rules in Church and State, and reconciles them both. Once more, and I have done. There is yet another power that rises in these later days to compete with the sword and the crosier — the power of the Pen. Men call it the Fourth Estate. Ill tlie strife between the Haves and the Have 7iots, what a new element is here ! Will not the Have nots be- come intelligent, become literary men, and Avielding this new force, cease to obey, and make rebels of others 1 What has become of our government of the Silver Shilling'? Hero is flat rebellion. Not so. The Silver Shilling Inii/n the literary man. This written speech flows on witliout ceasing, flows on quite harmless. The clever Have nots are purchased, en- 268 uof)K IV. — riiAi'Ticri ii. listed, set to keep tlio peace against the less eapaltlc hrother- liood of the same order. "Equality of iiitelli;^'enef> will in some indirect way redress the ine([iiality of wealth " — this is your favourite formula, ^leanwliile I notice this, that such intellif,'ence as wealth has and approves — that and no other — ventures to show itself abroad in speech or writing. If any other makes its appear- ance, the book dies out, and the speaker has a chance of dying too — starved out, if he is a poor man. I enter the drawing-room of an opulent citizen. I see there a wealthy blockhead ; I see also, standing beside him on the hearth- rug, an intelligent, educated, professional gentleman, I listen to the conversation. The intelligent and educated man is dealing forth, with infinite pains, a species of mitirjated hlock- headism — and why ? that he may bring himself down to the level of his opulent companion and patron. It is wealth, you see, that holds the spirit-level. That is the line of truth along which Dives looks. AMiat falls below is folly, what rises above is worse ; it is wicked and presumptuous foUy. I tell you that there is not an old woman with our Silver Shilling in her pocket, who has not more influence on the expression, and consequently on the formation of opinion, than the greatest genius of your Fourth Estate. Wealth is the god of this world. We are told so by the indignant satirist, and by the moiimful preacher, and we are told so by the political economist, who understands the matter much better than either. It is the best god, or ruler, the highest avatar, the world has j'et kno^vn. It is the dominant power; hwi \i extinguishes no other great power, only moderates and subordinates. It buj's the sword, it buys the pen — but employs too — and animates while it rules. From the king with his civil list, to the drummer- boy with his rations ; from the great capitalist, or the great company, with their thousands of servants, to the decrepit old huckster Avho keeps an errand-boy — it is ruling, dis- ciplining, marshalling — it is order, it is co-operation, it is government. Improve, if you can, on this organisation of society. CHAPTEE III. THE WORLD AS IT IS OUR FAITHS AS THEY ARE. SECKEXDORF. I STAND here, the advocate for the world as it is, and our faiths as they are. For the world as it is, with its ignorant multitudes, and its wiser few, wdth its passions of hate and of love, its griefs, its consolations, its truths, its errors, and, above all, its great religious faiths, -vvhich are rooted in the sorrows and the ^vrongs of men. I do not ask if these are true; enough for me that they are here. Even your Utopian dreams, if I saw that they made ten men happy, should have a place in the catalogue. I like this Avild world. I like the sinner, I like the saint ; I like its uproarious j'outh, and its penitent old age. iMor am I overmuch distressed about the miseries of life. Every creature gi-ows to its cir- cumstances ; the fur grows rough as the climate roughens. This marvellous force of habit is a provision against all fortunes or niisfortimes. I have tried it. I — Baron von Seckendorf — have lived in a garret, on a herring. Not agreeable. But the second herring was very savoury, and vastly -welcome. CLARENCE. You look upon our great religious faiths merely as parts of life — as great delusions, in short. SECKENDORF. They do not owe their origin to philosophy or science, so 270 BOOK IV. CHAPTEn III, far as I midcrstainl the matter. I5ut tlioy are spontaneous products of tlie inia<,'i nation and tlic passions of men, wliich pliilosopliy and science "would do well to let alone ; and ■\vliicli that " intellectual progress " you hoast so much of, would assuredly put in peril. Philosophy, so far as I have known her, is a very keen critic, but a very poor creator. She may adjust with some- what more precision the thunderbolt in the hand of some Olympian Jupiter. But leave })hilosophy to herself, and there wiU be first no thunderbolt at aU, and soon after- wards no Jupiter at all, or none that any ordinary vision can descry. I like this great life men lead in the imagination. 'With all its turmoils, and terrors, and unspeakable contradictions, it is still the scene of our grandest emotions, and our most intense mental energy. If the reflective man, prompted by his love of truth, should tliread his way out of this turmoil and confusion — should escape from the noise and the laby- rinth of popidar superstitious — he will think himself into mere solitude and a barren desolation ; he will gain no truths, and lose all this life. He may congratulate himself for a moment at his escape from the angry hubbub of con- flicting faiths, but into what a blank and desolate region has he escaped ! When in the course of my travels I visited the city of Damascus, I was struck with this — that the moment I issued, stiumed and wearied, from its noisy, tortuous, and turbident streets — the moment I passed through the gates of the city — I found myself alone in the desert. The sand comes Tip to the very walls. Here too the desert receives us at the very waUs of the city. Most men are glad enough to return to its noisy streets ; they hasten back before the gate has closed on them for ever. THORNDALE. Desert or not, there is at least one great Truth that re- veals itself — the being of God — a truth that rides high in the heavens, clear and bright as the sun at noonday. THE WORLD AS IT IS OUR FAITHS AS THEY ARE. 271 SECKENDORF. " Bright as the sim at noonday ! " Is it always noonday with us, Thorndale 1 Is there always a sun in our sky to hide from us the dark and illimitable space beyond 1 Is there not also an Infinitude of Night and of Stars 1 And tell nie — in the widest view we catch of the universe — is it light or darkness that chiefly prevails for the vision of a man? The existence of God is clear to demonstration — till we ask ourselves what conception of God we have attained. Reason — meaning thereby the unity of parts in a whole — adapta- tion, harmony, is everywhere apparent; without it, I suppose, nothing exists that does exist. But the reasoning Being — how form this conception 1 To me The All seems to be the only representative, for tis, of this Reason or Power ; for it is hard to give any name to what transcends all human thought. But we will not enter now — THORNDALE. Seckendorf ! I must persist — SECKENDORF. Another time ! another time ! "We will not enter now this obsciirest, darkest chamber of human cogitation — tho very cave of Trophonius, which whosoever enters, it is said, will never smile again. Let us look abroad on the world as it is — on men as they think and believe. In Catholic countries, is it tlie market-place, or is it the church which often opens on it, that is tlie centre of the greatest and most exciting portion of human lifel I am not asking how far morality and government depend on the beliefs for which that churcli stands representative. I speak of the emotions, the hopes and fears, the consolations, tho glowing fancies, that bring a whole Avurld of angels and of 272 BOOK IV. CIIAl'TER III. saints about us — I speak, in short, of the enormous develop- ment of our consciousness, or psychical existence, which that buildiuff may typify for us. The tenets of our greatest Churcli of Christendom and of the world may set at defiance the very testimony of your senses — may absolutely triumph in their impossible and contradictory nature — may throw scorn on all logic and consistency. Regarded as a system of truths, they may utterly baffle and confound you. But look at them as they live in the minds of an assenting midtitude, utterly unconscious that they either contradict nature, or each other — look at them as they animate, and govern, and stir that multitude with intense emotions of wonder, and hope, and fear — opening to each narrow petty life a vista of eternity — look at them thus, and it is impossible not to bend before them with a certain feeling of awe and of re- spect. Take now away that church, and leave the market- place standing alone, how have you impoverished, how have you pauperised existence ! Scarce an act of life is performed in our Catholic countries which may not be in some way related to the unseen world. I do not say that the conscience is always very much enlight- ened or fortified by the unseen guides and companions which men have called around them. "\Mien the iiuagination gets very familiar with its gods, it brings them do^vn to the level of a quite ordinary humanity. The gods and saints of our people in the market-place may have much the same moral opinion as the very men and women with whom they talk and chaifer, beg from, and steal. A Xeapolitan is just as likely to call upon the Madonna to prosper him in his frauds as in his honest dealings. He cheats you and worships the Madonna, and cheats you with a freer conscience because he has wor- shipped. But take this worship from him — you feel that half his life is gone. In Protestant London no saints or angels float in the air. It is difficult to understand how any force of imagination could lu'ing them into that atmosphere of fog and smoke, or how the seductive paganism of Southern Cliristianity could have kept its ground in your great commercial and manu- THE WORLD AS IT IS OUR FAITHS AS THEY ARE. 273 facturing cities. But you have retained whatever of doctrinal Christianity could be well kept together in any one system — you have mysteries, and terrors, and pious sentiments and hopes, wliich fill up the else desert spaces of your hard and money -getting lives. Catch me that black -coated, tight- buttoned gentleman, pacing rapidly from the Exchange. Open his coat — open his breast — look in. Surely there is the strangest medley of contradictions that Time — who has indeed had whole centuries for the work — ever welded to- gether. This man is trotting up and down from bank to bank, from office to office, in restless search of money; and he is trotting along, so he tells you, at the same time, "to his abiding city," to his spiritual home. He makes bargains on the Stock Exchange, or elsewhere — his very occupation is a perpetual gambling ; and he grows richer year by year, and thanks God for it, and prays in the same breath to be made like — Heavens ! — like him who i^ the great type of self-sacrifice ! — Hke him who assuredly would have told the much anxious man to throw his pelf into the Thames, and free his soul from such perilous bondage. AMiat relation can there be, you exclaim, between this thri^Hng child of commerce and the great Spiritualist who walked the earth eighteen hundred years ago 1 It is hypocrisy, it is delusion ! Expose him to the world, expose him to himself ! Be not too hasty. This is the sole poetry, the only sentimentality of his life. The man comes home in the evening, and by his fireside, in his warm parlour, with his slippered feet upon the warm rug, and his very heart glowing with his gains, he reads to his gathered household — I have heard him — his favourite homily about the lilies of the field and the treasure that thieves cannot steal ! It is the poetry of his life. It did not lead him to renounce wealth ; it rather assisted him, in many indirect ways, to make it — gave him patience, and perhaps that conjugal fidelity to a not very charming wife which has kept him steadfast in his path of industry. But what would be the result if you were to strip him of this grand incongruity 1 You would but extinguish what noble sentiment occasionally plays over the surface of his mind ; you would s 274 BOOK IV. — CHAI'TICIt III. but toss liim without reprieve from meal to meal, from liia bed to his ledger, from gain to gluttony. TUORNDALE. I certainly would not pillage him of any faith he may pos- sess. There is a spectacle I have witnessed in the streets of London that I like still hetti.-r than this picture of your black-coated and tight-buttoned citizen. In a wooden stall or shed that opens on a level with the damp pavement, there sits some industrious cobbler. Apparently he is not too well rewarded for his labour, or he would obtain some better and cleaner abode ; for though his stall, or sty, is open to the air, no current passes through it, and the most rapid pedes- trian detects its thick and noxious atmosphere. Nothing short of a hurricane could purify it. In this wooden box, his face on a level "vvith the feet of the rest of mankind, our cobbler stitches and hammers all day long. He has the cease- less shuffle of feet before him on the pavement ; the carriage- wheels on the road beyond are liberal of their noise and their dirt ; and I sup})ose he finds but little to soothe him in the flow of that stream which keeps its imfragrant coiu-se along the kennel. Six days in the week, and most hours of the day, you may see this man with his awl, and his waxed thread, and his lapstone, piercing and hammering the tough shoe-leather. That ceaseless shuffle of feet, that din of wheels, that flowing brooklet, form the scene in which he constantly lives. No, not constantly — not half his time. I look again into my cobbler's sUill. I see lying on the bench beside him — he can snatch a word even as he works — his 'Pilgrim's Progress,' or his ' Serious Call,' or perhaps some deeper polemic. Our cobbler, too, will flee from the city of destruc- tion. That world which despises or forgets his existence, he too can heartily despise and renounce. Those carriages, Avith aU their paint and gilding, what are they to him ? They are carrying fools to perdition ; they are rolling smoothly on that broad highway on which, for aU the world, he would THE WORLD AS IT IS OUR FAITHS AS THEY ARE, 2T5 not travel All here is wretchedness and contempt ; no face smiles upon him ; but he will come soon to the borders of the river Jordan — some bright and flowing river over which he will pass — and on the other side are angels beaming with love, waiting to escort him where " crowns, and sceptres, and kingdoms," are but faint and bewildering types of the joy he will partake. SECKENDORF, And which anticipated joy does verily something towards " redressing the inequalities of wealth." I think philosophy and science would be very much perplexed to do for this cobbler wliat his Eunyan and his Baxter have done for him. Philosophy can only tell the man to stick to his last ; and Science can only whisper this cold comfort into his ear, that, three centuries hence, new substitutes for shoe-leather may bring a new substitute for cobblers. But even highly -educated, philosophical, or speculative men, do not always comprehend how large a portion of their intellectual lives they owe to popular creeds, which perhaps have existed for their minds, only to be canvassed, criticised, and finally rejected. Rejected they may be, but they have not the less occupied their thoughts. We may note that it has always been on this battle-field of theology — where, like the Titans of old, men have w^arred against gods they would not acknowledge — that our speculative ardour, and whatever there may be of heroic in thought, has been called forth. Doubt — the state of mind trembling between faith and denial — is full of emotion. Indeed the religious suscepti- bility is kept alive by doubt. Uncompromising denial has also its heroism, when it advances against numbers and a mythology still in the ascendant. ]>ut denial that has thrown its last spear at the last idol, could be a hero no longer. It has become by its own success the comnionj)larc of life. Were its victory complete, there Avould indeed be a com- monplace of life, such as the world has never yet seen. Wonder would have ceased ; reverence and mystery would have ceased ; Avhcre the cltxssiiications of science break off, 276 BOOK IV. — CIIAPTEn III. there would be mere blank of knowledge, or phenomena not yet catalogued and arranged. The earth would exi-st for merely agricultural purposes, and our sky would be so many cubic feet of atmospheric air. Man, who — like the god Apis — was wont to pass now for a god and now for an ox, would know himself, once for all, to be veritable ox, and graze con- tentedly. The denouement is not interesting. CLARENCE. You describe verj- faithfully what a materialistic philo- sophy might bring us to — if such a philosophy could ever predominate. In. such descriptions as you and Thomdale have given, and which you might easily multiply, I concur most cordially. I have a firm con\'iction that, by the xery faculties which the Creator has bestowed on man, every social epoch will be found to bring forward the faith best suited to it The Neapolitan fisherman and the English shoemaker have each of them a real genuine faith, and one which has great ele- ments of truth in it. If they become more enlightened, the truths they believe will become more and more conspicuous, the error and the fable drop off This is the only change I can anticipate. The Neapolitan will blend with his wor- ship a higher morality, and the Englishman shall retain his hope of a glorious immortality, without the contempt or bit- terness he must be excused for feeling against a world that does not turn to him it5 most amiable aspect SECKE>T)ORF. Clarence must have both ideals — his terrestrial and his celestial Utopia — and he will not see that the two are in- compatible. It is a matter of fact, not of conjecture — of history, of daily observation — that man's faith in a future life grows out of the wrongs and affliction of his earthly career. "What philoso- phers have talked of the immortality of the soul, or of divine THE WORLD AS IT IS OUR FAITHS AS THEY ARE. 277 " ecstasy," or of the contrast between the eternal and perma- nent and this changeful and time-begotten life — is a mere after-thought. The bulk of mankind have believed in a future life, because they have believed in a future judgment; because great criminals had departed from the world un- punished ; because their own days were passing away, and no felicity had been realised. You imagine a time when there are no Avrongs, and few sorrows, and you still expect this faith to survive. Do you think that the belief in immortality coiild last a moment if stated as a bare fact of natural i^hilosophy 1 There lies a dead man ! Nature does not revive that dead man. She has a quite different plan. She makes another. He is already here. The living son is carrying the dead father to his last rest. You put out a man's eyes, and he no longer sees ; you damage his brain, and he no longer remembers ; you kill him outright, and he is supposed to start up all sight and all memory ! Confess this does not wear the air of prob- ability. But what is probability, or the course of nature, or the clearest testimony of our senses, against a passion-begotten faith 1 The strong desire, the untamable wish, the irresistible fear, these are the masters of our belief. The senses them- selves are feeble when opposed to them. When a creed is here amongst us — given us by tradition and the people — philosophers j)lay M'ith it as they list, and mould it to their taste. Let the popular passion die out, and what would become of the philosophic creed 1 It hapjiens, however — happily or unhappily — that our passions, our wants, our griefs, are precisely the most permanent things in human life. !N^or is there any class of men entirely exempt from them. You delight to speak, Clarence, of the ideas of the Few extending to the Many. You forget the constant and most potent influence of the Many over the Few. I do not find that scientific men, as a body, have any peculiarity in their religious opinions. And most assuredly any departure from 278 BOOK IV. CIIAl'TKK III. the popular creed wliich yoxi find in this or that individual, is no i)roof of his f^eater intelligence or wider knowledge. Generally speaking, the man is less aniialde, less submissive, than others, not more able, more intellectually strong. CL.VRENCE. Nowhere, in all the wide range of our many controversies, do I so entirely differ from you as in this — that the progress of science, and of the scientific mode of thinking, has a ten- dency to destroy our belief in immortality. I am convinced that here the science of the latest age will be found to be in perfect harmony with the imagination of the earliest. Hu- manity is one whole, and develops itself under the God of Truth. But if you, Seckendorf, think otherwise, if you have persuaded yourself that science is incompatible with this faith — to you I say that, nevertheless, you ought to ad- vance the cause of science and of intellectual progress. Say that man has only this life to live, surely he should live it to the best of liis power — live it with Truth for his com- panion, and not delusion. "What a strange position is it that you take up ! I am not to believe in Heaven because it is a dream of the imagi- nation ; and I am not to believe in terrestrial progress be- cause this will dissipate the dream. The belief in. immor- tality is a proof of the childhood of the human race ; then if I speculate upon its advancing manhood, I am told that this manhood would be a hard, melancholy, impoverished exist- ence. But let us have oiu" manhood at all events. And whatever that manliood may be, it will surely come. SECKENDORF. C/ie sard sard, as one of your nobility bears upon his shield. I will bear the same motto upon mine. I am not alarmed, I assure you, at any possible achievement of science or philosophy. I strongly suspect that faiths which spring from the Unknown, looked at through oiir own miseries and THE WORLD AS IT IS OUR FAITHS AS THEY ARE. 279 craving desires, will outlast anything we have yet attained of scientific knowledge. But I am prepared for either fate. Nature will protect her own : she Avill be at all times in har- mony with herself. If I have little faith in progress, I can contemplate without dismay the inevitable change and muta- bility that characterise our world. I am no prophet, as you are, Clarence, nor care to make proselytes to my own way of thinking. I am rather pleased to contemplate the vast variety of opinions, feelings, sentiments. I have not taken upon myself to remodel the world upon my own convictions. There has been always room in this varied scene for a Democritus or an Anaxagoras : he, too, I suppose, had his part to play in it. To me it seems that the difficulty we have in dealing with subjects that affect human society results from the extreme comi)lexity and variety of this same human society. "We cannot embrace it. "What we see is never the whole. Hence, to our apprehensions, its incurable contradiction. The chaos is in our ovm. minds ; no doubt of that. There can be but one chaos, that of the limited understanding. CLAREXCE. Most true ! most true ! ]>ut our hopes lie precisely here — that our limited understanding extends its limits. The same power that created, is enlarging our intelligence. Thus the only chaos is slowly giving way to order and a complete unity. Order, truth, enlargement of comprehension, are but synonymous terms. SECKENDORF. To me it seems that it is one of the conditions of this creature, man — from the development of whose reason you expect so much — that he should be always in a maze of mystery and ignorance. The more of the labyrinth he ex- plores, the wider and more intricate does the laliyrinth become. The answer to one (jucstion brings forward another, and another question, still more diilicult of solu- tion. For practical purposes we gather something from (his 280 BOOK IV. — CHAPTER III. or tliat science — something that converts to food and clothing, pleasure or occupation — but science itself, that intellectual view which embraces the whole of things, is utterly unat- tainable. Science, as an intellifjible whole, is a mere delu- sion. It is an impossible aim leading along endless tracts of labour. A countryman who should start upon a journey to the horizon, would have as much hope of reaching some def- i]iite end of his pilgrimage. "VVe must all reason to the best of our power in the age and generation in which we live. We have sometliing we call knowledge, and some rules, and methods, or maxims of scientific investigation — and with these we must work, or lie idle as dogs. But what thinking man — who is not the mere puppet of some sing-somj of his day — has not felt, at times, the sad uncertainty of all his knowledge — has not felt that posterity may reverse all his decrees ? "V^^lat we call scientific methods, and universal maxims, are built upon special knowledge in this and that department of science, which the next hour may call in questinn. Hardly any- thing is safe. — It is life that is the end of life, not truth, THORXDALE, If science is a delusion, it is one at least which you your- self have not renounced ; for you still prosecute it, and not without result. 8ECKEND0RF. "VVhUst I live I must tliink. Such is the nature of some of us. Just as this poor mutilated centip^ede that is crawl- ing upon Clarence's table must still continue to crawl as long as any vitality remains to it. See, it is but half a centipede, and yet it crawls on, and now I place this book upright in its way, and it thrusts its headless body against the barrier. It cannot advance, and yet continues in every leg the old action of walking. Mere contact of the surface it treads on, stimulates the now useless foot. "Well, there are more of us than this mutilated centipede who keep walking, though we make no way. CHAPTER IV. THE INN ON THE RIGHI — SECKENDORF RECOUNTS AN INCIDENT IN HIS OWN BIOGRAPHY. We three made together the usual excursion to the sumniit of the Righi. We slept at the inn that stands there in its solitary elevation, in order that we might see the sun rise the next morning over the mountains. Like many other tom-ists, we were disappointed. Morning came, but no sun. We found ourselves enveloped in a thick and drencliing mist. In fact we were in the centre of a cloud, and one that gave no signs of dispersing. Consultation was held. Shoidd we descend the mountain 1 Should we remain and take the chance of another sunrise 1 We Avere in possession of a sitting-room with an enormous German stove — a square pile of green crockery ware that half filled the apartment — and, moreover, supplied with no scanty collection of hooks in all languages. We determined to spend the day in this sort of imprisonment. The books were very little used. As soon as one of us had got upon a chair to examine the shelves of the library, another was sure to ask what discov- ery he had made, or he would himself immediately begin to talk about the book he had found instead of reading it. In short, they only served to start some new topic of conversation. The cloud enclosed us tlie whole of the day ; you coidd see absolutely notliing. If you opened the window for an instant, a cold driving mist entered that very soon satisfied your curiosity. We were rewarded, however, for our perse- 282 liOOK IV. CHAPTEH IV. veranco ; for on the following morning the sun rose in full splondonr, and we were witnesses to a spectacle such as never forsakes the nienif)ry of those who have been fortunate enougli to see it to advantage. I have said we were rewarded for our perseverance ; hut, for my own part, I have passed few more delightful days than this which was spent in fast imprisonment in the inn on the Eighi. Never did a dinner-party go off with greater spirit than ours ; and when evening, and the coffee came (always the })ropitious moment with Seckendorf), our Piaron, or Doctor, by whichever name he ought to he called, became most frank, cordial, and communicative. It was on this occasion that he gave us some insight into his early historj'. The conversation which ushered in this personal confidence rolled upon some of our old topics of philosophical discussion. Seckendorf took the lead. SECKENDORF. "When I was a student at Berlin, Kant was our great meta- pliysical authority. I am not surprised (let me say by way of parenthesis) at the supreme sway he obtained at one time, or the brevity of that sway. He gratified at once two oppo- site tendencies — the love of critical examination, and the desire for a steadfast belief. Those who delight in the de- structive exercise of the analytic faculty, could find all they wanted in the Critique of the Pure Reason ; those who de- manded from philosophy a basis whereon to rest some cher- ished faith, moral or religious, found what they sought for in the commodious doctrine of the Practical Reason. But two such opposite factions coidd not long be held imder the same banner. The system of Kant was rent in two. Some never forgot that chapter on what are called the " amphibo- logies " of the speculative reason. Others clung with tena- city to the " category imperative," and that astounding ex- pedient for saving the freedom of the will, the introduction of the mysterious " noumenon,"' or being in itself. The in- tellect, which is cognisant only of phenomena and their laws. THE INN ON THE RIGIII, -283 judges all things as under the dominion of law. In the will the " noumenon " reveals itself to our consciousness ; and the noumenon, or being in itself, is not in space or in time, and therefore not under the laws of phenomena. From which admirable and lucid exposition, it follows that we must always feel ourselves free, and think ourselves bound or subject to the meaner laws of space and time. Such profundities I also studied, not without a certain share of enthusiasm, though with a dim obscure feeling, even while I was laying down my dogmas most earnestly, that I did not quite understand myself. It happened that a citizen of Berlin, noted for his wretched and violent temper, finally ended his career by blowing out his brains. He chose a sentry-box in the public street for the scene of this exploit. Though life was extinct, the people nevertheless carried him into the hospital. I was passing at the time. I had some little knowledge of the man, and, mingling with the medical students, I entered with them into the hospital. The man was quite dead, and a jyost-ntortcDi examination ensued. An eminent physician passing through the rooni just as the operators were com- mencing their Avork, said, as he hurried on to some pressing avocation of his own, " Look under the dura mater, and see if there are not some osseous deposits." The operator did not fail to look, and lo ! there were osseous deposits, " evi- dently," as they all pronounced, " of a very irritating sort." I was struck with this incident, both Ijocause of the cer- tainty and precision of the physician's knowledge, and because of the ])alpable cause here discovered of the violent and un- governable temper of the unhappy man. I thought that the temper of some other men I knew would be a little more intelligible if one could only look under their dura mater. I passed in review several of my friends ; — did not quite forget myself ; — perhaps here also, 1 said, are osseous de- posits of a very irritating sort. On the next day I betook myself to a medical library. Of course the first book I seized upon was a treatise upon the brain. I soon after, however, settled down into a 284 BOOK IV. — cnAPTEn iv. regular course of anatomy and physiology. Here, for the first time, did I feel, when talking about man, something like firm ground beneath my feet. Fool that I had been, I said to myself, to hope to undf^rstand this human and reason- ing being by sifting and resifting t?ie last verbal proposition he enunciates in the schools, instead of beginning with the simple facts which my very senses can testify for me. I laid aside for the present my investigations into Beinfj and Cause, or Poioer, and resolved to learn whatever could be learnt of a muscle, of a nerve, of an organ of sense. I felt I had been losing myself in a vicious method. CLARENCE. And you burnt your metaphysics ? SECKENDORP. Not exactly. But I stiidied physiology. I entered with great zest into my new labours. I embraced the whole circle of a medical education. Out of mere vanity, or a species of bravado, I took my doctor's degree. Very far indeed from me, at that time, was the notion of really entering this learned profession, and somewhat curious the incident that led to so unforeseen a result. But that is quite beside our question. CLARENCE. If it is not an " indiscretion," as the French say, to make such a request, I should like very much to know what the incident was that transformed you, a German Baron, with his sixteen quarters, into an English physician. SECKENDORP. Well, if it will at all interest you, you shall hear how a " baron bold," Avcalthy enough, and proud enough, was trans- formed into the somewhat eccentric physician I have the THE INN OX THE RIGHI. 285 reputation of being. And, Clarence, you sliall moralise the event. IMake of it an illustration — if you can — of that pre- dominance of the Intellect over the Passions on -which you count so much. The temperament of a man, the blood that is in him, is apt, I suspect, to overrule his philosophy. If this thinking faculty of mine had been lodged in some slender, feeble slired of a body — all nerve and sensibility — I should have doubt- less taken, once for all, to books and meditation, and laboured, perhaps — I also — to obtain the reputation of a philosopher. Eut only measure me ! — {and Seckendorf, laughing at his own idea, stood up at his full height) — I stand six feet some inches, the naked heel resting on the mother earth. Age has narrowed and rounded in my shoulders ; but there Tvas a time when I could have borne off a professor of philosophy upon each one of them. I had the thews and sinews of a tiger; I could have endured fatigue with a Xorth American savage ; I have fasted for three days, and then fed like a boa-con- strictor. "Was this the digestion for a philosopher'? "Was this the organisation for one who asks nothing of material nature but a headpiece to think with, and so much animal mechanism as goes to the moving of a pen 1 I could for weeks together spend the whole day, and much of the night, in indefatigable study. Then would follow a craving for physical excitement, an appetite for action, quite irrepressible. I would then ride the fleetest horses, urged to their utmost speed ; or I would repair to the fencing-school. The use of every weapon was familiar to me, but the sword and the foil were my favourites. The energetic contest of man with man, some sort of fighting, believe me, comes very natural to the human animal. Foot to foot, eye on eye, stroke on stroke, there is no excitement like the combat. I was rich — I was noble ; there was but one career that seemed appropriate to me. I, who had gone the round of scientific education, left my science, my learning, my meta- physics, my jihysiology, to buckle a sabre at my side and fight at the bidding of another ! To be siu-e, I liad the dear Fatherland to fight for. There was a crusade on foot against 286 DOCK IV. CIIAI'TER IV. foreign domination. I was not witliout some .sort of Madonna to sanction the old hereditary in.stinct for war. My commanding officer wa.s a prince of the blood, which did not prevent him from l^eing a man of very weak under- standing. I had a very sincere contemj)t for him ; ami prob- ably, in some way, made this sufficiently evident. I despised him, and he detested me. I was not in general popular with my fellow-officers. They were for the most part empty- headed, and much like great boys. I could not always con- ceal my derision. Of course I was in a very weak minority in my quarrel with the general. The disputes that occur in a camp or a barrack — questions about drill or parade — you will not care to hear, nor I to recall Suffice it, that on one occasion a controversy arose between me and my princely general. Some sarcastic word of mine stung him to the quick, and having no answer ready in speech, he clenched his fist and struck at me. Some officers of the regiment who were standing by instantly in- terposed. To make peace, and hush the matter up, they all declared that no blow had actually been struck — that the prince's arm had fallen short — that the hand had not really touched me. The sycophants ! "When my back was turned they would have gloated over the indignity I had sustained. They declared that no blow had been struck — I had felt it. His hand had touched me — say rather it had burnt. An infant's hand could hardly have given a slighter blow ; — a feather driven by the wind against my breast would have inflicted as great an injury ; — an adder's fang could not have left a more deadly wound. Indeed, it rankled as if some poison had been suddenly diffused through my veins ; it stung me to rage, it roused all the tiger nature in me. Then and there, of coui-se, notliing could be done. I retired in silence. I received no apology, and I asked for none. At the time I am speaking of, we Germans were engaged in our last war with France. Our regiment was stationed at some paltry town on the frontier, whose name I forget. "We had been kept inactive there for some time, and our prince- THE INN ON THE RIGHI. 287 general occupied his evenings in visiting a cottage in the suburbs, where he had found, or to which he had brought, some frail damsel or other. The matter had never interested me a moment, nor the gossip to which it gave occasion ; but now it flashed upon me that this cu'cumstance would favour my revenge. To challenge my superior officer, and tliat in time of war, would have been idle ; he would have refused to fight, and that with perfect propriety. But I might encounter him alone by the river-side, and, man to man, compel him to fight. When the evening came I sallied forth, selecting a circuitous route by Avhich I should intercept him. I took two rapiers under my arm, of precisely the same length, that no want of proper tools should balk my intelligent purpose. Thus pro- vided, I sallied forth. Here, then, was I — very profound philosopher, informed in many sciences, much accustomed to tlie subtlest analyses of human thought and motive — thrown into an ungovern- able rage by a touch upon the epidermis, which a child would liardly have felt, which it required all the sensitiveness of |)ride and honour to be conscious of. But was I then wholly given up to passion 1 "VVas I altogether incapable of reflec- tion ? Had all my old habits of introverted thought and self-examination deserted me 1 Not so. I perfectly remem- ber that I was reasoning at every step I took. I was proving to myself at every step how utterly mad and absurd a pur- pose I was bent upon. I reasoned, but I Avalked on. " A ]uere blow ! " I said to myself, " and of the very slightest ! For this blood must be shed — life taken ! Insanity ! " But I never slackened my pace. " Honour ! my honour wounded ! He who (jives an unmerited blow, is the dishonoured man — or ought to be. He who receives one, has but to pardon or disdain." Incomparable sentiment ! Irrefutable logic ! I tossed it to and fro, as one tosses a staff" from hand to liand, and strode on none the less rapidly for the exercise. " I shall kill him ! " I said to myself. " I sball kill this man ! I am the better swordsman. We call it battle, com- bat, fair duel ; nothing but the merest accident can save him. 288 BOOK IV. — CHAPTER IV. He is brave, but I am braver. He is strong and skilful, but I am stronger and more skilful. I sliall strike him dead — and I mean it. And for a blow ! " liut, even a.s I repeated that word " blow," my cheek flushed with rekindled anger ; I felt again that foul touch of another's clenched hand upon my breast, foul, revolting, intolerable. " He struck ! It cannot be helped. It is nature's law. Everywhere the blow brings on the combat." So reasoning, and so marching — reasoning this way and that, but marching straight on without a pause — I met my adversary. "We fought. He did not want courage. I slew liim. He lay dead at my feet. CLARENCE. And then you took flight 1 8ECKEND0RF. It is what I should have done ; but I stood rooted to the spot. Eeflection now — when she could be only a hindrance — gained the complete ascendancy. "Wisdom now had it all to herself. WHiat a text for meditation lay before me ! Suddenly a female figure rushed past me, and threw herself upon the body of my late antagonist. Oh, what a sliriek was that ! With what a poignant remorse it filled my whole soul ! It utterly unnerved me. "\Mien one of a picket of soldiers touched my shoulder to arrest me, I, who three minutes before woidd have madly fought against a whole battalion, yielded quietly, and surrendered my sword. "VNTien you consider the breach of military discipline I had committed, the rank of the man who had fallen, the desire of his successor to show his zeal in revenging liim, and my own unpopularity amongst my foUow-officers, you will see that my fate was sealed. A court-martial, as you would designate it, passed sentence of death upon me. — I have had experience, Clarence, of that hour men pass, when, fuU to the last of life, they walk onwards to their deatk THE IXX OX THE RIGHI. ' 289 CLARENCE. It is an hour which I have often tried to imagine. Nature, in her own kind way, either gives no time for much reflection, hurries us oif in some fit of pain or passion, or else she first takes away the love of life before she takes life itself. This terrible artificiahty, this cold and sudden death, pronounced, plotted, executed with official routine and exactness — this intense thought marching onward to lay thought down — has always struck me as amongst the most astounding things of human life. SECKENDORF. Nature is with us here too. Some men the blow stuns ; in others the very intensity of thought which such an hour calls up, acts like the anguish of a wound ; we leap the gulf. I remember a wild dizzy intolerable confusion of many thoughts. If I stepped quietly along the greensward, I nevertheless felt like one Avho was carried in a whirlwind. I, and a French prisoner, a detected spy, were led out together to the trenches to be shot. They had united me with this prisoner as an additional indignity. I must mention a Little incident touching my companion, because it produced a delay to which I partly owe my escape. He was a very little man. He was only too brave. He abso- lutely strutted to his death ; a demeanour which struck me as rather too heroic for the occasion. For me, as I walked those few steps, every train of speculative thought I ever had in my life, seemed to be rushing through my mind; and to the lively Frenchman my deportment doubtless apjjeared too sad and despondent. " Courage ! " he exclaimed ; " the eyes of Europe are upon us ! " " Eyes of Euroi)e ! " I mut- tered ; " we shall be as two dogs buried in a ditch — go quietly to kennel." I had not the least thought of wound- ing the man's feelings. I>ut he was outrageously indignant at what he called my insulting language. With tears stream- ing from his eyes, he implored the soldiers who liad guard over us to give him a little respite — I had bitterly insulted T 290 BOOK IV. CHAPTER IV. him — only fivo rninutcs of life, that he might do mortal combat for his honour. The soldiers laughed at his clamorous petition. I was annoyed, liut the delay was fortunate. Just as they had succeeded in pacifying the Frenchman, the cry was raised that the enemy was on us ! A panic spread through the whole camp. The party of soldiers who were to he our executioners, thought only of their own safety. "We were permitted to escape in the confusion. Though unjjopular with the officers, I was a favourite of the men ; and it has since occurred to me that they lent themselves very readily to the panic. I heard the word of command given to follow ■us, but it was not obeyed ; they fled as if the Frenchman's bayonet was upon them. CLARENCE. I hope you had not to fight with the little Frenchman. SECKENDORF. 'No, no. He ran one way and I another. The natural course, I suppose, of a person in my position, would have been to offer his sword at the military courts of Austria or Russia, But I was sick of the sword. I thought of Switzer- land — I thought of England. "What trivial motives often turn the scale in what seems the most momentous crisis of our lives ! I could speak the English language, and had never been in England, I decided upon England. CLARENCE. But after an interval, could you not return to your own country 1 It was, after all, fair dueL SECKENDORF. My offence was unpardonalile. Besides, my lands had been confiscated, and had fallen into the hands of some THE INN OX THE RIGHI. 291 courtier, who would not have wished to see me again at Berlin. Thus much mj'' friends were able to obtain, that so long as I did not set foot on the territory of Prussia, no inquiries should be made after me. Bi;t with his lands confiscated, how was a German Baron to live in London 1 That degree of Doctor of Medicine, Avhich I had taken out of mere bravado, came to my rescue. I applied myself again to my old and favourite studies. I wrote a book. How I lived while the book was being written, shall perhaps one day be told you for your edifica- tion. My book brought me patients. And lo ! the trans- formation complete ! CLARENCE. Not altogether complete ; for our learned physician some- times becomes again the "Baron bold," and he has been known suddenly to decamp, and fly half over Europe and Asia before he has returned and settled again in his comfort- able house in London. SECKENDORF. And now, Clarence, you shall moralise the tale. Have I not given a fair illustrntion of the manner in which passion still rules i^rcdominan overt intellect 1 CLARENCE. I have 1)een too much interested in the history itself to think what it might fitliest illustrate. But if I really am " to point th(! tale," I see in it a striking example of the manner in wliich a given state of puldic o])inion fells upon our passions, and I press your narrative into an argument for our moral progress ; for it was the stjvte of public opinion with regard to duelling, and to that stigma supposed to be cast upon a man who receives a blow, which developed the peculiar form of passion or revenge which actuated yoiL If this transaction were to take place now, — such has been the 292 BOOK IV. CHAPTER IV. cliaiige already made, witliin the lifo of ono man, in public opinion on tliese matters, — you would not have the same feelings of revenge or hostility aroused in you. Men, in cold blood, form more rational oi)iiiions on this suhject, and those control and modify the passionate man himself. Thus a inoral progn-ss is effected. In trutli, Seckendorf, when I consider it, 1 ought to feel obliged to you for the ailmiralde illustration you have thrown in my Avay of one kind of progressive movement. SECKENDORF. Well, we will leave the illustration alone ; I have no wish to dwell longer upon it. Let us forget the duel of swords and pistols, and carry on our ovni more peaceful duel. I will not — O thou prince of artists, and most Quixotic of philoso])hers ! — truly an artist-philosopher — I Avill not play with illustrations, but I will suggest to you certain strict limits to that moral and religious progress you vaunt so much. To nature's progress or development, in an altogether imknowii future, I set no limits ; I neither pretend to fore- see or to limit that augmentation of all life — that creative increase, which some have thought to be the law of our Avorld. I deal only with the ideal progress yoii present to me. And I say the very causes you invoke to speed you on this progress, act, in a double manner, against as well as for you. The progressive development of society brings with it increased variety of individual characters and opinions, and I need not say it is unanimity of opinion which gives the maximum power to the moral sentiment. And in religion, just in proportion as you refine, humanise, and intellect ualifie your creed, do you weaken its influence on our hopes and fears. CHAPTER V. SECKENDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS, AND THE LIMITS TO MORAL AND RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. CLARENCE. But you surely cannot deny that man has progressed. You cannot deny the past, whatever you may believe, or refuse to believe, of the future. As a man of science, you cannot deny that the history of our whole Avorld manifests a process of development, and that the history of the human species does so in an especial and most remarkable manner. As a man of science, you must alloAV that, if the same species continues to exist, it will continue to develop. SECKENDORF. Ad infinitum — eh 1 But if you appeal to science, you must be bound by science. If you find that human nature develops itself from age to age, you have no right to con- clude that it will develop itself in anij other fashion or manner than it han hitherto done. Development, according to your account, is the normal state of this creature. It puts forth a fuUer and more varied life. "Well, then, imagine in the future (if you can imagine Avhat does not yet exist) a life still more complex, still more varied. But as you have hitherto had a simultaneous development of good and evil (or what we are accustomed to call such), what other an- ticipation have you a right to form than tliat tliere will b(} 294 BOOK IV. — ciiArncu v. still further devclopiiiuut i>f hoth good and evil? A com- munity in which there should be a still greater variety in individual devt'loi)ni('nt, would lead U3 to anticipate still greater diversity of conduct, and of oi)iniou on social and moral subjects. The path of progress is the path of life. If it has been rugged and tortuous hitherto, why should it not continue to be rugged and tortuous 1 War and conc^ucst have been, and still are, the gi-eat agents in civilising the world. Famine has driven the race over the face of the earth, and is still doing so. The surplus population, as it is politely called, of the more advanced and prosperous nations, are exterminating the weaker and less progressive races — red, black, tawny, yellow, and the like. Man does not put forth his blossoms exactly like the lily and the rose. What you call his development is a very turbulent business. The stream of life runs broader, fidler — not purer or more peacefully. The last novelty, the last development that history wUl have to record of these our times is, that we have added to war and civil discord the charming variety of revolution. This is the last bud or blossom that you have to point to. Our tree of life has produced this amongst its other novelties. I ask you, on what possible grounds can you predict a time when it is to put forth none but good fruit, or what you are pleased tt» call such ] Permit a physiologist to remark, that when we speak of the development of any species, Ave do not imply a complete departiu-e from the type. CLARENCE. Sometimes nothing so much assists us in explaining our own views as the opposition of a keen antagonist. I readily admit that our idea of development is that of fuller and more A-aried life ; but this is only one-half the truth — the fuller life is also the better life. Here it is, Seckendorf, that your philosophy so egregiously fails. You see that through- out nature there is development ; you see that in man, not SECKENDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. 295 only is the individual a more complex being, but society be- comes more complex from the developed varieties amongst these individual men. But you have not grasped the truth that this progressive development is but the progTcssive manifestation of the Divine Idea, or the great whole. More and fuller life is a nearer approximation to the complete whole ; in which complete whole every part becomes itself more exalted by reason of the increased relationships it has. If I begin a sketch, and put down upon the paper a church here and a windmill there, they look crude enough ; except that they are on the same paper, they seem to have no relationship to each other. But as I fill in the rest of the picture, not only do I put more objects on the paper, but my church and my windmill are related to all these new objects, and now harmonise together in a quite novel manner. Fuller life is better life ; development is progress, because that whole is being developed in which every j^cirt becomes raised, and exalted, and harmonious, SECKENDORF. I must allow that you know more of the Di%'ine Idea, and of the hitherto undeveloped tchole, than I do. Lmiiting my- self to that half of the truth which you compliment me on knowing something about, I see a process of the following kind going on in the human species. More numerous arts are practised — greater knowledge is obtained; but these arts, this knowledge, become individualised in certain men. In a very rude state of society one man may be an epitome of all men ; but just as development proceeds does diversity in- crease between man and man, and we are now accustomed to say that the greatest of men shrinks into littleness when placed beside Humanity. Now, this gi'cater variety of in- dividual character, brought about by the variety of arts, of occupaticm, of knowledge, points to a fuller life ; but how do you find in it any indication of that moral ])erfectiou of society, or that perfect Avhole, or that better life, that you delight to prophesy 1 The very nature of things suggests a 296 BOOK IV. — cnArTEK v. limit to moral progress. If you have few rules of conduct, and all men are agreed \ij)on them, you liave the maximum of obedience. The old Persians, if indeed tliey limited their code to the virtue of telling truth, would very rigidly en- force this rule amongst themselves. He who did not tell truth would be at once stigmatised. ]iut if there is a very complex life, and many rules of conduct, you have — 1 , Diversity of judgment weakening the force of opinion ; and, 2, You have many rules of conduct to enforce, and the man who has broken one may yet have obeyed others. !Men are now of very mixed characters : their faults get pardoned for their virtues, and the opprobrium of public opinion no longer falls with the same pitiless decision. That very com- plexity of human society which constitutes your progress, is limiting and restricting that force of ojnnion on tchich you are counting for a perfect morality. I indeed am not discontented with such world as we have, but I certainly cannot see that Divine Idea which is to be fulfilled in the future. This thick mist which now envelops us, as we sit perched here on the summit of the Uighi, is no bad emblem of the sort of prospect that we get Avhen we are bent upon looking out into the future, CLARENCE. "Wait till to-morrow morning at sunrise, and we shall have, upon this Righi, I hope, a much better emblem. SECKENDORP. Meanwhile, if we could ascend such a mountain as yoxir poet speaks of — one from which all the kingdoms of the earth could be descried, with all their polities, religion, laws, and customs — is it a very encouraging spectacle that would be revealed to us ? How read you the " Signs of the Times " 1 "Where do you see great moral, political, religious advance- ment 1 If the kingdoms of the earth Avere spread out before me, should I see despotism everywhere retiring, and yielding SECKENDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. 297 the ground to self-governing communities 1 Should I see the churches and priesthoods of Christendom relinquishing their old task of governing men hy imaginary terrors ] Shoidd I see any^vhere a populace that could be safely manumitted from such a government ] Should I see our great religious teachers aiming to discover truth for themselves and others, or stiU ruling the world — and contented, and compelled to rule the world — by whatever dogma is already accredited 1 — themselves bound down as much by this necessity to govern, as the populace by their need of government. ^Vhat are the signs of moral advancement that I should behold 1 Does not poverty in all its most hideous forms stiU. exist in London and in Paris 1 Man takes no measure of his wants, and his own poAver to supply them — lives and multiplies like any beast of the field : whole classes amongst us rub on, as they call it, from day to day. Intelligence never visits them, or it makes its ai)pearance as some new development of viUany. Take the whole national life : Has war ceased 1 will there be no more battles and sieges'? Are all homes happy ? Has the domestic war ceased 1 Are tears, and anger, and spite no more seen or heard in the very region which the poets fill with love 1 Two years ago, a democratic movement shook most of the thrones of Europe. AVas this in the programme of your development 1 Was this the " march of intellect " 1 If so, there has been a counter-march. As I read this last chapter in our history, wealth took the alarm at certain prophetic announcements of " social progress," of " equitable reorganisa- tion," and threw her weight upon the side of monarchy. Wealth enlisted the despot ; wealth re-enlisted and exalted the priest. jSIen, to save themselves from your ])hilaiitliro])ic regeneration, sacrificed political liberty and intelh-ctual lib- erty ; they submitted to imperial government, and shuftied on in haste the cloak of hypocrisy. England is almost tlie only country of Europe that at this moment can boast of r('i)ublican institutions (for the govern- ment of England is jiractically a republic under tlie forms of monarchy) ; but liow long is she likely to retain this dis- 298 HOOK IV. CUAPTEIt V. tinctioii ] Some little time ago I beheld jjaraded through the streets of London, an enormous banner, followed by a multitude of Chartists. On this purple banner, and in letters of gold, one might read the motto — " A fair day's wages for a fair day's work." A more modest motto, you will say, was never displayed in purple and gold. A more impossible demand was never made. Xo legislative power on earth could give them their fair day's wages for their fair day's work. They must look after that matter, each one for him- self, N^ay, if Parliament, in her " omnipotence," should settle what shall be a fair day's work and a fair day's wages. Parlia- ment must next consult the gods and mother earth to know if these recognise the tariff". Your work and your wages are finally settled — somewhere out of Parliament. But now, if this clamour rises, if this motto becomes a popular faith, then wealth in England will also take the alarm. "Wealth here also will enlist the monarch ; — the pageant, and the forms, and the very theory of monarchical government, have all been faithfully preserved; — wealth Sere, also, will take shelter in imperial government, will renounce its free Parlia- ment and its free press, and keep the private purse un- touched. Wealth here, also, will exalt the priest still higher, and bow stiU lower to the Church, if by any means it can raise a power that will hold the multitude in check. I said a moment ago that Revolution had been the latest product of society. But I am reminded that there is another later still, and a favourite of the English soil — what you ciill strikes of your working population. Possibly good may come out of these combinations ; they teach men their power, but in their immediate etiect they have all the evils, in a miti- gated form, of a political revolution. Probably the enmity they occasion lasts longer, though it is less violent. And pray tell me, Clarence, you who have studied the signs of the times, and should know your o^vn countrj-men better than I do, is it one amongst the symptoms of intel- lectual progress that there is a movement in England towards the lioman Catholic Church 1 Is this movement at all con- nected with some poKtical movement, some monarchical ten- SECKENDORF OX THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. 299 dencyl Does it result from pure love of truth and tlie spirit of inquiry 1 I, who was brought up in the great Catholic Church, have my partialities towards her, and might not be the iittest judge. How do you read this matter 1 To me it seems not improbable that that ragged urchin who is chalking up " 'No Popery " on the walls of London, may live to see High Mass performed in St Paul's Cathedral. He himself will be kneeling, an old man, bare- headed, on the pavement, to be sprinkled by the holy water as priests pass by in gorgeous procession, bearing the im- maculate Virgin on theh shoulders. Half your clergy, half your aristocracy, and every idle woman, are aheady ours. Every infidel, Avho loves music better than sermonising, is already ours. All who love pomp and sentiment better than perplexing dogmas, will welcome the change. As to the mob, we know of old how they are to be converted. The good Moslems knew and practised the art long ago. Not always is the sword necessary. The Muezzin ascends the tower and calls to prayer ; the people pelt him with stones ; he ascends again, and calls still louder, and the people throw fewer stones ; he still ascends, still calls, and the people drop their stones from their hands, and fall upon their knees. There is but one body in England from whom a stout resistance may l)e expected. The Dissenters will not convert. The descen- dants of the old Puritans — the repuldicans in religion — will stand out to the last. They will not convert, but they will hum ; they are combustible. And if an age too fastidious rejects the aid of fire even in so great an emergency, there are your colonies — they can be transported. England, puri- fietl from their presence, will again be embraced in the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Cliurch. If I am a little too sanguine here, you must attribute it to the bias of early education. CLARENCE. I cannot tell how far you are serious, Seckendorf. If the first part of your melanclioly ])rophecy should come true, and England should sink under a military or despotic govermueut 300 BOOK IV. CHAPTKU V. — shoulil lose her liberty of free printin;^ ami free speaking, — then indeed she may sink also into a spiritual despotism — into any folly yon may imagine. It is not a certain section of the Church that will transform England, Men of more imbecile minds than these softly arrogant clergy I have no- wliere encountered. I say nothing of the chiefs of the party. I speak of men whom I have met with, and talked with. They fly from all manly discussion ; they take refuge, like children, at the petticoats of some bigger priest than them- selves — there sulk and pout at you. SECKENDORP. You quite mistake the matter if you measure their power by their intellect. This is not the Avork for men of intellect. What is wanted is a body of men unanimous, and just superior to the minds they have to work upon. These softly arrogant clergy are adored by your women. My profession brings me acquainted with many people, and gives me some peculiar opportunities of observing them. I need not say that all depends on the degree of spiritual power ceded by the laity to the priesthood. A priesthood once acknow- ledged to be authorised teachers, will lead the laity where it pleases. Well, I have never known a fashionable woman who was not in favour of a domineering clergy. She rever- ences the priest exactly in proportion to the claim he makes Tipon her obedience. What do you augur from this ? CLARENCE. Seckendorf ! this is childish talk. There are move- ments going on in society amongst the men who work, and the men who think, before which your fashionable women and their favoured priests will be as chaff" before the wind. !N^or am I much concerned at these monarchical tendencies that you allude to. Public opinion (and this is the great matter) can govern and advance under very different forms SECKENDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. 301 of goverRment. If I see an emperor at the head of armies, ruling as with a sense of duty, and with desire to obtain the suffrages of all classes, I imagine I have a spectacle before me of as good augury for progress as any that could be named. I do not desire such a form of government, but an empire may be administered with something of the spirit of a republic ; it may be little else than a democracy with a head to it — a democracy ruling tlirough one man, one repre- sentative, instead of an assembly of representatives. And if priesthoods still govern, inark this — they come before the laity to prove, by dint of argument, that they ought to govern. They are obliged to evoke that very reason they are bent on supplanting. Do you see nothing in this 1 To bring back the old " implicit faith " Avould Ije a ho})eless and absurd endeavour. SECKENDORF. The hopeless and absurd endeavour seems to prosper mightily well, and that not only in England, but in philo- sophical Germany. The country of Luther seems very much disposed to retransmit the Bible to the custody of the Church. One thing is very plain : You are fond, Clarence, of discours- ing on the influence of a scientific huhif of thought upon our moral and religious opinions. I think you caimot detect in these movements the influence of science or scientific discii^line. CLARENCE. Xot precisely in this movement you are speaking of ; but there are others in which that influence can be traceil. I ofi'er no opinion upon the state of things in Germany, but in our own England I do not care a rush about this sup])osed movement towards Ivome of a section of our Church. They have only to show that they really are moving in that direc- tion, and they will arouse such a feeling of indignation throughout England, as will sweep them from the island Avith the force of a hurricane. 302 BOOK IV.— CII AFTER V. 8ECKEND0RF. Eiiplarifl shall ho still and eto rnally Protostant, if yon will, "\Ve will leave these oseillating movements of our own day and generation. They seem very little to affect you, Clarence j your eye is on remote centuries. Perhaps the rocking of a state to and fro, and thi.s oscillation in great monarchies and churches, do but prove to j'ou that lime is hurrying on his pageant somewhat faster than usual. I will draw your attention to certain permanent conditions of human life, certain vmalterable characteristics of this being man, which stand as obstacles or limits to your moral progression. CLARENCE. What are these formidable obstacles 1 SECKENDORF. Take these two. Labour and Death ; and wheii you have reflected on them, I will add a tliird. These are permanent conditions, I believe, of human exist- ence. Nothing is given but to labour. "We pay down, in hard toil, a heavy price for the slightest acquisition made to our civilisation. Every year the fields are to be cultivated, the mine is to be excavated, the cloth is to be woven, the house is to be biiilt or rebuilt. And, moreover, the age in which these toils ceased, would sink immediately into mental as well as bodily sloth. Unceasing labour is a permanent condition of existence, and Death, I presume, is still the inevitable. Xow, what very exalted Ideal of life can be realised in a race against which these two decrees have gone forth ? You would retine and intellectualise human beings, and the great midtitude must labour for food, clothing, and habitation, ;is no other animal labours. In the climates most propitious to intellectual activity there is a long winter, there are rains, and damp, and cold, to be incessantly provided against. The SECKENDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. .303 one article of fuel sends thousands into the bowels of the earth; they have to dig deeper every year. A\liether it is Avorth while to speculate on the very remote contingency of the coal-fields of Europe being exhausted, I cannot say ; I leave that to men who take future centuries under their especial care. What is plain to us is, that coal and iron are prime necessaries of life, and the getting them is no child's- play. The steam-engine is the great boast, and fairly so, of modem times ; but follow the steam-engine throughout its whole history, its making, and all the work it performs, and for every stroke of the piston there has been the stroke of a human arm, or perhaps the throbbing of some human brain. For Avhen the man has got the machine to work for him, he always finds that he has converted himself also into a machine, and stands by, working mechanically with it hour after hour. No engine has yet been invented which, if it profited one part of mankind, has not also been an engine of torture to another. You will say that, without this incessant labour, the knowledge and intelligence of man could never have been developed. The want that stimulates labour has also stimu- lated thought. That such is the nature of men, is the very fact I have to point out to you. To my mind, one of the saddest spectacles the earth reveals is precisely this : The traveller depicts to me some fertile island in a delicious clunate, where the bread-fruit hangs from the tree, where the soft winds are themselves warmth and clothing — depicts to me an earthly paradise; and the next moment he shows me the human tenant of it, a very child, a simple savage, very little wiser than the fowls of the air, or the fishes of the sea. No progress was made, hccmiJic the earth was spontaneously fruitful, and the skies were kind. You tell me that man invents man'ellous machines that work for him. He cannot ; his machiiu's are only compli- cated tools, with which he also must continually work. But if he could make the iron and the wood really work for him, then behold the bread-fruit tree is again growing over 304 BOOK IV. CIIAPTKU V. liis lu'ail — tho winds again arc clotliin<( him — ho is again an idler, and crawling like an infant on the ground. We labour and we die. Well, but the morali.st will teach us how to live the little life we liave. If by morality be meant a control of the passions, the teacher has either a very hopeless, or very needless task. Wliilst the passion is young and strong, the moralist is not heard; when it is feeble or extinct, the man can moralise for himself — only much too late. Just when we have learned to live, we find that we are dying out ; just when we begin to value this mysterious gift of life, it is taken from us. We leave our place to some puling infant ; " the sage is Avithering like a leaf." We are mere stubble, and the plough passes over us, that a new verdure may spring up. Xot a day even of the brief space allotted to us is secure. We tread perchance upon a rolling stone — we breathe an air too keen — and there is an end to all. Fool or philosopher, it is all alike. A perfect morality in a world where there is death ! Dis- cipline thyself ! — for what ? Choose the quiet and prolonged pleasures of temperance and self-denial ! Quiet very, but how prolonged 1 Sacrifice the present enjoyment for a greater one in the future ! What future 1 AVhen, cold and half dead with age, I shall have no capacity for enjoyment left me 'i Or when a certain " politic convention of worms " will be at the feast, and I shall have the honour of providing the banquet 1 Here also it is most true that Death, like Labour, is the condition of our intellectual being. Without the necessity of labour there would have been no art, no science ; without the certainty of death, no religion, no philosophy. It was the necessity to live by labour that stimulated the faculties of man to observe and to invent ; it w;is the inevitable certainty of Death that roused him to the higher mental activities of speculation and philosophy. It was this startled him into thought. There is a perfect harmony in the human being — you may be siu-e of that. There is this kind of per- fection at least — that you could not remove a stone Avithout the Avhole superstructui-e falling on your head. SECKEXDORF ON THE XATQRE OF PROGRESS. 3U5 I am not surprised that the earliest of sages — Greek, Hebrew, or Chaldean — Avere perplexed at these two decrees of fate. Labour and Death. They thought the gods must have been envious of mankind, or that man must have com- mitted some crime against his Maker, and brought down upon his head those two dreadful punishments. Such they seemed to the earliest sages ; and to the latest posterity Labour will not seem less a curse, because our whole being is moulded' on the sordid necessity ; nor Death less a curse, because we decay down to it till it becomes welcome, or because it alarmed us into meditation upon om-selves, or because, in the fulness of our life and our agony, this black line drawn across our path stilled our discontent, and hushed all terrors by a greater. CLARENCE. I admit all you say of Labour — I admit all you say of Death — I have only something more to say. Your remark is most true that Death startles us into reflection upon life ; but the thought which is stimulated by that dark line upon the horizon finally transcends that line. But even if you insist upon it, that life ends with our physical being, the brevity of life does not affect our advancement in morality in the manner you seem to think. The love of esteem is the ruling moral motive vnth. nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of every thousand. Now, we never ask how long we shall live before we are actuated by this feeling or desire, any more than we ask how long Ave shall live before wo experience any other strong emotion. A man feels this desire for the approbation of others in the very hour of death ; perhaps never feels it more strongly. SECKENDORF. True; and you arc perfectly riglit iu fixing your eye steadily upon })ublic opinion and the love of esteem as the regulating powers of the Avorld. But there are unfortunately many public opinions, and my love of esteem may be gratified u 306 BOOK IV. CHArTKU V. though I am going hn.idlong to destruction. I am sur- rounded by those wlio tliink lit to go to destruction in the same way, and so "we cheer eaoli other on the downwanl road. CLAREN'CE. Men wlio cheer each other on such do^vn^vard roads are conscious that they are banding themselves together against a wider opinion — against -what is tlie real moral opinion of the society. Speaking generally, ?fe can he wiser for others than for our- selves. We are Aviser, therefore, when we judge than when we act ; and consequently, though the same men form the opinion who are to be ruled by it, the ruling opinion is wiser and more constant than the passionate individual whom it ndes. SECKEXDORP. But you cannot keep passion altogether out of the forma- tion of the opinion itself. And the different passions, and circumstances, and culture of men wUl beget diversities of moral opinions — diversities which weaken your moral govern- ment, or convert it into what you would call an immoral government. There is one cause of diversity, there is one line of separation which Avill run its eternal zigzag through the most uniform commimity j-ou can imagine. It is con- ceivable that you might abolish the distinction between rich and poor; but the distinction between young and old you certainly will not efface. And unanimity of opinion between young and old, between those who are in the summer of their lives and those who are in mid-winter, will assuredly not bo found. And this leads me to that third permanent condition or characteristic of human life, which I promise to suggest for Clarence's meditation. I know not precisely how his Utopians intend to deal with war. It seems that the whole earth must be Utopian before any one nation can secure peace for itself, except by its ability for defensive war. However, as the whole earth may SECKEXDORP OX THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. 307 become wise in time, there is here a certain pos.sil)ility in view. But how those wise nations of the earth will deal with the soft seductions of peace — with that which is pre- eminently pleasure — passes all mj power of divination. This love of woman does not die out at all — I suppose that neither of you would have the heart to wish that it should; it seems the perennial source of all that is amiable and good amongst us. This spring, however, this ebullient source of very life itself, has a terrible, uncontrollable force in it. Nature seems to have overdone her work. The power of woman over the imagination of youth grows with every advance of civilisation. Decorated with all the refinements of art, veiled by the delicacies of manner and deportment — the cool leafage imder which the fruit lies tenfold more tempting to the eye — woman becoines the veritable siren or goddess of the young. Now consider that this passion, which grows "with oiu' civilisation, is one which all have, and which a very large proportion cannot gratify in the legitimate bond of marriage. ■ — But I need not suggest a topic that must liave perplexed every one who has attempted to frame or imagine a model commmiity. Make for men any laAv you pk'ase, and sup- pose that it is faithfully obeyed (which is a most extrava- gant supposition), you have still only a choice of evils : for repressed passion is itself an evil of no little magnitude, reacting upon tlie whole temperament of the man in a man- ner best known, perhaps, to the pliysician, but sufficiently intelligible to every educated person. Take Avith you, then, these permanent elements or condi- tions of human life — Incessant labour for food — the brevity and uncertainty of life — the passion nature implants for the preservation of the race — say briefly Food, Death, Sex — meditate on these three little monosyllables, and then set to work to form exalted and ideal societies. CLARENCE. You have not a very encouraging Avay of throwing the 308 uuuK IV. — cnArTEi{ v, materials before us, I feel, however, that I could answer you, only I should recjuire a little time to marshal my ideas. SECKENDORF. Our Ciitliolic priest would tame this passion of love, or scare it away — as we scare some beautiful wild beast — by brandishing fire and flame before its eyes. You do not approve of this method. As everything is to progres.s, you have some religious progress incompatible with this expedi- ent. You are disposed to snatch from the j)riest his burning lirand. That it was altogether efficacious no one will pre- tend, neither was it without some result. Meanwhile, this beautifid wild beast, this spotted leopard, is still amongst us, and will enter somewhat more rampant than ever, into your model community. I foresee that it will occasion much em- barrassment there. THORNDALE. AVhat is your matured opinion as to the real efficacy of this same fiery brand you speak of ? SECKENDORF. It is difficult to estimate the force of a remote threat against a present temptation. When the temptation is quite close upon us, all prudential considerations, of this world or the next, are forgotten. But religion keeps men out of the Avay of temptation. It draws a cordon sanitaire which often debars us from ground innocuous itself, but wliich is too near the seat of danger. For some minds it effects this purpose by giving them a constant subject for thought, for inquiry, for rellection. Keep men tliinking, and it matters little what their doctrines or their philosophy may be, we pretty well know what their lives must be. A Spinoza gives as little trouble to the State as the Seraphic Doctor himself. ^Ul men absorbed in thinking have that which AviU keep them steady as they pace the strange passage from bii-th to death. SECKBNDORP OX THE NATURE OP PROGRESS. 309 CLARENCE. How is it, Seckendorf, you harp so often upon the priests and their sendees — a body of men you do not always love, and never once a^ree with 1 SECKENDORP. Because, if you look within the great church of Christen- dom, you will discover that our sins themselves turn to such regrets and penitences, as make it a question whether the world would be a gainer by even getting rid of sin. And here, again, Clarence, how utterly de-dructive would be that religious reformation I often hear you hint at ! You would mitigate the terrors of a future world. How often must I tell you that the great hope you are so solicitous to preserve, is bound up in one common life with the great fear you seem equally desirous of extinguishing. When there are no longer any Avicked men to punish, there will be no longer any good men to reward. If there is no final irrevocable sentence for the one, there is no final permanent beatitude for the other. If you open a new trial-scene for the Avicked, you ojDen it also for the good. Your Above is a correlate of your Below. The pillars of heaven are sunk in hell : so much of church architecture is palpable. It is cer- tainly the architecture of the Christian churcli. In the happiest of Christians, fear is the unseen root of all their hope and all their love. Fear, transmuted into Eeverence, finally trembles into Love. The terror-stricken spirit gazing doivn, receives its first upward impulse. It flies shrieking with despair, but flies shrieking upwards, and calms its sobs in heaven. The religion of Utopia is to have no Tartarus. T'bipians wiU need none, will supply no souls to 2)i'uple sudi a jilace, no class of men who are emigrating that way. Well, then, your people of Utopia must also dispense with their eternal Elysium. If Fear depart out of religion, it is not long after that Hope wiU remain. If you will not tolerate tlic iutinite 310 BOOK IV. CIIAPTKIJ V. Terror that darkens tlie abyss below, you must lose sight of the infinite Joy that brightens above us. In short, your religious progress would be the annihilation of religion, I see a more distinct limit here than on any other path along which you would carry us. Your scientific discipline of mind, your universal benevolence, are to be imported unto religion. Well, this world may thus grow brighter, happier, more beautiful, ])ut that othci- — has " faded into the light of common day." CLARENCE. I think that the pillars of heaven will stand still more securely upon our solid earth. I hold that the contrast be- tween Life and Eternity, the Passing and the Permanent, will be sufficient for the sustenance of religious Hope. Moreover, it is not I who preach a change ; the change is taking place. Let me say (by way of parenthesis) that, standing on my own English soil, I am in politics a Conservative. Our pubhc institutions, civil and religious, admit the free culture of the human mind — admit that unobserved social progress on which all other progress must finally dej)end. I have no quarrel with the Church of England, but there is one doc- trine of our Protestant creed which the intelligent laity are quietly deserting. Men who do not openly oppose it, tacitly deny it. I mean that of the eternal nature of future punish- ments. The whole subject of future punishments is treated in a different spirit by divines themselves than it was a cen- tiuy ago. "What educated man would, now write or preach upon this topic as Jeremy Taylor did? Xone but the coarsest of the populace would listen to an orator dwelling eloquently on the torments of the condeimied. I met tlie other day with a passage in Bossuet, on the subject of Infant Baptism, in which he censures the weakness of those men Avho shrink from asserting that the unbaptised infant is lost — condemned. We have lately had the controversy about infant baptism revived amongst us. "\Miat English di^'ine was there who did not display this ceusui-able weakness ? SECKENDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. 311 111 fact, our theologians are really too amiable to believe, as literal truth, what, in some metaphorical sense, they can still conscientiously place amongst their articles of creed. The most zealous champion of orthodoxy is merely involved in the heat and passion of controversy. He is very angry, but he means nothing. Let me prove with text upon text that this or that doctrine is a damnable heresy — but, for God's sake, let nothing come of it ! Look at the literature of our country. This surely is the place to seek for the best and latest currents of opinion. If I had books about me, I could read to you jjage after page of our most esteemed writers, which manifest as clear as day a complete alienation from the old faith of an eternal Tar- tarus ; and — mind you this ! — which at the same time breathe a genuine spirit of piety, and love to God, and an unfeigned conviction that God is love. Never was there a time when the Devil, and the region he is supposed to preside over, were so little dwelt on, or so tacitly ignored ; and never was there a time when there was so vivid a convic- tion, so confirmed a faith, in the existence of a Benevolent Creator, or more genuine piety and gratitude felt towards tliat ineffable Being from whom emanate all power, all reason, all love. You tell me that this religion does not suit our climate. My answer is, that the climate is gradually changing, and that the appearance of this modification of our religion is one proof of the change. I call this truly " a Sign of the Times," and one full of significance. A religion is growing up amongst us that can only reach its maturity in a society much better organised than the one we at j)resent behold. And a better organisation is also slowly forming — a society to correspond with the religion. I like this sign of tlie times. Political revolutions, however tremendous they may appear, may be sudden and transitory events, more like gusts of passion than effects of the slow and muUifarious ])rogress of a human society. Storms and portents in the sky may pass, and leave the morrow like the yesterday. But what if I see, were it but a single blade of a (piite new vegetation, 312 BOOK IV. CHAPTEU V. tliat poixkl not live in the old climate — that can live only under temperate and gentle skies — what if I see this new verdure forcing its timid way through the hard soil ? You Avill admit that there is more proof and more prediction of cliange in this instance of new life springing up here ami there in sheltered spots between the furrows, than there would be in a whole hemisphere of storms and tempests. SECKEXDORF, That benevolent laxity of faith which you speak of may be found amongst certain of your contemporaries, but I repeat that it can be found only amongst those who hold with equal laxity their faith in an eternal beatitude. Your little blade of grass, I think, must go back again into the furrow. One thing is quite indisputable. Study carefiUly all the advanced nations of Europe, — England, France, Prussia, Austria ; in every one you will find a growing and predomi- nant desire to strengthen the power of the Church. The Church is to be the institution to govern and educate the people. Whether it is an Austrian minister or an English justice of the peace, you hear repeatedly the same sentiment that the education of the j^^ojyle mii.^t be religious. "What proof, or prediction, of change do you gather from this ? \Ye have here the same old conviction that this present world must still be governed by hopes and fears of another. CLARENCE, Every social epoch brings forward that modification of religious faith which is suitable to it, and the society and the religion both change slowly, and with many oscillating movements. "\Miat I insist upon is this, that it is a true and genuine faith that really governs. As long as a faith lasts amongst a people, it will govern them ; but if it should be changing, it is not an Austrian minister or an English justice of the peace, full of the expediency of his faith, who will be able to withstand the change. State-craft and a SECK.ENDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. 313 virtuous liypocrisy may do much wlien they side witli a faitli rooted in the rainds of the common people ; but they cannot plant it there, or revive it there. I want nothing more than what we have in England ; institutions which suit the people, and free scope to think and speak, so that individual minds may grow freely, taking advantage of the fresh knowledge which comes in from every quarter. I can sjTnpathise with almost every genuine conviction ; but there is one phase of thought, or of the thinking man, with which I have no sympathy whatever — which I beg leave simply to denounce, and to separate myself from en- tirely. I hear some men say, " It is not true," and the next moment utter an " Esto perpetua ! " Such exto 'perpetua I would not for worlds pronounce. AVhat faith in God can that man have who does not believe that Truth and Expe- diency must finally be one ? I hate this hypocrisy ! Only think what strange pre- sumption and contempt of other men it inii)lies. This is Truth ! — this is for me and for my friends. That is Ealse- hood ! — that is for you and for the multitude. If this is Avhat you call the aristocracy of intellect, may I for ever remain a plebeian. I hate this hypocrisy ! It obscures from ourselves the measure of truth we really possess. ]\Ien put forth profession instead of belief, till they do not themselves distinguish be- tween the two. They shuffle and confuse their own best faiths amongst articles of creed to which they give a mere verbal assent. Many a man who is thought by others to be a greater believer than he really is — thinks himself a greater dUheliever than he reaUy is. He almost loses sight of some of the highest truths of his reason, because he has habitually mixed them up with detected, or susjx'cted sujx'rstitions. Besides, it is by open and candid speech, man to man, that each one of us comes fully to understand what he does be- lieve in. Shut up my mouth, and you will soon after shut up my thought too. If I must practise a dishonest speecli, I lose the habit of thinking honestly. 3U BOOK IV. CUArTEU V. I too can admire wliat I do not personally participate. But it is the sincere faith of the man who tliink.s difForently from myself that I can admire. I cannot admire his studied hypocrisy if he is a reflective man, nor can I much admire the mere mechanical assent of a multitude, nodding their heads all one way, and at the same moment. SECKENDORF. Take this with you — Numbers do not make a truth, but numbers make a faith. Therefore hypocritical or mechanical assent — assent of all kinds — has its use. CLARENCE. Yes, to statesmen and churchmen who think that the Avorld requires to be governed by a faith which is not also a truth. Let every one in his own age and generation be sincere. For what measure of truth he has, he cannot be responsible ; but all of us should be truth-loving. Thank Heaven ! I do not believe in the eternal necessity of error for the government of the world. SECKENDORF. You do not govern the world at all ; you are speculating how the world will govern itself some thousand years hence. If you Avere called upon to take a part in any existing polity in Christendom, you woidd be so rejoiced to find some ap- proach to imiformity in the religious creed of the people, that you would not be very captious in criticising the means by Avliich such a uniformity was brought about. CLARENCE. You, Seckendorf, with all your diabolical philosophy, no man can accuse of any taint of hypocrisy, "\^'ith no credo of yoiu- own, with many motives for acquiescing in the credo SECKBNDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. 315 of others, you stand aloof from us all. You are too proud, and too detiant, to put on the semblance of any other man's faith, Eut you have what I shall call a malicious toleration for the hypocrisy of others. You have a cynical sympathy with the proud priest who rules over the minds of others l^y a fear to Avhich he does not succumb himself. You like Despotism in the state ; and you like the alliance between it and a Sacerdotal Despotism. Sitting aloft and apart with a few intellectual aristocrats like yourself, you see the game of life played thus ! — and you applaud. SECKENDORP. Do justice, my dear young friend, to the Political Priest — to the Sacerdotal Despot, as you have called him. He says, " I have a world to govern — no light work ; an obsti- nate, passionate, much afflicted world ; and I do govern it, for I hold in my hand the keys of Heaven and of HelL And now you tell me of some little knot of pensive people Avho have discovered what they call a truth. They question and deny my truth by which I govern. Let them stand, then, apart, and mutter to themselves what they please, but the multitude must not hear. If they come into the market- place and disturb my government, I sweep them from the face of the earth. I hang a bow of promise in the clouds ; and whilst men look up to it, they toil and they sweat; they commit few murders, and steal but now and then. They half forget their present agony, and postpone their anger and their revenge. These wise men say it is not a bow of promise, it is a coloured mist. Be wiser still, and keep the secret. How else can I hold these men to tlieir in- evitable toil? Or perhaps some knot of bland and amial)le heretics comcAvith promises more glorious than mine. "Wliat muKt I answer ■? If I spoke frankly, I should say, 'Deluded and amia1>le heretics, your nonsense is tts good as ours ; hail it come first, it should have sat in tlie judgment-seat ; as it comes second, it must go to the scaffold : tliere is not room for both. One folly is government, two is confusion.' " 316 BOOK IV. — CHArTER V, CLARENCE. I deny, with all my heart and sonl, that the cause of good government re(iuires any one man to lie false, llie faiths you speak of do govern, but they govern as sincere beliefs ; and Avhen they cease to be sincere beliefs, they cease to be necessary as means of government. How can a mind like yours that sees so clearly the eternal harmony of all things, be so indifferent to the cause of Truth 1 SECKENDORP. It will be time enough to be zealous for truth when we have a truth to be zealous for. Truth, like Eternity, may belong only to the One — to that Absolute, or that Eternal !Mind, you philosophers are so familiar with — may as little belong to man as creative power belongs to man. ]\Ieanwhile, why may I not be permitted to admire Avhat has been produced — this 2^'^l/(^hical creation laid open before me, whether you call it error or truth 1 Tlie monarchies of Europe, and the great Church of Christendom, which is the spiritual monarchy under which they are all gathered to- gether, present to my mind the grandest spectacle that Time has yet revealed. Neither Greece, nor Judea, nor Eome ever exhibited a national life so full, so emotional, so sublime. It is, in fact, Greece and Judea and Rome mingled together. So grows the great heterogeneous life of human society. You woidd cut it dovm to the poor dimensions of some one philosopher's truth. — How silent you have been, Thorndale ! THORXDALE. I have listened with pleasure. You perhaps will not take it as a compliment, but I have been asking myself whether the representation you have been giving is not rather of the nature of poetry than philosophy; you dwell so much on SECKEXDORF ON THE NATURE OF PROGRESS. 317 tlic emotional side of these questions. You suborJiuate truth to hfe, not life to truth. SECKENDORF. "We have all been poets once ; for we have all been young. If my partiality to the great Church of Christendom seems strange or excessive, you may attribute it, if you please, to the bias of early education. I have told you I am of a Catholic family. It was part of the family pride to adhere to the ancestral church. I was brought up a devout believer in all its mysteries, and having both some ardour in my character and some reflective tendency, my early tuition was not •without result. I have known those emotions that I sometimes descant upon. In Catholic churclies, as you are well aware, a lamp hangs burning night and day before tlie high altar, where the host is enshrined. I used to take my book — which was perhaps the life of some saint — at midnight into the church, and read it by the light of that lamp. There were lights enough in tlie paternal mansion, and that lamp burned very dimly, and I had to bribe the sacristan withal for permission to enter; l)ut the thing pleased my boyish fancy. Under that sacred lamp I chose to sit, often to kneel. It hung suspended by a long massive chain, which the eye in vain strove to trace to its termination in the roof. This chain divided, so to speak, into three smaller ones, between which the lamp itself hung and burnt. I see before me now the slow-moving shadows which those tlu-ee chains cast on the walls and ])illars of the vast church, lit only by this solitary lamp. The slightest breath of wind was sufficient to give some movement to this long pendulum ; the distance magnified the shadows tiU it was difficult to connect their appearance with tlio simple object that threw them along those aisles, and my imagina- tion sought and craved whatever could lend aid to a senti- ment of fear and mystery. I have travelled since in all parts of the world, have seen much, have been mingk'd u\) in many exciting events, but there is nothing so indelibly impressed 318 BOOK IV. CIlArTICK V. u])on my memory as tlio midniglit int(!rior of that church, its one lamp, its long aisles, and the dim shadows of those chains moving over its pillars ; I, all the while, in fearful com- munion with saints and angels. We live many lives in one ; hut the first life is never quite superseded. I saw you, 'J'horndale, in one of our rambles, cast a long and lingering look at a little monastery seen in the distance, half hidden amongst the trees. Thomdale, if you and I could cease thinking for one whole day, we might, as the sun declined, walk arm in ann together into such a monastery, THORNDALE. "V\Tiat should we do if we began to think again when the doors had once closed upon us 1 Guarantee me from such a relapse, and I, for one, have no philosophy that I could not willingly exchange for the devotional life of a believing monk. CLARENCE. And I !— Oil that I had " words that bum," that I might express my indignant protest, Thomdale, against the senti- ment you haA'C uttered ! The sincere piety, the deep and wounded feelings, which have led men to such retreats, shall have from me due honour and respect. But to see God as the monk sees him ! — nature shut out — and the beauty and the love of woman no longer recognised as Heaven's choicest gift — from my point of view, it Avere a black ingnxtitude. CHAPTER VI. LAST DAY WITH SECKEXDORF DESULTORY CONVERSATION ON THE ANIMAL CREATION AND ON MAN. Occasionally Seckendorf would treat Clarence and myself to some exposition on his own especial sciences, physiology and comparative anatomy, and sometimes we all three ])lunged together into the abyss of metaphysical discussion. Hut Seckendorf avoided in general, what he called profes- sorial talk ; he liked to meet us on a level common to all ; he liked to follow up, sometimes with a sportive freedom, the suggestions of the moment. The day before I took my departure from these two philo- sophic friends, the weather happened to be so very fine, and so very warm withal, that Ave spent nearly the whole morn- ing, loitering or lying down together on the borders of th(^ lake, and under the shadow of the trees. I think if a Jioswell had been amongst us to take do^vn the conversation of Seckendorf, he would have collected the materials for an amusing and a somewhat instructive chapter. The talk was quite desultory, roaming, without any method, over such vast subjects as animal life and human life. I remember noticing that the problems we discussed grew more and more intri- cate as the day advanced. From observations of almost a playful character we found oiirselves carried up into specu- lations on the nature of human consciousness, and of that which in the human being t-v conscious. I don't know whether I figured very well in the dialogue myself, but I shall reproduce my part in it as faithfully as I can. 320 BOOK IV. ClIArTKU VI. As we were reclining Ly tlio calm surface of the lake, suddenly a little spla-sh wa.s seen upon the water ; a fish had risen at a fly. " There was life, then," said I, " under that calm motionless surface." " And death too, it seem.s," said Sockendorf ; " death for the fly. The glitter of the water had attracted the insect, and tlie glitter of the insect the fisli." THORNDALE. I could never understand the mirth, the "laughter," which Spinoza is said to have indulged in, when witnessing tin- contest between the spider and the fly. I can comprehend that so abstract a philosopher would have risen above our natural repugnance, and surveyed very calmly an instance of a general and a wise law of nature — (life surrendered to support other and generally higher life) — but why shoidd the death of the poor fly have occasioned laughter? SECKEXDORF. A philosopher living amongst his abstractions maj' have been glad of anj excuse for a laugh. CLARENCE. I confess I am not philosophic enough to get over my natural repugnance to the spider's method of providing for himself. Some little time ago, on just such a daj' as this, I stood, for shelter from the heat, under the thick branches of an oak-tree. In that thoughtful mood, when the eye con- tinues looking, though we half forget that we are looking, I stood prying into the deep scai-s and seams of the old wi'inkled bark of the venerable tree. A little golden fly comes into view — steals into my field of vision, and is seen w-alking amidst the ridges of the bark. It is one of those delicate creatures, green and gold — name to me unknown — whose long taper transparent wings, when folded, stretch out SPIDER AND FLY. 321 behind and far beyond tlie body. Its slender legs seem to struggle desperately with the rugged bark, which forms a terrible defile to such a pedestrian ; and the lightest breeze tlireatens to blow it out of all steerage, for there is no weight of body to act as ballast against those long golden wings : the whole creature is given up to beauty. As I watch, with a sort of fond curiosity, this veritable fairy of the woods, so delicately picking its way — lo ! her foot has touched the web of a wily spider. Quick as thought the enemy is upon her. In a moment the one drop of' blood which nourished so much beauty in so little space, is gone to sustain the life of this ungainly foe. A sheath sucked dry, with the wings still appended to it, is left fluttering in the assassin's web. SECKEXDORF. Assassin aiid traitor botli ! A clear case of murder. But, according to the law as Thorndale has stated it, this ugly assassin with all this murderous power, ranks higher than the innocuous beauty. I have travelled where I have seen the same tragedy enacted by the giants of the earth ; I have seen the crocodile make the river itself serve him as a decoy or bait by which to entrap all thirsty souls. Along the "White Nile this enormous beast lies in wait for whatever animal thirst brings down to the banks of the stream. The antelope, for all its timidity and fieetness, does not escape. It falls into the jaws of this huge dragon who keeps the river, and levies this horrible tribute. In some parts the overhanging woods are populous with monkeys, a chattering, noisy, most vivacious tribe. They may well chatter ; they are devoured by thirst, and the tempting river Hows below, Init in the river lies the crocodile. I have seen them descend the tree stealthily to drink, l)ut they took only one draught at a time ; they were up the tree again in an instant, for their not sleeping adversary was there to make a mouthful of them if they tarried for a second. I cannot see, I must confess, that the crocodile has any other superiority than that of strength over the creatures he devoui's. I have stood, 322 COOK IV. CHArTKU VI. witli tlu; gr(!at naturalist AuduTioii, on the banks of tli* Mississippi, and witnessed witli him that terrible encount! terrific : the air is filled with their cries. Man himself dc - not escape. The miserable natives of some of these plain.s have to encase themselves in a plaster-coating of white clay ! " SECKENDORF. Ha ! ha ! And if they move too much they crack, and their beautiful coat of mail will fall ofif from our lords of creation. But these are not exactly parasites. Their natural food is dead animal matter, in devouring which they do good ser^ace. They make inroads on the living animal, either because the supply of dead flesh runs short, or the sense wliich guides them to this food does not discriminate be- tween the two. To the musquito we are unfortunately un- distinguishable from carrion. TUORXDALE. AVe must get their carrion food and all con-upting matter out of the way, and so perhaps we shall control these pests — starve them out. But there is stdl the case of the regular parasite. The monkey, for instance, seems always to have a THE PARASITE. 331 colony of fleas quartered on him. He lias not a moment's " quiet possession," as oiu' legal phrase runs, of his own skin. A multitude of invaders, every one as vivacious as himself, are nestling in his fur, and boring into him with unremitting energy. SECKENDORF. If the monkey should go to law upon the subject, he might be told that he never had exclusive right to his own fur. That fur was never meant to keep warm one animal only. Such is not nature's economy. Besides, the monkey owes something of his activity, and something no doubt of his sociality, to this home-bred pest. The social development of monkeys seems very intimately connected with that mutual service they are constantly rendering to each other ; each kindly exploring his neighboiU''s fur, and keeping down an enemy who cannot be altogether exterminated. CLARENCE. Judging by personal experience, I should say that such a visitation could have no tendency to improve the temper of the monkey. I should be disposed to put it in as a plea and excuse for some of that spite he is said to manifest. Though I am far from saying that, upon the Avhole, monkeys are spiteful animals. A visitor to our zoological gardens is cliietly struck by their playfulness. They do not need the combat for the display of their power or agility. SECKENDORF, The games of animals are a simulated combat. Dogs pull each other about as if they Avere biting each other, and the pretended bite generally ends in a real one. And for tlie matter of that, a couple of boys may be seen pulling each other about in play, much like the two dogs ; and here, too, the real bite generally ends the game. You hear the up- roarious laugliter suddenly change into a wail of passinn. 332 DOCK IV. CIIAPTKR VI. THORN DALE. Is it tnio of any race of monkey.s, that wlion they go upon a foraging exjKidition, they phmt one of tlieir number as a sentinel to give warning of the approach of an enemy? If so, there must be some understood compact between the sen- tinel and the rest. They must agree to give him a share of the booty. On no other ground can I believe that a hungry monkey would stand sentinel while the rest took the nuts. On the other hand, if our sentinel monkey deserted his post, martial law of the strictest kind woidd, no doubt, be executed upon him. I see a much closer approximation to human reason in an act like this (presuming it to be done occasion- ally, and when a real danger required it), than I do in those marvels of instinct, so frequently alluded to, of Bees and Ants, where the action of the insect appears to be (|uite automatic. I suspect that the " oldest inhabitant " of the hive knows as little of that complicated polity which the naturalist so justly admires, as any single petal or anther in a flower, of that order and arrangement Avhich call forth the admii'ation of the botanist. SECKEXDORF. I have had no opportunity of testing the story of the monkey. Kor am I aware whether any one has observed how far the conduct of the animal is modified by the actual circumstances of the case — which would be the interesting point to determine. I do not see why the story, as generally told, should not be true. At the same time, there are no class of men so given to see with the imagination as natu- ralists. The temptation is so great to find an analogy to human conduct in the actions of the other animals, that I would not trust my own observation upon a single case, and where there was anything extraordinary in the fact. I shoidd never build any reasoning on what I had observed only once. Eut in truth, the facts that lie open to every one are the RELATION OF ANIMALS TO MEX. 333 most wonderfiU, are those that startle us most into reflection. !N"or is it where animals differ from us, but where they re- semble us, that they become the greatest source of perplexit3^ Your own little dog sees you, remembers you, loves you — does nothing but loves — is a perfect cherub in all but form. Here you have, in the language of metaphysics, perception, memory, passion ; and you cannot watch his actions for five minutes without giving him credit for some judgment. This carries you far onAvard in the develojiment of a human mind. THORXDALE. Bufi'on has somewhere made the remark, that we should be much greater mysteries to om-selves if there were no other animal on the face of the earth but man. I must confess, that whatever other benefits we derive from the lower animals, they seem to me to make the nature of our own being still more mysterious and perplexing than it would have been if Ave had stood alone in creation. They help to civOise man. Ill could he spare these felloAv-inhabitants. Xo horse to carry him ; no ox to plough for him ; no dog to keep him company; no troop of birds to socialise the very air; no gliding fish to animate the waters. It is not very clear how he would have ever civilised himself without them. But in the inquiry into our own spiritual or mental nature, they become very embarrassing objects. If there had been no other animal than man, Avith A\'hat confidence Avould he have looked upAvards and around him ! Hoav clearly Avould he have recognised in himself his owm spiritual and godlike nature ! 8ECKEXD0RF. One is not quite so sure of that. He Avould have lost all that sense of elevation Avhich arises from comparison Avith creatures in some respects similar to himself, l)ut vastly inferior. In early times especially, the difficulty Avas to get the man to think highly of himself. Had there been no animals, he Avould not certainly have Avorshipped bulls, and apes, and 334 BOOK IV. CIIAPTKI! VI, serpents, Ijiit lie might have Avor3lii})peel still more devoutly the oak and the onion. The vegetable world might have seemed to him the especial manifestation of that god — wliich he does not first of all seek in himself. He might have tliroAvn himself down at the foot of the tree, and worshipped there. TIIORXDALE. There ranst he some essential distinction between the con- sciousness of man and the consciousness of all other animals. What say you, Seckendorf, on the vexed question of Instinct? If animals resemble us in their perceptions and their passions, they appear to have a dilierent mode of Ideation. A bird builds a nest, who never saw a nest, and builds it as well the first year as the second. Is this some complicated play of sensibilities peculiar to the animal, prompting it to actions the result of Avhich it does not foresee 1 Or has the bird some peculiar mode of ideation, and so forms the imagina- tion of a nest without being indebted to its eyes or memory "? Both these theories have been upheld in our own times by very distinguished men. SECKENDORF. I will explain to you this inventive instinct of animals, if you wUl explain to me that process of thought called inven- tion in the human beuig. To me it seems they do not essen- tially differ. AVhat we call invention in the man, seems to me to be a succession of instincts ; what we call instinct in the animal, to be one limited or completed invention. I notice that, in speaking of human design, two very difTer- cnt things are often confounded. A watchmaker, who never invented anything in his life, is still said to make a watch from design ; he works after a type or pattern that he has learnt and studied, and wliich was the residt of other men's invention. The watchmaker who invents a new escapement is also called a designer. This last is the only case of real design or invention. INSTINCT AND INVENTION. 335 Xow, when a man first uses any means to an end, lie does not work from experience ; he does something which lie had never seen done before ; he thinks something which he had never thought before. "\Miat is this but a new combina- tion of thought, of which he can give us no possible account, except that it comes to him % "VATiat is it but an instinct ] When he acts a second time in the same way, uses the same means to the same end, we call it memory, knowledge. Eut now, if he adds other new means, and so complicates or advances his invention, what is tliis but a succeeding instinct ? The invention comes to the man just as it comes to the bird, but it comes once for all to the bird ; it comes piecemeal, and again and again, to the man. The instincts of the man are cumulative, and he is consequently a pro- gressive creatm'e. In works of natural theology, the word Design is used in the limited sense of working from a model. It is perhaps wise to keep out of view what is implied in the formation of the model itself. The first man who built u]) four walls of mud, and put a roof upon them to defend himself from the cold, had no type to work from. He and the bird were on an equality then ; they both worked from ins])iration, and in the first essay the bird beat the man. The difiurence lies here, that the bird's instinct does all at once — the man's instinct works on, and still he has .new inspirations. To speak more simply, the power of forming new combinations, which exhausts itself in one act in the bird, is relocated again and again by the man. jMen have invented few things more surprising or more beautiful than the ship, as we now see it sailing along the sea. The shipwright who at this moment proceeds to build such a ship, may never have designed or invented anytliing in his life. He may be a mere copyist. The design of that ship from which he proceeds to Avork was a long while grow- ing up — it grew by a succession of real inventions, of original combinations and now actions, which (if the word is ]ier- missible at all) may be called instinctive movements. The man lives in nature, but onlv to the nature of the 336 nOOK IV. — CHArTEU VI. nmn can we a,sciil)e that lie put.s togetlior thus, or tlm.s, tlio objects presented him by nature. He saw that wood float^^d in tlie water — he sat astride upon the wood — lie hollowed it into a boat — he bound pieces of wood together for a raft — he took advantage of the wind, and hoisted a sail — he con- trived the paddle and the oar. At each step, here is an original activity you cannot explain to me by experience. You may call it, if you please, his human instinct. THORNDALE. In short, you do not admit any radical distinction between the animals and man in this matter of instinct. Both have instincts, if such is tlie expression we are to use. The animal has a limited mind that comes rapidly to its perfection ; the man has an indefinite growth of mind, or a developed suc- cession of instincts. "Well, I will think over this proposition. I like that idea which the comparative anatomist has given us, that, uj) to a certain 2)oint, the human being may be seen thrown piecemeal, as it were, upon the rest of the creation ; that in him such separate portions are gathered up and united. Here are animalcules Avliich have just the life that the red corpuscles of the blood may be supposed to have. Other creatures are a mere stomach ; others grow and move, but have no special sense. If they have that of touch, they want that of vision. Others, again, have the marvellous eye, but no memory for any image it has given them. — And yet I cannot but think tliat there is, from the commencement, some radical distinction between the consciousness of man and all other animals. This is often expressed by saying that man alone has 6'e//-consciousness. The consciousness of his Ego, of his spiritual personality, blends with, or is an essential factor in, every mental state. "NMiat are you so intent upon, Clarence 1 What botanical specimen have you gathered there 1 Is it for the herlxirium, or the sketch-book ? CLAREXCE. For neither. I crathcred this leaf of the wild hvacinth t'> THE CATERPILLAR. 337 look closer at the caterpillar that is crawling upon it. I wonder whether this worm hero has any memory. It en- joys its slow movement over the green leaf, wliich it feeds on, and travels over, at the same time. I rather grudge liini the leaf, but I suppose that the most ungainly insect that feels, belongs to a higher order in creation than the most beautiful plant. So let our caterpillar eat his way onward without reproach. He has a sensational life, of a quiet, not of a brilliant character; I should not think he had memory. His relations with the external world are so fcAV, simple, and constant, that he has no need or use for memory. "Why remember the green food it fed on yesterday, or the moist earth it glided over ? The same moist earth and the same green food are still present to the much more viA'id sense. Always the same instinct suffices. It has nothing to learn, and the dangers that beset it are such as it could not possibly provide against. Its little feet move at contact with the ground, and the mouth opens at the proximity of the stimu- lating diet. A few feelings — not a single thought — no personality, or none but what comes and goes with each perception, — what a strange existence ! See ! he lifts his head into the air as if with some vague prophetic notion that he will by-and-by take possession of that element ; for he is but a sort of embryo all this while. The butterfly could not be formed in the small egg ; at least it was not : a little worm creeps out, and grows, as it feeds, into the butterfly. And when one looks again, it fully justifies this embryonic character, sleeping and feeding nuu'h as if all its business Avas to grow. Soon it will coil anil work itself into something like a larger egg, and there com- plete its growth — what we call its transformation. '\\''ings will be given to this slow creature, and long and vigorous legs, and an eye of greater ])Ower, and a brain to correspond. AVill it have memory then ] TUORXDALE. Xot much, I am afraid, if, like its brethren of the moth Y 338 BOOK IV. — CUAPTER VI. t.rihe, it can again and again rush into the bright flame that burns and destroys it. CLARENCE. It feeds now upon the leaf ; it will be sporting then from flower to flower. " A fairy passing through a garden," says my child's story-book, "plucked a blossom from the sweet- pea, and threw it sportively into the air; and the fairy bid it fly and feed itself on the nectar of other flowers. And so it did. And behold ! the seed that would have formed in the calyx of the plant, formed in the body of the flying flower. But this seed, this egg, would not take root in the soil; from it there crept a living moving stern, that grew moving on the face of the earth. And behold this stem became a hud or chrysalis, and from the bud came forth again the flying blossom. Seed, stem, bud, blossom, are th\is for ever put forth in succession by our living flower." SECKENDORF. Your child's story-book tells the matter prettily enougL CLARENCE. Is it not as if the type of the plant had been followed when nature proceeded to the insect] — Do you think anything satisfactory has been made out of the development hypothesis? SECKENDORF. "Wliich hypothesis do you mean ? The hypothesis that a change in external circumstances may have modified existing organisations, and these modifications may have been trans- mitted to their posterity — will not carry us far in explaining that series of new creations Avhich geology has revealed to ns. You cannot explain in tliis manner the very structure, limbs, nerves, and susceptibilities of an animaL This opera- tion of external circumstances implies that certain organs THEORIES OF DEVELOPMENT. 339 and sensibilities are already there. For instance, you may account in tliis way for many changes and modifications in the canine race ; but there must have been something of a dog to begin with ; you could not account for his four legs and his susceptible nose. CLARENCE. There must be a process of forviative growth — growth of the very organism itself from some jjlasma — before we can come to the action of the inorganic world upon the organic. SECKENDORF. So it seems. Then there is the more modest hypothesis which the embryologist has suggested to us — that this pro- cess of formative growth has been advanced from stage to stage by additions and varieties made in the embryo of some existing animal. This merely asserts that the egg, or the uterus, of an existing animal has been the workshoij or scene of nature's plastic operations. Presuming that certain forms of animal life were coeval with our planet, then the new species which have successively appeared are supposed to have been produced by a development or further growth of the embryo of an existing creature. This does not remove the operation of external circumstance, because the suj^posi- tion is tliat this further development AVould not take place except Tinder some appropriate change of circumstance. ]5ut it makes no attempt to show how change in external circum- stance could influence this process of formative growth. If we must have an hypothesis, I suppose tliis last is the best we can form ; but, for my own part, I have long ago learnt to remain simply ignorant where I can get no know- ledge. How do I know Avliat modes of growth or develop- ment may have prevailed in remote e])ochs ? CLARENCE. Tliat new creatures liave, from time to time, been intro- 340 BOOK IV. — CHAPTKn vr. chicofi upon tho earth, is, I suppose, iinlisputablc. Now T cannot imagine! that some tine day a horse came tlying through the air, down from tlie skies, like Ariosto's hippogriff — that it alighted on some gi-een hill, there shook off its wings, and straightway began to graze. A flight of winged hulls, for instance, even with the aid of the Assyrian sculptures, I find a very difficult suhject for the imagination. Nor can I ac- quiesce even in the picture which the poet gives us who saw the lion rising out of the earth — " pawing to get free Ilis hinder parts." Therefore, if I am to form any conception whatever of an event that must have transpired on this earth, I know not what other to adopt than this which you have been last describing : That here and there, where the sun lay brightest, or Avhere volcanic action had sujiplied some reepiisite change, or new material — where the suitable condition, in short, of the inorganic was found — nature pushed on her operation in this or that embryo of a living animal to some further stage of develoj)ment. THORXDALE. Xature gives us no commencements ; most completely are all begumings hidden from us. Men, when they framed their old cosmogonies, showed how strong is the disposition to herjin at the hcfjlnning ; but at the beginning we never do begin. SECKENDORF. Neither beginning nor end do we ever catch sight of. Some small portion of the thread, as it passes from the distaff to the shears, we handle and examine ; but to lis it comes out of darkness and goes into darkness. ^Ul our boasted science begins and ends in mere abrupt and blank bewilderment. Our physical science has no other basis than a sensation we have in common with that worm which Clarence is still THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE WORM. 341 admiring, and which feels, we presume, the resistance and support of the substance that it is crawling over. We can give just as little account of substance itself as that worm. Matter is to us that w^hich we touch. Try and construct what shall seem a more positive or scientific definition, and you will find it labour in vain. We proceed with our science from just that point where Ave stand side by side with the^worm. We take the clue in our hand from the same point, and cannot take a single step backwards. If you are puzzled and discontented with the definition of the atom, you perhaps fly to the more subtle notion of a force. Force shall be your first element. But what concep- tion have you of physical force that does not resolve itself into the idea of motion 1 And how conceive of motion un- less you have something to move % You are driven back to the atom. You resume the aiom, this minimum of substance or ex- tension ; and you are involved again in the old perplexity ; you have no mininmm, you have no atom. Matter, at last, is that which you. touch ; or which, if your organ were delicate enough, you might touch. THORNDALE. So then we begin our knowledge, as well as our life, Avhere the worm begins, and it is the continuous develop- ment we are called on to admu-e in man. He is the summit of all animal life. Such view has its attraction, but I could never embrace it. I must not say that it leads to ^laterial- ism, for you will not know anything about Matter in itself; but vital and mental properties are inextricably interlaced, and I have lost siglit of the independent soul of man. SECKENDORF. Thorndale, have you ever seen an idiot — ever looked well at the creature as it stood before you — man in limbs, in senses, in appetites, in some passions — man no further I 34-2 nOf)K IV. CIIAPTICH VI. CiTt.iin vital ])rn|)crtit^H in that ln'iul of his aro doficinnt. I think oni! idiot hnnihh'.s ns all. IlfTf, in these beautiful valleys of Switzerland, amongst these sid)limitie.s of nature, is born the (jretin. lie has, or may have, all his .senses ; he can see, touch, hear, more or less perfectly ; but his bniin is malformed, or an impure blood deteriorates its growth, or fails to supply some appropriate stimulant. He learns noth- ing ; makes no mon; advance than the cattle in the stall; child always, let his age be what it may. A pious Mahom- etan would tell us that his soul is in heaven, and on this account would invest the poor creature with a sort of sanctity. A strange superstition ! — gentle, if not ■wise. Meanwhile the disease of the Cretin is sometimes par- tially curable. As the physician conquers the malady — as a jiurer blood is produced — as this and that tissue is restored or raised to its normal susceptibility — lo ! a glimmer of the soul appears ! The Mahometan would, I suppose, tell us that the physician is summoning it from heaven. To the physician it seems very clear that the animal health he has partially restored was that missing link in the great estab- lislied order of development, without which there could be no higher thinking tlian the idiot had displayed. I pretend not to say what there is besides matter con- cerned in the human consciousness. I know not even what this matter is ; but I do see this connection you speak of between vital and mental properties. And the difficulty of separating the two has been so felt of late, that I notice in more than one quarter a revival of the old hypothesis, that the soul is not that only which thinks and feels, but that vital power also which grows the very organism by which it feels and thinks. The hypothesis has at all events the merit of recognising the only truth we really have attained — the necessity of this organism as a condition of consciousness. But on this beautiful summer day we -will have nothing so cralibod as talk about materialism. Let us be all soul if you will. Do I not constantly say that it is the Imagina- tioix — the power to combine what sense and memory give us into unrealities — that forms the vivacity and movement of IMAGIXATIOX. 343 our intellectual life ; and shall I pass my days in disputing against tliese fair iinrealities 1 Delusion ! ^^^ly, the very best of human life is that which every one but the happy dreamer himseK recognises to be a delusion. What an egregious delusion is that exaggerated preference which the lover gives to one simple damsel beyond all others ! "What a delusion is the love of fame ! That posterity shall praise me ! That people who do not yet exist shall shout the name of one who has ceased to exist ! "What a sublime folly ! Even the ambition which occupies our sternest manhood is often a chase after some dignity, title, position, which owes its charm to the imagination. What can mere ceremony profit a man 1 If twenty men stand bareheaded in a row as I pass by, is my head any the warmer 1 Perhaps I too must go bareheaded, for honour must be honourably received. Yet for something like this the strongest of us all toil, and intrigue, and contend for years together. Throughout our whole existence our brightest moments are due to some con- viction which we should smile at in another — some belief, which the calm and critical observer is pronouncing to be a delusion. Prom youth to age it is all aUke. My Romeo begins his career by seeing Heaven's angel in a soft and silly girl, and ends it by descrying Heaven's messenger in a dull and stupid priest, I have seen a torpid, clownish, unclean man, impenetrable himself to any gleam of thought, infuse, by his mummery and his mumbling, such a rapture of hope in my poor dying patient — such an ecstasy and sense of beatitude — as all the jirofessors in all the univei-sities of Europe could not nave distilled from their philosophy to reward the wisest and best of mankind. TIIORXDALE. Seckendorf, do let us have the truth — if we can get it — whatever sober or saddening aspect it may wear. If delu- sion comes in its stead, it comes to those who think it trutli. Let Truth be mistress of the world to each one of us. If it be true that this marvellous organism is ourselves — ;i44 BOOK IV. CHArTER VI. is the very suhjf.ct tliat feels, percc;ives, rcmfinibers — let U8 recof^niso this stranj^e truth. I heard you say the other day, that the only stateineut you couM make was simply this : " That certain properties tlo exist in certain organs, nerves, muscles, and that the combination of these makes the man ; it heing, however, the law of the organism that each of these organs or properties requires the coexistence of other organs and properties — the organic being essentially a whole." According to this statement, the unity of my being is pre- cisely of the same character as the unity of any organic creature on the face of the earth. A certain consensus or harmony of movements and sensations in a slug or a frog, constitutes the unity of that creature. A consensus of the same kind, though of far more numerous feelings, move- ments, &c., constitutes the unity of the man. Well, I would accept such a description of our nature if it seemed to me true, and follow it out to its legitimate con- sequences. But it is not true. My consciousness, at least, reports to me a quite different unity. I am one, because the same personality — the same I myself — the same subject, as our metaphysicians term it, runs ever through all states of consciousness. This constant Ego, present in every cogni- tion, constitutes my unity as man — as a thinking being. Here, too, I see a proof, or rather an intuition, of my spirit- ual nature. That this undeniable Ego thinks through, or by means of, a multifarious organism, seems also true. And if I once for all admit that the brain is, during this life, the indispen- sable instrument of thought, how can I be affected by the thousand instances you might bring before me of iU-health or cerebral injury influencing the current of my thought ? How can any array of facts of this kind compete with the constant ceaseless voice of my consciousness proclaiming at each moment the / am — proclaiming, in short, my spiritual being ? Often have I said that I might be brought to join the school of Berkeley and of Fichte, but I could never undei-stand that matter thinks — or that this body, which is in constant change — (the very particles of matter that are OUR PERSONALITY. 345 supposed to be active in tliought, flying off even as the thought is produced, for a certain decomposition and reconi- position attends every vital function) — tliat this body is tlie / myself. SBCKENDORF. Every muscle, or nerve, constantly changes, yet continues to be a muscle, or nerve, and retains all the pecidiar sensitive- ness, or suppleness, which exercise hud produced. " Matter cannot think — inert matter," as we hear it said, " cannot think." Certainly not. Inert matter cannot move. It is moving matter that moves. It is growing matter that, in the vegetable, grows. If your definition of matter is limited to some one property, Avhich all matter, at all times, displays, your definition cannot help us much. The property of ex- tension leads us no farther — than the property of extension. If your definition is to embrace all properties, which matter at any time, under any circumstance, may manifest — me- chanical, chemical, vital properties — then it is evident that such a definition must be the last result of all our know- ledge. Whether the property of sensibility or feeling sliall be added to those already enumerated, is precisely the ques- tion we should have to discuss. I notice you adopt the expression so frequently used, the brain is the instrument of the mind. ]>e it so. But it is an instrument of that curious order that takes the initiative. You sleep, and in your sleep you dream. I need not point out the difference between the bodily condition of sleeping and waking. Perhaps to describe all the jioints of difference would be a very difficult imdertaking. Suffice it that there is a marked difference. And now, without dis- puting the existence of your spiritual ens, is it not evident tliat there is a very peculiar mode of thinking, — wliat Ave call dreaming, — the result of fliis peculiar condition of the vital organism 1 I do not want to wrangle abdut w.nils to Avhich I can attach no distinct meaning. If you admit that the mind thinks only throtigh the organism — that it thinks according 340 nooK IV. CIIM'TEIl VI. to tlic condition of thi.i orj^anism — and that tliat condition is dtttmnint'd by organic or vital law.s — you admit all the ffjLct>s I have to contend for. I, for my part, do not find myself much enlii,'hteney the introduction of the word Mirid to signify — not the entirencss of my consciousness — hut the occult cause of it — the new suhstantia in which it is said to inhere. What a long talk we have had ! and it has oscillated from tlu^ animals to man with a regularity somewhat singular. "NVe must l)reak up our camp. Come Clarence ! — "What are you extracting from that leaf which you still contemplate so earnestly 1 The caterpillar, I observe, is gone. CLARENCE. The leaf, they tell us, is the stem expanded ; the stem the closed leaf. Thus, then, by alternate folding and unfolding, an alternate sleeping and waking, does the jilant grow. As the eye of the old man closes in his last sleep, the eye of some infant is somewhere opening for the first time to the light. Here also is a folding and unfolding, an alternate sleeping and Avaking, by which the earthly race of man has its growth. — Come, let us be going. THORXDALE. Go where 1 "Wliere can we better rest than here 1 And what have we better to do than to rest 1 It is still mid-day, and there is not a single cloud in the sky; here we have the shadow of a thousand pines — a light breeze is stealing over the lake — and there lies before us a prospect which the Oljnupian gods might have envied, if the gods of Homer had the taste for such enjoyments. If it does not afflict you very much, Seckendorf, let us carry on our controversy one stage farther. Let me say, in reference to that last obsorvation of yours, that we old-fashioned Dualists do not introiluce the word Mind solely to express the occult cause or substance which we find om-selves compelled to add to OBJECT AND SUBJECT. 347 the material organism, in order to frame some intelligible conception of the thinking being; we also introduce it to express that Subject, that Ego, felt in every state of conscious- ness, to express that which in every language under the sun is implied in the / feel, / see, / think. In every per- ception, just as distinctly as there is an object out there in space, is there intuitively revealed to us a percipient subject — which must be essentially different from any objective reality whatever. Object and subject are inseparably in- volved in the one perception. SECKEXDORF. I must hand you over to younger metaphysicians — my joints are somewhat stiff — to discuss this formidable problem of the Ego, or the object and subject. There are many who, without denying your spiritual ens, controvert your theory of perception, and give a very different account of that sense of personality involved in every state of the consciousness of the mature man. These internal sensations, which fill our body witli pain and pleasure, constitute (I should say) our first A'eZ/- conscious- ness. Our first self is this sensitive body felt in opposition to all other bodies. Self, and not-self, to use the language of the schools, are here both space-occupants. They reveal each other. I cannot conceive of the perception of an ex- ternal object in a creature who has not this self-conscious- ness ; nor of this self-consciousness in a creature who has no perception of the external object. That there is something that is conscious of both order of impressions — that wherever there is feeling and thought, there is something that feels and thinks — is a general projio- sition that we subse(piently make. It is a general proposi- tion of the same kind as that, wlierever sometliing has been done, there was something or someljody tliat did it. "Wliat the something may be that feels, is for after in(]uiry. But this primitive and sensational self (which I presume that every animal having the sense of touch and tlie power 348 BOOK IV. — CHAPTER vr, of voluntarv iiKition must possess) is, in the liuman bfiiij:,', (juit*! ovisrshiulowed and lost sight of in the multitude of lliouglits, nicniories, and anticij)ations which constitute pre- cniini^ntly his consciousness. His thoughts arc the /, the Eut tlirough liis j)ip(;; if you crack his ])ipo, yon crack liis niUHic ; yet wliat i.s tlie jtipe without the living ])n'ath l)lo\vn into it 1 Tlicro i.s no compU-te analogy between an organ of mere animal life and an organ of consciousness. You may attribute the power of contractility directly to a muscle. What is it but motion 1 The whole muscle may continually be under- going change — old matter going off, new matter coming in ; but if similar particles occupy the same relative position to each other, we say that, to all intents and purposes, it con- tinues to be the same muscle — it maintains the same power and suppleness. This is easily understood, for contractility is still nothing but motion ; it can be distributed over every atom of the muscle ; it is but an aggregate of the motion of every individual particle. All life, up to the entrance of consciousness, is l)ut motion and change of form. But we cannot distribute, in like manner, our consciousness through the particles of the brain. Every state of mature conscious- ness implies a jyerception of relation between different objects and feelings. Kow, if we could assign to nerve matter, fihrous or vesicular, certain specific sensibilities, yet these sensibil- ities do not constitute a consciousness (or constitute one of the very loAvest order), unless there is some perception of relationship. Where will you ])lace this 1 SECKENDORF. The relationships of position and succession must be felt by every animal to whom we can assign any consciousness whatever. So that, let this perception of relation be as mysterious as you please, it is also, like other great mysteries of nature, familiar enough. Every creature that crawls upon the earth, and is conscious of crawling, must feel these two relations of position and succession. Apparently the brain and the nerves constitute together one organ of many parts ; ami I suppose we must say that it is not the aftection of any one solitary nerve that produces in the brain a recognisable THE DUALISM OF MIND AND MATTER. 353 state of consciousness, but the affection of two or more nerves, felt together, and accomjKinled hy this other feeling of relationship. Pardon me, but it seems a very idle question — to aslv, What atom it is that thinks 1 We certainly know nothing of a thinking atom. "VVe knoAV only of an organism Avhich we must accept here as our unit. "VNHiat atom is it that lives ? — that grows in the vegetable, that secretes in the animal ? The same oxygen or hydrogen that was formerly a component part of earth and water, is now a component part of a vegetable or animal. It has entered into new re- lations with other matter, and the new whole is invested with new properties. It is to this organic whole we assign life. It is to this some of us assign consciousness. Life and con- sciousness blend so gradually the one into the other, we know not, in fact, how to separate them. That uniti/ you speak of is but the result of harmony, and our sense of con- tinuity. And why am I to require for the that ichich thinks a more 2)er7na7ient nature than the thought itself? If the brain is incessantly changing, is not the thought incessantly changing also 1 Does it not subside with sleep or fatigue, and revive with renovated strength 1 Every consciousness lasts apparently just so long as the brain remains in the same state — just so long as certain relationships are kept up amongst its moving and changeful particles. If that re- lationship cease or alter, the consciousness ceases or alters ; in some slight degree it is always altering. There seems to be a strict correspondence here between the manifestation of the property and that vital organism in which we say it is manifested. This rainbow lies in the sjiray of the fountain, so long as the light strikes, at due angle, tlie falling water. Let the water cease to fall, or the undulating light to How into it, and our rainbow drops. So it is : — " Our cloud of dignity Is held from falling by so weak a wind ! " As to that which is so often described as the effect of mind z 3.')1 nooK IV. CHArTEU VI. on Iwdy, it fidinits of a far inoro, hic'ul f'Xi)]anation as the fUV'ct of onn part of tlu; or<,'.iiiisation upon another. (Jojifcss, 'J"h( midair', it is not a ".scifntifio necessity" — it is not tlic aid it affords to a .scientific exposition, that induces you to cling to this sjnritual en-^ It is a theological neces^ sity ; it is the aid it renders to religion, and especially to the doctrine of immortality. You need something to carry out hcyond tlie world — beyond the circle of nature — beyond the attraction of our earth. It is this which determines the comidexion of your metaphysics ; and let it be so, Thomdale, now and always. A religious creed is something in the hap- piness of a man ; a metaphysical system nothing at alL TIIORXDALE. I certainly shoiild regret to find myself compelled to adopt any conclusion adverse to a belief in the immortality of the soul. But if I know myself, this reluctance or recoil has had no undue influence on my judgment here. And, more- <)ver, I will add this, that though the doctrine of the im- materiality of the thinking being lends itself readily to the belief of immortality, or of a perpetuated consciousness, yet materialism itself (to one who believes that all is created by ( Jod) is not absolutely repugnant to that faitL The power which created our consciousness here on earth, could re-create it elsewhere. The question, " material or immaterial," may not, after all, be of so much theological importance as is generally supposed. For if, on the one hand, matter itself be nothing else, in our last conception of it, than a mode of divine action — one manifestation of divine power; and if, on the other hand, we cannot attribute to mind, or soul, self-existence, but must always regard it as upheld by its Creator ; it follows that we rest as tlirectly on the power and will of God, whether we call ourselves materialists or im- materialists. If it is a thinking hody, and not a thinking soul, that God has created here, He may create elsewhere another thinking body to perpetuate this consciousness, just as Well as He could uphold and transport a thinking souL THE DUALISM OF MIND AND MATTER, 355 I can detect nothing absurd in the idea of the creation of another organism to carry on and perfect the consciousness developed here — that consciousness which is the great result, so to speak, of the whole world. We in Christendom gener- ally believe in the resurrection of the body, "VSTiat can this be but a new creation, according to quite other laws of creation than are hitherto displayed ? "\\Tiat is this but a new organism, in which are to be revived the memories of the old ? If the body is to be re-created, at all events, we have introduced no additional marvel when we suggest that it may be re-created at once in another region of the uni- verse. To the behef in immortality it is not, therefore, absolutely necessary that we take anything out of this world, material or immaterial, ^ATiat is all creation but the act, or manifested power of God ? Where God is, creation is. Pray observe that I do not frame any h}^othesis of this nature, for I do not doubt the existence of an immaterial spirit which survives the body, and which probably is cap- able of consciousness in its separate state ; but when difficul- ties are suggested to me as to this immaterial spirit — when it is suggested to me that apparently this immaterial essence requires the union of an organic frame in order to he the seat of consciousness — when it is siiggested that it would be of little use to carry out beyond the sphere of gravity this Jialf of a thinking man — when it is still further suggested that this organic frame may be all the thinking man, — then I reply, what need to carry forth anything beyond the sphere of gravity, or away from the earth 1 The Power that produces can reproduce : the Power that produces a con- sciousness here, can reproduce it elsewhere. Where God if creation is, or may he. SECKEXDORF. Well, well, I suppose it may be granted tliat one wlio holds to the doctrine of the resurrection, or re-croation of the body here, might easily accept this other doctrine of its re-creation elsewhere. But is there, or was there ever, any 356 BOOK IV. CIIAPTEU VI. sect who Ix'linvpd in tliis rf.siirrection of the hody, who did not also l)t'licvo in a pennaiieiit .spiritual ms for whose ser- vice the body was restored ? TOORNDALE. l*crhap.s not. But if you take from men this permanent e//.s-, and still leave them, as you must, tlieir present thoughts aiul asitiratious, you will soon have sucli a sect. CLARE>'CE. ^Mcanwliile we are not driven, Thorndale, either to join, or found, this new sect of E,c-creationists, I defy all the science of the physiologist, aided by the subtlest metaphy- sics, to frame any intelligible machinery for the human con- sciousness without introducing into the material organism tliis other entity we call mind. I am asked if I attribute it to the animals, the dog, the horse 1 "Well, what if I admit that the dog and the horse must have sometliing jjZ*« a nxaterial organism 1 Am I to conclude that there is nothing intermediate between moving matter and a human soul 1 or that every substance of the nature of mind must be endued with that immortality which, on quite other than physical grounds, we ascribe to the human soul ] As to the subtle question about the E'jo, which you two have been discussing, I confess that I myself have been un- decided. Sometimes I have thought, with Thorndale, that there is involved in the simplest perception this relation of ohject and subject ; so that in one and the same act the existence of the external world and that of our own soid is revealed. At other times I have agreed, Seckendorf, with you, that this / does but represent our memories, our ante- cedent and habitual thouglits, with some of wliich every present object, whether of sense or thought, is sure to be related. It represents the constant union of the past and tbe jiresont ; it represents this indisputable fact, that the feel- ing, the perception, the imagination of the present moment seckexdorf's lecture. 357 derives its character, in most cases, from some relation it bears to our antecedents. It represents in an especial manner that part of my consciousness I call my "will, which again is as a point between past and future. But though a direct appeal to the consciousness may not decide our spirit- ual or non- material nature, I hold that there is no truth which our reason and reflection more distinctly affirm. It seems to me utterly incredible, and the most monstrous of suppositions, that the brain should be itself absolutely the thinking being. You will not allow me to import phren- ology into our argument, nor have I any wish to do so, but there are certain elementary truths of phrenology that are taught by every physiologist. I heard you yourself saj'' on one occasion, and I quite acquiesced in the expression, " I am a phrenologist, — waiting a phrenology." There are certain different functions fOr different parts of the brain, just as there are for different nerves ; and I want to know how you will reconcile this with the unity of the consciousness, un- less you admit that these nerves, these cerebral organs, are subservient, and administer to a mind that sits central amidst them, or permeates them all. You wiU wait long enough, Seckendorf, for a phrenology, if you wait for a scheme which will represent to us, in an intelligible manner, a congeries of organs as the veritable thinker. People often accuse phrenology of leading to materialism; I invite the materialist to frame his system of phrenology. Look, Thorndale, Ave have roused our old philosopher ! lie raises himself upon his elbow; — "rears from off the pool his mighty stature ; " — noAV expect the thunder. SECKENDORF. I see I must play the lecturer. There are two schools of philosophy, — there are two hun- dred, you will perhaps exclaim, — but there are two, from which all others branch, pre-eminently distinguished l)y their different methods, by the different paths they pursue in this inquiry into the nature of man. 358 BOOK IV. CHAPTER VI. Tlic disciple of the one starts from oljj<;rtive nature, and if ho conimences liis in([uiiy witli some nijcdful self-examina- tion, he soon finds that the knowledge which hia senses give him of the external world, is (nal activity 1 And is it not a general law of most vital actions, tliat exercise tends to strengthen and to procure their repeti- tion 1 Wliat we call the law of habit very extensively pre- vails through all living things. But, you will say, we not only remember, we re-combine, we bring together images or events wliicli never before coexisted or succeeded in our ex- perience, AVe say that one thing or one property suggests another from some similarity, often of a very shadowy de- scription. True ; but this similarity, as a felt relation, can- not be the cause why one idea or one term in our conscious- ness suggests another; because loth ideas, both terms, muH Ite j)rcsent in the conscioitsness before the relatiom-hip is felt. It must be some cause beloic the consciousness that brings these similars together. It must be either the operation of a vital organism, or the mind acting 2«iconsciously. I show you a vital organism, which, stimulated by the very process of nutrition, performs some function that determines the vividness and association of your thoughts. It seems that we have here the unconscious power we are in search of, or all of it we are ever likely to discover. Previous Succession, Previous Coexistence, and this Simi- larity between the objects of consciousness, are the three rela- tions which psychologists give us, as regiilatiug, or, in fact, constructing, our chain of ideas. I have heard you, Clarence, say that you found the perception of these tliree relations, Coexistence, Succession, and Similarity or Dissimilarity, in the most simple state of consciousness — that these relations first bind our sensations into perceptions, and afterwards our perceptions and memories into those looser, but far more complex states of the consciousness, where the relations are still distinctly felt and named, and Avhich we distingush as our reasonings or imaginations. I leave such bold theories to younger heads. But all these psychological speculations, which would account, by a few simple laws, for the asso- ciation of ideas, point to some function of the brain : whether SECKBNDORF S LECTURE. 365 we mean by " association of ideas " the combination of ele- ments, at first separate, into one indissoluble whole, or tlie looser combination of these wholes into groups, where the binding relationship is still distinctly recognised, and its importance felt. THORXDALE. I do not see why the simplification of psychological laws should conduct us down to an operation of the brain. But Clarence's enumeration must surely be deficient. There is the relation of Contrast, as where heat suggests cold. There is the relation of Parts to a whole, the great favourite of the logician. SECKENDORF. Clarence is mute. I suppose I must answer for him, that the relation of Parts to a whole is another form of that of Coexistence. "WTiat is generally called suggestion by Con- trast is, I apprehend, carried on (as so many of our opera- tions are) by the aid of language. Heat itself woidd not suggest cold, but such relative terms as hot and cold, being constantly brought together, would suggest each other, and so bring about the association which seems one of contrast, but which would be really one of coexistence or succession. So far as contrast is a direct law of thought, it is merely a negation or denial of the other relations. Coexistence, Succes- sion, and Similarity. Number and magnitude — all that the mathematicians deal with — are but relations of succL'ssion and position, which last is a form of coexistence. All ex- perimental science is founded on the observed order or suc- cession of events ; and that anticipation of the future Avhich guides and prompts us as rational beings, and is indeed the very life of our lives, is based on the same relationship of succession. So that Clarence's three relations would carry us pretty well over the whole field of knowledge. But I would rather keep clear of the psychologist and his theories. Let us return to commonjilace facts. In times past, Dreaming was held to be a proof that the soul thought 366 HOOK IV. CIIAI'TEU VI. indopcndeiitly of the body. As matters are now understood, it comes })ef<)re ns as a very signal proof of the dependence of thouglit on tlie state of the body. In the state of sleep, the brain, we may fairly presume, is only partially or im- perfectly in action, but it may be roused to very vivid action of some kinds, while others arc suspended. All the pecu- liarities of the dream correspond with this limited activity of the cerebral organ. Strange enough this state of dreaming. Tliere lies your philosopher motionless — his eyes closed, and his other senses more or less suspended. Sleep has many different degrees, and in even what is called sound sleep, many sensations may still be excited ; and an indigestion, or an uneasy couch, may stimulate the brain to some imperfect action. There lies your philosopher in his sleep, dreaming the most absurd impossible things — dreaming himself guilty of some atrocious crime, Avithout questioning a moment how he came to depcart from all his established and reasonable principles of conduct — dreaming of dead friends, and forgetting they are dead — the A-ictim of one train of curious fantastical thought. Xo other thought revives out of aU his wisdom and experience to correct it. His own veritable past lies dead for him. This dream is, indeed, a most limited affair. "NMiat seems superabimdance of power is mere poverty : nothing is present but this phantasmagoria. It is a most limited affair, but we may remark that precisely that power of new combination (pre-eminently spiritual in your view of the case) is the one power that is here so remarkably exercised. "VMiat new events are deAased ! The eye is closed, and the repetitions of the brain take the place of real objects, and these mock perceptions are combined often in the most extraordinary manner. Event follows event in the wildest fashion, but no inquiry is provoked as to the possibility of the sequence. Xo suspicion is aroused at the most astounding absurdities, for nothing biit these absurdities exist in the consciousness ; no other ideas are summoned up to couA'ict them of their folly. The man of science lies there on his back, patiently agaze at the most monstrous phantasms, credulous as an infant. SECKENDORFS LECTURE. 367 Wlien the dreamer wakes, then he remembers liis dream, and calls it Ms, and is aware of all its absurdities. For then the real past of his own life and his former knowledge revive, and with these he both associates and compares the dream. '\Miile the dream was in progress, it was not his; the dream was all ; the blind man was seeing, the deaf man was hearing, the just and humane man was flying for his life as an assassin. We sometimes argue and reason in our dreams, as well as invent incidents; and you must have often observed how the dream approximates in its character to the waking thought, as the sleep is breaking away. Some conditions of sleep, as somnambulism and the trance, would require special examination. But I have dwelt long enough on this topic. To bring before you repeated instances to show the correspondence between the state of the consciousness and the condition of the brain, must surely be needless. THORXDALE. Quite needless. But the effects of sleep, as of intoxica- tion, and of other' bodily conditions you might bring before me, prove no more than what I have already admitted — what all must admit — and Avhat I must persist in calling (till I find some better expression) the instrumental office of the brain. This organ of the brain lies in the domain of nature ; else, I presume, it could not perform its mediatory part. It must be affected by material or vital laws, and the mind nnist suirer with it. SECKEXDORF. One more view of the subject, and I have done. There are not two of these immaterial spirits ; the same that per- ceives and thinks, also feels — feels pain, feels passion. Let us look a moment at the emotional side of our psychical life. You strike a ]KUTot : every feather is milled ; he screams, he beats the air Avith his wings, he aims at you with his 368 liuuK IV. — cUArTEU vi. beak ; oach limb is convulsed ; there is a tumult, yet a hannnny, there is a turmoil of excitement through his whole frame. All this excitement vf his anger. You make no dilhculty here ; y(ni collect all the several emotions lead- ing to, or following upon, these hostile demonstrations, and you call the assemblage the anger of the bird : nor do you need any other seat of these emotions than the body of th<- bird : you do not say, the bird is angry in its mind, and all these sensations ensue, but that the concurrence of all these bodily sensil)ilities and commotions is the anger of the binl. The blow had kindled (precisely how I do not pretend to say) all these violent commotions, whose nature is that each excites a successor, so that the turmoil is likely to increase till the strength of the animal is exliausted, or something occurs to give its energies a new direction. If, some days after, you present yourself before the same parrot, your very presence recalls the blow : you see again his feathers rising ; he again aims at you, and clamoiirs voci- ferously. The same commotions, though probably not "svith the same violence, are repeated ; and again you say they form the anger of the bird. "When I strike a man or a boy, does not his lip quiver, and his hand clench 1 Does not liis whole body tremble with excitement] And does not all this excitement, kin- dled throughout his frame, constitute his anger? He has no other anger than these sensibilities; they are not the product of his anger, they are his anger. And if this man sees me again, or remembers me in my absence, there will be a revival of the same turmoil ; and if he has not some motive for controlling such manifestations, he will again clench his hand, and his lip will again tremble. At all events, the knitted brow, and the fire in the eye, will de- monstrate the internal commotion of the frame. Are not the two cases strictly analogous 1 The control we exercise over such external demonstration, I need not step aside to explain. It is one striking proof of that higher development of thought or reason which forms the great prerogative of man. He has the passions of the SECKENDORF S LECTURE. 369 parrot, and must have them to be 7nan, just as he must have a thought-development of an altogether superior order, or he sinks into a brute. By whatever especial motives it is brought about — cunning or wisdom — feelmgs which, in their original character, prompted to violent movements, may exist, under some modification, in a man still as a statue. Revenge may simulate the greatest cabnness, and the force of habit shows itself here as elsewhere. The feeling appears to retreat within some more limited compass ; it lingers about the region of the heart, the lungs, or the head, where it no longer convulsively stirs the hand or the foot. Men cease to shed tears — at least an Englishman does — yet the feeling that prompted tears, may be not the less acute. The effect of music on the imcivilised and the civilised man will afford no bad illustration. A savage beats some miserable tom-tom, and works himself, by its rhythmical clamour, into a violent passion ; he dances to it Avith all his might. A citizen of London sits at a concert, and hears the most inspiriting music played by a hundred instruments, without moving a limb, or a muscle of his face. Yet something of what the savage felt over his tom-tom, or perhaps a great deal more than the savage felt, is stirring in the more covert regions of his nerves — is, at all events, excited in those lower and central portions of the brain, supposed to be the seat of feeling. To return to our parrot. If, instead of striking him, you feed him with dainties, and caress him gently, he bends his head with pleasure to your touch. Relaxing and pleasant sensations evidently steal through the whole body of the bird, and gentle emotions prompt him to move blandly towards you. If afterwards you only present yourself before him, he will approach with all these signs and demonstra- tions of pleasure. You say the bird knows you, and you do not scruple to say that, so far as a bird can feel at all, it loves yoiL Its love for you is made up of all these pleasur- able emotions, prompting to gentler actions. And now look at a little human child. See how it dances, laughs, and shouts ! Every part of its most delicate and impressible frame is tlu'illing with pleasure. All this is 2 A 370 BOOK IV. CIIAPTEn VI. its J03'. It has not a. joy tliat nianiffsts itsolf in these sen- sations, but all these vivid sensations, prompting to move- ment, and also called forth by movement, constitute its joy. It is a vivid happiness, to which ever)' part of the frame seems to have contributed; the little legs and arms, the throat, the lungs, the eye, the tongue are all busy. As yet rellcction has .-ubdued nothing, nor called in all these flutter- ings to the central lieart. The catise of the child's joy — the event that stirred this pleasant tumult of a thousand nerves — may be slight enough; some toy, some novelty, some promise or expectation, whose charm is not discernible to the thick vision of a man ; and in common parlance Ave some- times call this the joy of the child. Eut it is not the first stroke upon the bell ; it is the Avhole ringing peal, the whole harmonious chime that is set agoing, which constitutes its joy. And note how a caress, a tone of kindness, strikes upon the silver bell, and how the whole chime, in lower tone and softer cadence, repeats itself. From the gentle hand of the mother comes every gift ; pleasure and joy become love ; and the sweet habit of loving grows on from day to day. In the very young child, love and joy are undistinguishable. Strike often on the silver beU ! you who have these little creatures in your charge. Thus wdl a beautiful, and musical, and loving nature grow up before you. And its grief, — is not the sigh, the sob, the tremor throughout its little frame — or rather the sensibilities that both provoked these and are provoked by them — the very passion of its grief 1 And when the child has grown to be a man, and many sad memories are overpowering him, what is now the state which we call his grief, but these memories, on the one hand, and, on the other, all the distressful feel- ings or sensibilities these memories revive 1 If he no longer sobs, there is a distressful languor felt through the whole system, a painful oppression on the heart, and lungs, and all the organs of life ; and if these sensibilities, when revived by the meditative man, are driven more and more into the neighbourhood of the sensorium, into secret or cerebral re- cesses of feeling, this does not alter their essential nature. SECKENDORFS LECTURE. 371 I have done. And, Avhat is more, I absolutely forliid either of you to reply. We will have no more of this crabbed discussion to-day. And see, we have talked a cloud into the sky ! Let us go upon the lake. Thorndale shall row, as a just punishment for his pertinacity in dragging us into this metaphysical argument ; and he who first speaks a word of philosophy shall take his place at the oar. To the galleys with him ! Agreed, agreed ! CLARENCE. THORNDALE. T>ut it is the same fallacy over again ; and, moreoA'or, I am not bound to admit, and feel no disposition to admit, that it is the same principle or entity within us that feels a pain or a pleasure, and that reasons out the problem of science. — SECKEXDORP. Stop him, stop him ! Bring him away, Clarence. I la, ha ! That is right : gag him with the grapes. AVe all proceeded in a chorus of laughter to the boat. CHAPTEE Yir. THE DIARY CONTINUED THE WATERS ARE DISTURBED. Ox laying down my pen after reviving these conversations witli Seckendorf, I feel, too, a revival of those bewildering and ])ainfid uncertainties Avhich I carried away with me from the conversations themselves. Opposition often gave me at the time a feeling of sta])ility in my opinions which I did not retain when alone. AVhen I left my two philoso- phic champions, the one the champion of Hope, the other of Despondency, I cannot say, like the good pilgrim, that " I went on my way rejoicing ; " for I often paused, and often lost sight of even the marvels of art and nature which Italy Avas disclosing to me, Avhilst perplexing myself with ques- tions which these two champions had only made more diffi- cult of solution. I carried them Avith me hack to England ; and there I found that even my poet-friend, Luxmore, had not escaped from the perplexity and bewilderment of our times. I can- not better express this perplexity than by recalling some of the wild, contradictory utterances of my poet. A true poet in his way of thinking, Luxmore threw him- self energetically into the intellectual position of any writer who had succeeded in interesting him, and made it, for the time, his own. But a permanent, constant scheme of philo- sopliy he never pretended to have attainetL I am far from THE DIART COXTIXUED. 373 saying that this is the nature of all poets ; but with him, "whatever was grand or new, or kindled his imagination in any way, was for the time cordially received. Perhaps E have been almost as much undecided as my poet-friend ; but there was always this difference between us : My indecision was a pain and suffering ; I stood torn by contradictory arguments, not knowing which camp to join; while he rushed into the conflict with the first spear that offered it- self to his grasp — fought both battles — and rode off to other fields and other fights. Such was his nature. He loved truth, but he loved excitement and emotion first of all. One of the last conversations I had with him as we sat together in his rooms, surrounded by a heap of packages — he was preparing for that wilfid voyage of his across the At- lantic — turned upon the nature (so far as we can penetrate it) of the human mind. He was dealing with the same, thoughts that Seckendorf had been expounding, and Avhicli Clarence and I had been assailing. I wish I could catch the half-philosophical, half-rhapsodical manner of the man. He spoke somewhat in this fashion : — " A^^leIl I read the metaj)hijsicians, I am a spiritual entity, a mysterious unit, a one indivisible simple essence, source to myself of my o\n\ ideas. I have entered into this body, into this world ; I am passing through into other worlds, perhaps into other bodies ; I am passing through, as the old Saxon king said, like the bird that flies across the hall, entering from the heavens at one window, departing to the skies at the other. I, in truth, belong to Eternity, and not to Time. "When I read the physiolofji-^ts, I am still a glorious creature, but a creature of a quite different description. ^Vs I ascend, stage after stage, by the aid of the comparative anatomist, through the various developments of life, I start at finding that this vital organism is assuming higher and higher functions, till at length it seems to usurp the place of that spiritual entity I had presumed myself to bo. There where I was accustomed to see the sim]>lost of essences, my mysterious unit, I find the very height of complexity. The 374 BOOK IV. — CIIArTEIt VII, '(Pile and iiiilivi.sihlo' sooiiis now more like death tlian life — for it is ijow the unity of inmuiierable parts, movements, and susceptibilities that cDn.stitutes my idea of a living crea- ture. I tremble to think tliat man himself, instead of being free to come and go, a traveller through nature, may be him- self a i)art of this great wliole of nature — may Vjelong to the World as much as the rainbow and the cloud belong to it, whatever semblance of freedom they put on. Man and nature are one. l^ature is here that man may become con- scious of it. The world is one creation, having its climax or final cause in the consciousness of man. " Jiut why should I say, ' I tremble to think ' 1 ^Vhy use language of this kind 1 If this, and no other, is the nature of my being, I will accept it for such as it is — accept •with gratitude — and acknowledge still that it is a most glorious being. We have these great ideas, great truths, great emo- tions, great aims, however they may be generated. Xor is religion absent. Eeligion — -wiser men than I have said it — is not essentially the relation between this hfe and some other life of mine, but the relation between this very life and God the giver of it. Say that I transmit the great gift to my successor — gift not to be tarnished in my hands — say that I live but to the next sunset, the good is still the good, and the beautiful the beautiful, and God the giver of them both. No man's religion, or morality, is worth much who does not love the good for its own sake, and hate the evil — in other words, who does not love love, and hate hate. " Look abroad through creation — from the lowest to the highest, from the simplest to the most complex — all nature i^* one ! "We speak — and naturally enough — of any animal existing here before us, as if it were a distinct and inde- [•endent individual. And in truth, how each living tiling triumplis in its individuality ! — in its proud sense of self- reliance ! That, too, is one of the great marvels of creation. l'»ut innumerable relations between the li^'ing tiling and the surrounding inorganic world, are not less essential to its I'xisteuce than the relations between the several parts of its own organism. AVhat the animal is, feels, or does, depends LUXMORES RHAPSODY. 375 at each instant on its relations with the eartl), the air, the water, and the sun that rides high out there above us alL Take a vital organism and thi'ow it into blank space — it is nothing. The vitality you place in the organic frame is not, but on condition of the greater inorganic frame that envel- ops it — envelops it as a body over a body. " And now look at man — the masterpiece of creation — and see how large a space, and what a complicated universe, he needs to exist im AVTiy, the whole world is as much his body as his own marvellous frame. "WT^ience comes tliis light along which he lives and feels ? Earth, and the wide air, and the flowing waters, are all parts of his being, ^ot a moment does he live without them : they are present with him in the highest flights of his imagination, in the most concentrated effort of his thought, A tremor of the air upon a nerve is sound; a tremor of some ether, still more widely dittused, upon some other nerve is light. Sound has be- come language, music, eloquence. Light has become beauty, and love, and the written word. You read some philosophic page ; but that tremor of an ether which extends through- out the universe is the light of your eye, and has thus be- come the light of your understanding. That impulse on a nerve, which was the mere sense of sound upon an infant's ear — that other touch, more gentle still, Avhich was the sense of light upon an infant's eye — are with us Avhen we hear ur read the Avisdom of the greatest of men. " Close the eye, shut up the ear, let the exquisite sense of touch die ofi' the sm-face of the body, and what does even thought itself become ] — A mere dream. Is this the spirit you would preserve, if even you could cany it forth from the chamber Avhere the lamp is flickering? '^^^ly struggle to be this independent unit"? It is the condition of your marvellous being, that it requires nothing shurt of a wliulu world for its development. Every living man, in order to preserve his individual existence, must. Like another Atlas, carry off the entire planet on his shoulders. " One may say that the creation grows conscious of itself in man. A\Tiat a glaring and absurd contradiction do our 37G UUOK IV. CUArXEU VII. Lyronic points fall into, when tlify praise nature at the ex- pense of man ! "What is natme till man is there to feel and undcrstaml? "What are suns and stars, mountains and tlie ocean, without the human eye, and that -which lies beliind the eye 1 "What that is which lies hehind the eye — msxvel- lous brain, or something more — I do not precisely know; hut I know this, that it both receives from the eye and gives to the eye. "What if I am indeed no other than tliis fine bodily instalment made sensitive to a thousand impulses — what if I am indeed this ' living lyre,' swept over by every wind, and tremidous to every ray of light — living lyre con- scious of its own melody — I am still nothing less than that wontlrous instrument that has converted motion into melody — the thing into a thought Or, to change my metaphor, I am that sensitive mirror in which the reflected world be- comes a conscious world, and knows itself as the creation of God. I am the world conscious. " Think what a divine creature man is ! He alone ad- mires. He alone embraces the whole, and is conscious of the divine idea. Other creatiires are beautiful and happy, but they know not how beautiful they are. They love, but they know not how lovely love is. The tree amidst all its beauty lies hidden from itself ; the bird is shrouded in its own music, as the tree amidst its own leaves. It knows nothing of the wood, but the shelter it gets from it ; nothing of the ringing harmonies around, but its o^vn joy which it pipes incessantly tlu'ough all. It is only when some poet comes, looking, loitering, listening, that all this beauty of the leafy wood, and all this happiness, is revealed and felt. God re-creates His world in the consciousness of man. In us it is that He finally accomplishes His divine idea. " I see the poet ; I see him lying by the borders of his lake. Just where the land curves out a little, just where the old ash-tree, half covered with its ivy, throws its branches down along the translucent water, I can see my meditative poet. The lake undulates aboiit him — more like light than ■water — and as he looks into the tree above his head, the softest lustre imaginable is playing amongst the leaves; it is LUXMORE S RHAPSODY. 377 tlie reflected light glancing upward from the lake. The waters are moving round him with no steady current, and by no perceptible wind, but eddying about with a silent, uncertain, mazy movement ; a liquid living labyrinth most mystical to a museful man; undulating, as I said, more like light than water. Farther off in the distance, the lake lies still as the azure sky itself. And see what a world of beauty those mountains opposite have tlirown down upon it ! There they rise, clad in purple heather, and in many softer hues, gathered from the air and the shadow of a passing cloud; and they give all to the lake, and by their reflected grandeur make it deep and ca})acious as the heaven is high, and fill it with the noblest forms of the upper air. "\^liat a depth of space does that shadow of the mountain scoop out beneath the surface of the lake ! But mountain and shadow, and lake and tree, are all for him — for him. These wonderful crea- tions of unconscious space are born again, and have their full and complete existence in the poet's mind. For him, and in him, all this beauty lives. The mountain becomes a gran- deur only in his thoughts ; as it exists in the unconscious air, it is mere bulk and measurement. I see my poet, lean- ing on the moss-covered rocks, looking at it aU aslant. And hosts of little wild-flowers are peeping into his eyes. They, too, woidd live ! They, too, will become a conscious love- liness if he but looks on them. He does look. Everj^thing in creation has its accomplished and exalted being in the consciousness of man. If tlie silent Avaters move mystically, if the murmuring waters murmur peace, if the torrent and the waterfall speak of power, it is only as they flow and murmur through his thoughts. In him they become mys- tery, and peace, and power. " But the poet dejjarts. He vanishes like the mist ; he withers like the leaf. Ay, but another and another poet will lie on those moss-covered rocks. Tliis living man will transmit his life. He will improve it before he transmits. His life is always the greater in just such proportion as lie can feel himself one in the great whole of Humanilv." 878 UUOK IV. CIIAPTEU VII. • After :i pause, in wliicli Luxinoro liiul hffn hiisily occupifenetrahle sky. Sit down now, O restless thinker ! and enjoy now — for here it is — the Elysium you love to prophesy. He to whom God has given to feel the wonder and the beauty of this world — to have calm thoughts, and a dear friend to tell them to — has all that flowing centuries can bring. He stands already at the end of Time. He lias forestalled your most re- mote futurities — he has all the heaven that a man can have. In my ride this morning, Bernard, avIio acts as charioteer, and who knows something of my taste fur a view, and when to halt, and where to proceed slowly, brought the carriage to 396 nooK V. — chapter i. a stop in the front of a villa wliicli certainly commancled an admirable prospect. Uut there was something within the villa which at that moment more deeply interested me than the prospect. The window was open, and I could see sitting there the same little earnest prattler I had noticed in the gardens of the Villa lieale. She was very silent now, and very busy, leaning, in fact, over her copy-book, marvellously intent upon up-stroke and down-stroke. Clarence was sitting by her side. He had left his easel, wliich I saw standing at the further end of the room, to see how the studies of this young artist were proceeding. The long silken tresses of the little girl had fallen upon her paper, much to the embarrass- ment of her penmanship. She had shaken them aside several times, and they had as frequently returned. Her father had come to the rescue, and, putting liis arm round her neck, had gathered up in his hand this silken, golden treasury ; and, both for its own sake and for what the pen and ink were so laboriously accomplishing, kept it out of harm's way. It was a charming picture. Xo gallery in all Italy could show its equal. The beautifid child sate absorbed in its task with that entire singleness of purpose which childhood only knows ; nor was there less beauty in the graceful figure and fine intellectual head of Clarence. He was still dwelling on trains of deeper thought of his oavd, but yet had attention to bestow on the studies of this sweet companion. He coxdd feel a quiet under-ciu'rent of exquisite pleasure as he held in his hand those clustering locks, and kept them from embar- rassing the little scribe. " And now," said the sage preceptor, as the last letter of the copy stood fair upon the page ; " and now, Julia, what does h-o-r-n speU 1 " There was a pause, and the question was repeated — " "\Miat does h-o-r-n spell 1 " " Oh, I know ! " exclaimed the pupil, with a sudden flush of confidence ; " it speUs — trumpet ! " " That's what it may mean" said her tutor, giving a kiss to hide the smile upon his lips. — I was so charmed with this scene that I almost resolved to break in upon it, and A NEW INTRODUCTION TO AN OLD FRIEND. 397 claim my part in the friendship of Clarence ; but at this in- stant Bernard put his horse in motion, and drove on. Better as it is, I thought to myself. Clarence is kind. If he once found me out, he would derange his own plans, and fetter himself to do a service to the invalid. This I slioidd regret. Better as it is. I like that spelling lesson, and the smile, and the kiss, and the confidence of the little blunderer, and the kind clear explanation which I am sure followed. Many a child as innocently and as ingeniously blunders, and some stupid, harsh old woman beats it ! Veritable old witch ! IS'ay, learned pedagogues are sometimes as bad as the old woman. Why should not love, rather than hate, be culti- vated by the process of tuition ? Angry at the very difficul- ties of his task, many a schoolmaster vents his passion on the poor pupil whom he has failed rationally to instruct. He encounters resistance of some kind, and proceeds to over- come what he deems a culpable obtuseness hy force. His authority at least is sustained, and that with him is much. The master does not retire beaten from the field : the pujnl does. There is a moral fitness in that. Meanwhile l)lows make nothing intelligible, and anger kindles anger, and the boy retains his stupidity, and adds to it his hatred. Why have I avoided Clarence? — But I have made the same blunder all my life. Nothing surely condemned me to the isolation in wliich T have passed my existence — which I must now endure to the end. I have committed no crime — incurred no disgrace ; why this self-imposed lianishment 1 I drifted into solitude — I did not choose it. I did not seek it, but I made no effort to escape. We make effort enough for knowledge — why not to obtain the socialities of life, which are far more valu- able than knowledge 1 Did some false pride withhold mc 1 398 BOOK V. ClIArTKR I. — or the mnrl)iJ dn-ad of rocfiving, or soliciting a favour? Oh, if I again stood upon tho broad liighway of life, I Avould stand there a beggar, hat in hand, for any smile of friondsliij) ! I Avould receive an act of sociality like alms. Now it is too late to change. "We met again in the Villa Heale. The little girl was a few paces in advance. I had evidently attracted her atten- tion. A wan complexion, a feeble gait, had, I suppose, excited a vague feeling of compassion in her. After scan- ning me awhile, she came forward, and, with the most simph; grace imaginable, offered me the flower she Avas holding in her hand. Very fond herself of flowers, she thought the gift must be acceptable ; at all events, it was what she had, at the moment, to give, and she was longing to make some demonstration of her goodwilL I took the flower ; but in- stead of thanking her as I should have done, I continued looking, Avith intense interest, at this fair vision that had thus come before me. She expected, and very rightly, that I should speak. Now, when grown-up people oi)en conversation with a child, the first question asked is generally, " What is your name 1 " She had expected this question, and was prepared with her answer. The question did not come, but the answer did. After a short pause, she said, " !My name is Julia Montini Clarence, and this," stretching out her hand towards Clarence, " is my new papa, who is very good to everybody." "^My little girl," said Clarence, stepping forward and taking the child's hand, " is unconsciously performing one of the most solemn rites of society — the introduction of two strangers. You will excuse her, for she knows not what she is doing. And yet, as you ap}:)ear to be an Englishman and an invalid, if I " At this moment, his eye meeting mine, he recognised me. " Thomdale ! " A NEW INTRODUCTION TO AN OLD FRIEND. 399 '■' Clarence ! " Were exclamations which broke from us at the same moment. Grasping my hand, and looking at my altered face, he burst into tears like a woman. They got into the carriage with me, and accompanied me home. Clarence expressed himself delighted with Villa Scarpa. Julia flew to the garden, and struck up an ardent friendship with my little spaniel. Julia said she knew where I lived ; she had found it out. And when I told her that I also, though not intending it, had been a spy upon her, and knew where she lived, and moreover, " that h-o-r-n spelt trumpet," she clapped her hands with delight, and blushed, and laughed, and we were the best friends in the world. " And you saw me then, Thorndale, and did not speak ! " said Clarence. " All, but I understand it all ; and how this solitude, like a cruel nurse, nurses very ill, but will let no one else take her place. It is only since I came abroad that I heard that you also were in Italy. I had sent home for further inquiries ; and at this very time there is a letter on its way from England to tell me of your address. You could not long have kept me out." He comes, and brings Julia, and together tlioy make this place a little paradise. All the beauty of the scene has re- vived to me. Clarence is resolved to try the experiment of painting a picture in the open air, with the very scene before him, in- stead of working in his studio from sketches and memory. He declares that my little terrace is exactly the place for him. He likes my view better than his own ; and begs he may 400 IJOOK V. CHAPTER I. hring liis easel liere, and paint morning after morning, till the i)icture is finished. Is this an amiable pretrison for life, I should be a conspirator again. I wnuld prepare and incite my countrymen to that revolt by which alone they can obtain their independence, their true national life ; and I see not how this is to be done, in a country where every expression of opinion is forbidden, hut by conspiracy. "We have to teach by conspiracy, to incite by consjjiracy, to arm and fight by conspiracy. It is the dire necessity imposed on us. It is the greatest affliction of the tyranny we live under, that we cannot move towards liberation but tlirough ways and methods the most demoralising, liut it is a libel to say that the Italian patriot commends assassination. " ' Would that the Itahan patriot could altogether renounce his part of conspirator ! I like it as little as you Englishmen, and know more than you Englislimcn do of its iicrnicitius effects. But you, in the happy political condition to whicli you have attained, do not reflect enougli upon the miserable necessities of our position. You recoil from secret societies, from plots and insurrections ; you would have nothing but 412 BOUK V. CIIAl'TEU II. fair and opon opposition. Very good But what are all your political contests? ^lere debates, mere dLscussions — trial of elo({uence, of wit, or strength of lungs — trial who shall talk loudest, or write best; an excitement which, to most people, is pleasurable enough, and the country looks on amused. But we have to earn the privilege of such debate and discussion ; we argue with an opponent who strikes us on the mouth, wlio shuts the speaker or the writer within four stone Avails — buries him there alive. The Italian, at this epoch, is necessarily a conspirator. He must talk in whispers, he must assemble in the night, he must arm secretly, and a national war must assume the shape of insurrection and revolt. Oh, would it were the contest with us, too, who should speak wittiest and wisest ! I have no distrust of the genius of Italy. But you trample us under foot, and we must turn serpents ; we must hiss and sting. This is nature's great conservatism. The good god Vishnu, when he is trod- den near to death by a huge elephant, transforms himself into a snake, but only that he may again appear as the di^dne man.' " It is thus," continued Clarence, " that Montini would talk of the condition of his own country. He was not a violent man. He strove to do justice even to the Austrian government. *I can understand,' he would say, 'that an Austrian emperor may be quite as virtuous as an Italian patriot — may sincerely believe that he is doing his duty by retaining his power ; all I know is, that the two are brought together by Fate in mortal antagonism. I am often told that laws would not be better administered, nor better laws be made, under an Italian than under this German govern- ment. Perhaps not. But there are greater questions in human life than those which are decided in a court of justice. I want the Italian mind to be free ; I want Italian speech to be free ; I want the Italian citizen and the Italian priest to meet each other face to face, and honestly to find out what they tliink of each other. That the Austrian uniform is everywhere seen in an Italian city, may be galling enough to the national pride. But if tliis had been the whole of the JULIA MOXTINI. 413 controversy, I, for one, would not call upon the red hand of insurrection for aid and relief. The whole mind of Italy lies under the double thraldom of soldier and of priest. The soldier must stand aside, and let me argue with this priest of mine. A cruel retribution has fallen upon the city of Rome : She extended her spiritual supremacy over the nations of the earth, and now the superstition of half the world hangs its chains of iron and of gold upon her, binding her to the fatal empire she assumed. But she will break her chains, and free the world in liberating herself. ' " Julia is certainly a remarkable child, precocious, and of a most susceptible nature. I am not surprised that Clarence begins to be anxious about her education, and the influences she may fall under. If she enters a church, the music thrills through every nerve ; she feels the beauty of pictures, and the scenery here afi'ects her as it would older minds. I gave her a book full of such prints as generally interest children; I noticed that it lay open upon her lap — that she did not turn the leaves, but kept looking at the landscape. Her father, by adoption, said to me the other day, " I did not think to marry, but I foresee that I must tlirow this little Julia into the lap of some sweet and gentle woman, and throw myself at her feet at the same time. Julia will woo for me, and will choose for me, better than I could woo or choose for myself." I shall be sorry when Jiilia leaves. To hear her ringing musical voice upon the terrace, to watch her graceful ani- mated gestures, has been a great delight. Clarence told me an anecdote the other day, which shows what a susceptibility for all impressions lies in this beautiful little creature. It was an anecdote of that kind wliich gives rise to many thoughts. 414 BOOK V. — CHAPTER II. " I occasionally," l»o said, " visit the Catholic churches, out of tho usual motives — the love of art, and the love of music — that attract most strangers; and Julia has sometimes accompanied me. I remomher, on one of these visits, she saw a woman at her devotions before a sacred picture, and stood awe -struck, contemplating, at a little distance, the kneeling figure. Wlien we left the church, she asked me, in a subdued voice, whether that was a saint, and whether she was not praying 1 I simply replied that she was praying. " You may have noticed," he continued, " a picture hang- ing over the sideboard in my present parlour. It is a coi>y of one of Perugino's Madonnas. The other day my little damsel was left alone for some time in the room. She first placed on the sideboard two candlesticks, with their wax candles in them, one on each side of the picture. She then took some ornamental vases that stood on the mantelpiece, filled these ■with flowers, and arranged them before the !Ma- douna. You perceive that she had improvised an altar, and with no bad taste. She lit her candles, and then, drawing a chair to the sideboard, she knelt upon the chair before the Madonna. " What ray little devotee could be thinking of, what threw her into the ecstatic state in which I found her, it would be hard to divine; perhaps it would be hard to divine what ecstatic persons of an older age are always thinking of: how- ever, when I entered the room, she was kneeling there, look- ing up with rapt devotion, atid her eyes streaming icifh tears. She had not noticed my entrance, she was so absorbed. " I took her gently down from the chair — kissed her — but said nothing. She was sobbing hysterically. I calmed her, but asked for no explanation. I thought it wise, how- ever, to remove the picture into my own room ! " CHAPTEE III. CLARENCE IS STILL THE UTOPIAN. My little terrace now exhibits a very picturesque group, ^^y sofa is wheeled out under the acacia-tree; Clarence stands near me, at his easel, painting; Julia, under shelter of her straw-hat, is busy gardening. Her greatest of all deliglits is to water the flowers ; she is then both doing and giving something. Yet she has, I think, one pleasure .•^till greater. It is when she can be of any service to the invalid — can bring a cushion or place a footstool. If Bernard lets licr bring to me some drink that he has been decocting, she trembles with joy. From such little creatures we learn much; we learn what is ebidlient and spontaneous in our human nature. Clarence still "talks Utopia;" and occasionally, under the excitement of his subject, he forgets liis picture and the landscape — steps out from behind his easel, and with hi.s guiding-stick in his hand by way of wand, unveils to me the programme of the Future. If Clarence likes to talk, I like to listen; I agree or disagree ; put in a few words gen- erally, I regret to say, of doubt and dissent ; but I am for the most part content to listen. " IIow liapjiily the ilaya Of TliaUiba, pass by !" Once or twice the shadow of the Cistercian monk lias bctu seen gliding in upon the terrace. I say the shadow, because, from the position in which I lay, I saw the shadow of Ihc 416 BOOK V. — CHAPTER III. monk bpforo ho himsolf mado liis apjioarance. "When ho heard voices in tlio hitlicTto so silent retreat of Villa Scarpa, he paused at tlie angle of the house, doubtful whether to advance or not. I saw the shadow, but said nothing, not wishing to constrain him. Once he advanced and renewed his acquaintance with Clarence. The second time he came, the voice of Julia was ringing out with laughter. From where he stood he could see the child. The shadow paused longer than before. It advanced, and then receded; again came forward a little, and then finally withdrew. The monk had stolen back again to his convent. I have not seen him since. " How can any man think so ! " is an exclamation I have ceased to make. Men brought up at the same university, reading the same books, trained by the same studies, come to conclusions diametrically opposite. Cyril and Clarence are both men of perfect sanity of mind, both were esteemed by their friends as men of remarkable ability, and what a complete contrast do they present ! To Cyril it is the Past that has given us finally whatever of truth is worth the possessing ; he has no Future except that of Heaven ; or if he has any terrestrial Utopia, it must consist in the universal submission to the one Catholic Church : surely a dream of unanimity as wild as any that mortal imagination has enter- tained. To Clarence there is a terrestrial Future continually brightening, so that it will approximate to what we conceive of Heaven ; and in that future the pure truths of religion will unfold themselves more and more, and will separate themselves more and more from the additions made to them by the imaginations and passions of men. Clarence still holds to his favourite idea, that out of the present tj'pe of society there will be gi-adually evolved another and a better type. It is here I must dissent from him. ^len, in some vague way, are to labour in partnership to sustain the general prosperity of some guild or body to which they CLARENCE IS STILL THE UTOPIAN". 417 belong. Thus idleness and want will Le both driven from the world. To me it seems — I regret to think so — that the numerous and severe labours of society can be carried on only by individuals striving for their own individual gnod — their very self-preservation. "Without such prompt and urgent motives, no digging in mines or weaving of cloth. It is the battle for life, and for preservation of wife and child, that drives on the great wheels on which all movement depends. I cannot look upon the world, and believe with Cyril that the time is coming Avhen all men will unanimously embrace the faith of the one apostolic Church. I cannot look upon the world, and believe with Clarence that the time wUl come when the spirit of equitable partnership, and the desire of the good of all, will so remodel the industry of the world, and so check and restrain the passions of the world, that want, and all the crime that springs from Avant, will be driven from the earth. Yet to Cyril and to ( 'larence these respective faiths seem the most rational of doctrines. But although Clarence still "talks Utopia," I think I notice, in more than one respect, some modification of his views. I trace the influence of Scckendorf. I trace this more especially in the desire that he manifests to harmoniso what I may rudely call the truths of physiology with the truths of metaphysics. He has added to his title of Utopian that of Eclectic. Clarence saw this book, this Diary of mine, lying upon the table, and frankly asked, ^Vhat I had been writing? I as frankly told him, and described the sort of amusement I had created for myself, by reviving the impression of some of my friends — himself amongst the number. I addtul, that the labour of penmanship, or rather the position of tlu; body that it required, was becoming daily more fatiguing, and 2d 418 BOOK V. — cnArrnn jti. that the Diary must bo given up, otlienviso I should bo l)robably gleaning from liis jjrescnt conversations some sum- mary of his own philosophy; for hitherto, I said, I had done more justice to liis opponent, Seckendorf, than to himself. " Oh, I will write my own Summary ! " he exclaimed. " Lot mo road the book, and let me fill up the rest of the Idank pages Avith the scheme of thought of ' an Eclectic and Utopian Pliilosopher ! ' " I smiled at the idea. "What was the use, I said, of writ>- ing out his thoughts in a manuscript which was now ripe for the flames 1 " ^Xot so ! not so ! " ho said. " It shall not be burnt. I Avill Avritc my Confessio Fidei; it is always good exercise to overlook one's own ideas ; and then Ave avHI hide the book in some loft or cranny of this villa. Years hence, some one Avill discover it, and smile as he learas hoAv people felt and reasoned Anno Domini 1850." I still dissented. " It will amuse us both," he continued, " if notbing else. There are no secrets 1 " "Is^o," I said; "that is not my reason. There are some personal confessions, but nothing, I suspect, that will be new to you. With you, Clarence, and at this eleventh hour, re- serve drops off. But it will be a mere waste of your time." " I think not," he replied. " What delightful paper it is ! How tempting to the pen ! And there are just blank sheets enough." I still stood out. But if he urges his project again, he shall have his whim. l\niat he calls his Confessio Fidei is to contain his a-Icavs — 1. Of the Development of the Individual Mind ; and, 2. Of the Development of Society. He must Avrite a marvellously small hand if he gets the barest outline of liis philosophy into the residue of this manuscript volume. CLARENCE IS STILL THE UTOPIAN. 419 I have consented. Clarence is to read these imperfect utterances of mine. I shall owe to him in return M'hat state- ment he can contrive to make, in this -compass, of his own philosophical views; and posterity — or the rats — are to have the benefit of both. I trust in the rats. Or if some Italian plasterer finds our united labour, he will not be a much more formidable critic. END OF THORNDALE S DIARY. THE CONFESSION OF FAITH ECLECTIC AND UTOPUN PHILOSOPHEFi. A.D. 1850. INTRODUCTION. THIS CREATION OF NATURE AND MAN A PROGRESSIVE MANIFESTATION OF THE DIVINE IDEA. My dear Thorndale, I have been so often told that I am a mere Utopian, that I have ended at length by frankly accept- ing the title. And indeed I know of no other which denotes great hopes of the future development of our terrestrial humanity, which is not associated with tenets I should be solicitous to repudiate. The current name of Socialist, which, so far as it denotes a higher development of our social nature, would be acceptaUe enough, is far too intimately connected with that of Democrat to please me ; and it is thouglit, moreover (whether justly or unjustly), to be blurred and blotted with the foul taint of sensuality and libertinism. To me the Family is the most sacred of all unions; to me chastity, or the due government of our passions, one of the most indispensable of duties. He who will not submit tu self-restraint, who boasts to me of his free and ardent nature, may burn himself down to the socket if he ])leases ; but what has he to do with questions of the wellbeing of society, or what has society to do with him but to keep him at arm's lengtli, and see that he burns and smoulders out with the least possible danger and annoyance to others 1 Self-govern- ment — the i)reponderance of the higher parts of our nature over the lower — is the only means of attaining, or rather it is synonymous with, the higher ty])e of society. I can under- stand no social change to be an improvement which tends 424 INTRODUCTION. to weaken the man-ia^'o union, lie "who presents to me schemes of progress which, in domestic life, dissever the bond of marriage, and in public life, place the ignorant, the selfish, and the superstitious in the seat of authority, is not the man I desire to be enrolled with. Under no common banner will I enlist with him. I cannot play the demagogue ; I cannot Hatter the multi- tude ; I cannot tell them they are simply the ill-used, the ill-governed. As a general rule, they are as well governed as their own nature permits them to be. I have always striven, wherever the opportunity occurred, to dissipate the illusion which hangs over the minds of so many, that there is some vague power called society which could do wonders for them if it pleased. " Society should do this, society should do that." They themselves are the society, or the greater part of it. Do you want new modes of acting or of living to- gether ? Such new modes can only result from new ideas, and a new spirit of action Avhich must be participated by all. This man, who demands all possible virtues from society, does he bring his own share of these virtues to society ? Does he bring that spirit of justice, that love of the public good, which he desires to find in society when acting for him in its corporate capacity ? Does he bring a genuine desire for the good of all, or is he anxious only for his own good 1 Has he risen to the conviction that his own welfare is bound up with the wellbeing of the whole? And is that wellbeing of the whole, itself a distinct and dominant desire of his mind — a great idea, which has so become a part of himself that he feels his life would be impoverished, mean, and spiritless, if you took it from him ? Unless he can answer these questions in the affirmative, what right has he to expect a triUy patriotic and enlightened goA'ernment ? Happily for the multitude, great and heroic minds have, from time to time, been able to enforce i;pon them — perhaps through the instrumentality of their own superstitions — a better government and better rules of conduct than they would voluntarily have instituted — rules of conduct which, however, they have afterwards voluntarily adopted, thus growing into self-government. Happily for the multitude, there have been appointed by Providence the CREATIOX A MANIFESTATION OF THE DIVINE IDEA. 425 great disciplines of war, and tlie monarchy, and the potent priesthood — all that the Camp, the Palace, and the Temple may stand symbol for — training them forward to intelligent and premeditated combination for all the great purposes of society. Yes ! I have a most sanguine, most Utopian faith in the futxire of mankind, but I have no faith in existing human ignorance. For men whom want has made selfish, obtuse, narrow-minded, I have unfeigned compassion; to them I would bring whatever aid were possible, be it in the shape of the larger loaf, or the larger comprehension ; in them, as they stand there, I Avill put no trust. I will be a Democrat when virtue and intelligence are qualities of the multitude, as I verily believe they will one day become. For me, I trust to the slow progress of knowledge, and to multiplied efforts, in this and that individual, to think and live well for the commonwealth. I cannot tell men that, without any effort on their part, they will come to live liap- pier and nobler lives. Sometimes a statement diametrically opposite to the one you desire to make, aids you greatly in expressing your own. M. Fourier, if I have been able to understand his system, teaches us that the most perfect social order would be educed from the play of our passions, if we Avould but let them have tlieir natural scope. He boasts to have made the grand discovery that our varied passions, if left to themselves, would so counteract, so supplement each other, that the most complete harmony would result. If so, how happens it that society did not at once arrange itself into this perfect harmony by the spontaneous passions of men? Spontaneity comes before lieflection. How is it that human society was not at once complete, like the society of bees and of antsi I hold to the old guides, Keason and Conscience, It is because these have to be cultivated, or to be slowly created and perfected in us, that the progress of society is so slow. And indeed man would be no better than an ant or a bee, if he had not ultimately to s]iaj)o tlie human society, by dint of tliinking it out, and striving for it. It is the slow education of the reason ami the conscience of the human race I contemplate and believe in, I am no revolutionist. I am not looking for the day or the year 426 INTRODUCTION. when a legislative power sliall su^'ogression to the same goal wliich stands now revealed to us as the scheme of Providence. Our present conviction of a law of indefinite progress we owe partly to the quite modern revelations of Geology, un- folding to us the gradual development that our planet lias undergone, both in its inorganic and organic forms. "NVe owe it, in part, to the rapid progress latelj' made in various sciences or arts which augment the power of man ; and we owe it partly to that very position we occupy in the long life of the human race, by reason of which we are better able than our predecessors to understand the significance of the past history of mankind. For, though it seems para- doxical, it is strictly true that the past reveals itself to us the more distinctly the farther we recede from it, or the higher we rise above it. Human life ilhistrates luiman life, and the new explains the old. But the fresh power wliicli man has lately felt to have been put into his hands by the fresh knowledge vouchsafed to him, has perliaps more tlian any other cause emboldened him in liis hopes and jirosperts of the future society. What might not men do, what might not men be, if once the great idea of the (jand of the whole could direct, govern, animate all these various powers they have acquired ? We are not in a condition to assert that tlio progi-ossivo movement in the rest of creation, inorganic or organic, has come to a stop ; that no new animal will ever be crcatcil ; or that the earth, air, and water, are undergoing no changes 430 INTRODUCTION. Avhich may be preparatory to new developments of animal life, or which may render this planet still more propitious to the development of human life. "We are surrounded by an inorganic nature which is itself capable of modification from the organisms, vegetable and animal, which it supjjorts. "We may suspect a harmoniously progressive movement in the pliysical world ; we certainly cannot specifically predict any such movement. It is with the psychical progress of hu- manity we are especially concerned. It is there alone we venture to predict anything of the future. But, it may be said, this psychical progress is but one department, one portion of that progressive creation mani- fested in the whole world. You may speak of the new developments of thought, or new states of consciousness, as the result of mental powers given to man; or you may describe the mind itself of man as nothing else, in fact, than these developments, these states of consciousness, which at each stage are produced directly by the power of God. Either way, our new ideas are no other than new creations. And, now, who can predict the creations of God 1 I answer, that if experience has taught me that it is the nature of any given species (say of plants) to push out new growths from time to time, as well as to repeat the old growths, I am as much justified in predicting that there Avill be such new gi'owths as that there will be a repetition of the old. I can jiredict the advancement of human knoAvlege, because expe- rience proves to me that it is the nature of the human mind to advance from knowledge to knowledge. I can also, and perhaps still more safelj', predict the extension of the know- ledge already attained by the few, to the many, because I see the means in operation for such extension ; and I can, above all, form some estimate, from past experience, of the effect which will be produced on the whole organism of society by this extension of the knowledge and habits of thinking of the few to the many. These are very modest claims to prophecy — very limited powers of prediction ; but it will be found that they are sufficient to justify some confident anti- cipations of the futiu'e of human society. CREATION A MANIFESTATION OF THE DIVINE IDEA. 431 And when, moreover, we rise to the conception that Past Present, and Future form together one development of the Divine Mind — of whose works, imperfect as our knowled<'e is, we yet know enough to assert that a subHme Benevolence pervades the whole — then our very belief in God becomes a new ground of hope for the future. A sublime beneficence is manifest in this complicated creation of nature and of man ; — we can perceive this, although we cannot follow out the details of that beneficence in all instances ; — and Ave are bound, in strictest reasoning, to conclude that the full de- velopment of that creation avUI have for its result the aug- mented wisdom and happiness of man. It is no oratorical expression, but a quite logical statement, that faith in God gives us confidence in the future greatness of man. I shall be thought perhaps to be "vaolating the approved method of proceeding from the simple to the complex, by touching thus early on the problem of the existence of God. But the best order of Exposition is not always the order of actual Development. The idea of God, such as we now con- ceive it, is certainly not one of the first in order of attain- ment, but, when attained, it is found to be of that fimda- mental character that scarce a step can be taken without some appeal to it. "Wliat we call development is but another term for creation. All reality, all existence whatever, is finally known to us as no other than the manifestation in space and time of a Divine Idea. This is the " last word " of all our sciences. Power or Force, in their last significance, are but names for this manifestation of some wJiole — some Idea. For you can form no conception of any jiower or force per se. Xothing of any kind, in all the world about us, exists of itself, or by itself. It only exists as i)art of some whole. A whole is always as necessary to the existence of the parts, as the parts to the existence of tlic whole ; so that whole and parts can finally bo represented to us only as the manifestation of a supramundane idea, A conception of this fundamental character we may be excused for at once attempting to explain or to justify. 432 IN'TRODUCTION. The Argument for the Existence of God. I have no other to dwell upon than the great universally received argument — from design, as it is called. I have only to make such a statement of this as will remove it from cer- tain ol ejections not unfrequently put forth both in conversa- tion and in hooks. It is an argument ■which comes in with the earliest stages of scientific observation, and which grows and strengthens (so it seems to me) with every accession of knowledge. It may seem, as I have already intimated, a somewhat irregular proceeding to commence a review of our j^yckical development with the argument for the existence of God. lint I shall have other opportunities of returning to the sub- ject where it may be more strictly in its place. Meanwhile this relationship of Creature and Creator is the key-note of all my pliilosophy. I have nothing distinct to teach — I have nothing great to hope — I can represent nothing intelligibly to myself, unless the reality of this relationship is accorded to me. Not only is this relationship of Creator and Creature the perennial source of such religious sentiments as are destined eternally to exist in the human race ; but every intelligible conception I can form of the material world around me, or of my own conscious being — what matter /eing, very Eeason, very Love. I, too, can recall some miserable moments, when I have walked forth alone under the open sky, antl as tlie winds blew the great clouds along, I liave felt that I also, like those clouds, was being borne along by a power as incom- prehensible to me as the torment of the winds to them. How terrible, then, seemed the unresting and irrusistil)lo activities of natiue ! How fearful this prodigality of life ! 442 IXTUODL'CTION. How fearful scomod tho iin])aiisinf^ current of the generations of mankind ! — a stream of conscious being ])Oured out by- some deaf inexorable Power — jiains and pleasures tossed together, flowing tumultuously along, !No eye of wisdom, no heart of mercy, presiding over all ; only untiring Power hurrying on the interminable stream. Happily such In- tel k-ctual chaos did not last long within me. Light broke througli ; the sun was again in the heavens ; the whole world beamed forth with reason and with love, and I found myself walking humbly and confidingly in the presence of God. He who believes in God is necessarily an optimist ; an optimist, mind you, for that whole of things which embraces the has been, the is, and the tvill be. I cannot but feel assured that, if the whole plan of our world, as it will finally be de- veloped, could be understood by us, it would be understood as one great and perfect idea. I may not be able to unravel the perplexities which human life, and the social condition of man, present to me ; I may not be able to foresee the future, or to trace the way to happier societies ; but I know, through faith in Him, that all will finally be revealed to be, and to have been, supremely good. Division of otir Subject. Our gi'eat subject, the progressive development of man, ap})ears inevitably to divide itself into Two Parts : The De- velopment of the Individual Mind, and the Development of Society. Society is progressive, because the individual mind is pro- gressive, and here and there one outshoots the others, and leads the rest forward. Thus the law of progress must be sought for in psychology, or the nature of the indi\"idual mind. But again, the individual is born and developed in and through society, and Avhat he is and becomes must maiid}' depend on that society, and on that era in which he lives. If the individual has his development from birth to maturity, the society has had its development from age to age, each CREATION A MANIFESTATION OF THE DIVIXE IDEA. 443 generation receiving and transmitting, with some additions, the arts, institutions, customs, knowledge, which form tlie social life of man. This division of our subject at once presents itself, and I adopt it. But nevertheless, the individual and the society are so intermingled, that I cannot profess to adliere to this division with such strictness, that many topics maj' not he touched upon under both heads. Part I. will contain the Development of the Individual Consciousness. It Avill be a brief treatise on psychology, showing how the mind presents us with one great, and intricate, and continuous growth. Part IL wiU review, through some of its great stages, the Development of Human Society — in its industry, its morality, its science, its religion — and show Iioav all these various movements constitute together the Progress of ^Ian- kind. PART I. THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE INDIVIDUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. The psychologist, or one who would describe the progressive development of the consciousness, does not necessarily enter into the question of the nature of that substance which is conscious, I adopt, as the best and only result at wliich I can arrive, the generally -received dualism of mind and body. But, as a psychologist, I am only concerned with the consciousness itself, and the order of its development, not with the substance in which it is said to inliere, or the essence from which it is said to spring. Those indeed who think that, in the simjilest state of consciousness, this twofold nature of man is felt — that a spiritual ego stands out at once in opposition to the material world — that the two terms are involved in every perception — may find it necessary at once to enter upon this problem. Such intuition of the subject would form part of their psychology. You will remember the discussion Avhich you and Seckendorf held on this topic. I do not find it necessary here to come to any decision upon the controversy. You, Thorndale, can easily add that stationary element of the £^70 for which you were contending, to every state of consciousness I describe. My description, in other respects, may be admitted as correct. I used to think that I had a word to say — I also — on the old topics of metaphysics or psychology. I have fancied that I had some contribution to bestow on subjects that have occupied many of my hours, on which I have read many POIXT OF DEPARTURE. 445 books, which I have revolved in many a soHtary walk. This perhaps is a mere delusion. Such delusions must attend, I suspect, on every student of metaphysics. For there are no possessions to be had in this region but sucli as we have put our own labour into — (Locke's well-known dejfinition of the right of property, is correct enough here) ; and then, after refashioning the materials for our own use, we are apt to forget that others had been before us in the same task. Each one of us takes the clay afresh to the potter's wheel, though lie turns out nothing but the old forms, in their old fragility. But, indeed, I will not here attempt even the outline of a complete system of metaphysics or psychology. !Many ques- tions I shall not be called upon to discuss. My object, in entering at aU upon this thorny track, is merely to point out the progressive nature of our mental development "NVe shall see how at each advance, the lower is made a stepping-stone to the higher ; or rather, how an advanced state of conscious- ness is created, by some ncAV element blending with the old. We shall see also that, in our intellectual progress, there is a necessary transition through error into truth ; a law of pro- gress very important to understand, since it partly explains the strange spectacle which the history of human opinion presents. Sectiox I. — Point of Dejjarture. AU our writers lay it down that we must proceed from the simple to the complex, and in this I readily acquiesce ; but it seems to me we are on a false track in seeking for what is generally understood as a s-imple state of the con- sciousness. The most simple we can descend to is still a complex state. Just as in the material or the organic world, the simplest atom, the simplest cell, is still a compound ; so the simplest state of consciousness will bo found to consist of terms and a relation. That 2nire and simple feeling or sensation, with which our psychologists so often commence their exposition, has, so far as I can detect, no existence. It has been suggested that there may have been states of 446 DEVELOPMEXT OF THE INDIVIDUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. fi'cliii',' of a .simpler kind tlian any I can now recall; but that which I can neither recall, nor form any conception of, cannot exist for me. The simplest state I can summon up for examination is that of some feeling in some part of my body (and which, being localised, is so far a cognition of my body), and the localisation of that feeling implies more than one feeling, implies feeling in some other part of my body, and the felt relationship of position. For although each of these feelings may be said, from the very nature of the human body, to be felt in a given space, felt somewhere along the nerve, stdl this fact is not revealed in the consciousness except by two or more of such feelings, and the relation of position. Position is to space what succession is to time. In order to have this simple experience of a sensation felt in a given limb, there must have been more than one sensation — there must have been several sensations — and the felt relations of Position and Difference. "\^'"e have only to look at the nature of the human frame, and the conditions under which it is developed, to see the all but utter impossibility that there should have been a time when only one sensation was felt. The body rests constantly on some support, so that the sense of tact must be sjTichronous Avith whatever sensations the great internal organs, with their beating, pulsing, or vermicular motion, may excite ; the nerves of feeling are spread over all the superficies in so fine a web that a needle's point cannot be anywhere inserted but a sensation follows ; the very function of breathing sets at Avork many muscles at the same time, and the muscles of locomotion, stmudated from without and from within, are constantly altering the position of some limb, and bringing a fresh portion of the sensitive surface of the body in contact with the non-sensitive and resisting surface that siurounds it. Life enters by many gates at once. I cannot, for my own part, go back in imagination to a time when there were not at least internal sensations, and the sensation of tact on the superficies, distinguishing and localising each other. I notice a great reluctance amongst our metaphysicians to admit of synchronous feelings or thoughts ; they say that rOIXT OF DEPARTURE. 447 what vre call synchronous is only a rapid succession or alter- nation, and that the mind cannot attend to more than one • object at a time. The object wliich they say is attended to could not be (as I understand the matter) an object of atten- tion at all, if it stood alone in the consciousness ; for Avhat is called attending to is only a perception of a variety of rela- tions of this object with other objects or other memories. There is a constant succession going on in our consciousness, but there is also a constant synchronism. And they are necessary to each other ; for just as what is called s}'nchron- ous is in part successive, so what is called successive is in part synchronous. It is evident that two sensations, one of which completely expired before the other commenced, Avould yield no more towards the development of our consciousness, or the formation of a cognition, than one sensation. How could the relation of difference be felt, by which they are recognised to he two, if they were quite isolated 1 Or how could the relation of succession be felt unless at some point they were brought together, the one commencing before the other had quite terminated ? This reluctance to admit synchronous terms in our conscious- ness has resulted, I presume, from a preconception formed of the nature of the mind, as a simple indivisible substance, or entity, which could only be in one state at a time, liut let the mind be this simple substance (as I myself believe), it lives and acts through various organs, in each of which it has various susceptibilities, and these various susceptibilities may some of them be excited at the same time. It is plain that if the various sensibilities of the man, his sensations, his memories, his passions, and the like, were not syncln-oiidus, no relationships could be felt between them, no cognition.s formed, and none of those endless combinations constructed that constitute the higher region of our consciousness. The consciousness appears to mo as one great organic growth. Perhaps the same few relations that bring together the simplest terms in any state of consciousness, comlnne our more complex terms into more complex states of conscious- ness. Just as the blossom and the fruit rank higher with 448 DEVEI-OrMEKT OF TIIK INDIVIDUAL CON'SCIOUSN'ESS. US than tlio stalk or i\w. root, and yet tlic same laws of vo{^»!tal)](3 pliy.sicjlogy are detected in Ijotli, so tlie higher forms of our consciousness may l)e incalculably more noble than the lower, and yet the same 2isychical laws may preside over their development. I prefer to speak (in a scientific exposition) of higher forms and wider developments of the consciousness, to speaking of higher and different faculties of the mind. Refiedion, for instance, is only enlarged think- ing, flow is anything made the subject of thought, but by other thoughts being added to it 1 Judgment, which is defined, in psychological books, as a perception of relation, is no separate faculty of the mind, but an essential constituent in every state of consciousness. Reasoning is a linked series of judgments. "What we more particularly call judgment in the ordinary conduct of life, is the perception of that relation, or those relations whicli may subsist between certain things or events, and some purpose we have in view. Imagination and Reason will not be found to differ in the relations which bind together the several groups of thought distinguished by these names ; but they differ in this, that the combination of thought, in the one case, is found to be similar to the real combinations of nature, and in. the other not. The same group of ideas may pass under the name of Reason at one time, and of Imagination at another. I do not affect any peculiarity of language, and shall use such terms as Eeason and Imagination with the same freedom witli which they are generally written or spoken ; but I con- sider such expressions as only convenient forms of speech for designating parts of the great Avhole of human conscious- ness. It is not our Eeason, or our Imagination, that does this or that, but such and such states of consciousness are distinguished, for the time being, by these names. At one time the Copernican system of astronomy woidd have been pronounced, and very justly, to be a mere imagination, whilst the existence of ApoUo, the god of the siui, Avould have been described as an undoubted fact. "Wider knowledge has re- versed the order, and the system of astronomy is the rational belief, and Apollo the imagination. LOCALISED SENSATION. 449 I cf.n only conceive of the mind, or human consciousness, as one great and amazing growth of all but infinite variety, and yet essentially one. Sensations and perceptions become memories, and memories combine or succeed (according to a few simple laws), to form endless varieties of thought. From the first sensations an infant feels in its own body (for assuredly they are from the first felt there, localised at once in its body, and are at once, therefore, both cognition and also pleasure and pain) — from those first sensations felt as it lies on the mother's bosom, which are at once its knowledge and its slow and languid joy, to the magnificent wealth and " polished perturbation " of some great orator, in whom thought and feeling, passion and argument, are blended in a thousand ways, the whole seems to be one continuous growth. Section II. — A Sensation felt in Space the simplest State of Co7isciousness. I must add a few words on what seems to mo an error still very prevalent amongst our psychologists, and 2)r(»duftive of much confusion. Our most popular writers on mental pliilosophy are in the habit of commencing their d(!scri])lion of our states of con- sciousness with what they call a simple sensation, felt, they say, not in space, but in the mind only. Now this is an elementary state or condition quite imaginary. We know of no such thing as a sensation /eZ^ noiohere — a sensation not felt in space. This " pure subjective sensation," as it is somctinios called, is a mere coinage of the schools, a mere hypotliesis. I appeal to every class of men, learned or simple, whether they ever had, or can conceive of, a sensation felt nowliere. It may have indefinite or inconstant boundaries, and tlius 1h>, as we say, imperfectly localised ; but the most obscure internal sensation is felt in some })art of the body, and always was felt there. It is well known that, starting from this pure suljcrfiriti/, our modern schoolmen have hail the greatest dilliculty in 2 F 450 DEVELOPMENT OP TUE INDIVIDUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. iiccuunting for our knowledge of the external world. If a spiritual essence, not in space, feels only in itself, how is it ever to get beyond, or out of this selfi Keen critics have pronounced that the difficulty is insuperable. Happily it is entirely of our own making. There is no such problem put by nature before us, as how to make the transition from this subjective state to the knowledge of an external object. Our first conseioiu>ness lies in space. The real spirituality of man is the later development : memories, and combina- tions of memories, aided by language — states of conscious- ness which become independent of any special locality. We reverse entirely the order of nature, by commencing our exposition with states of consciousness unfettered to space, and looking down from these to the simple perceptions of sense. We begin our lives with a quite sensuous exist- ence ; we are at first mere sensitive bodies opposed to non- sensitive bodies ; we rise into a spiritual existence by mem- ories, and those combinations of memories we call reason and imagination. That we always feel, and always have felt, a sensation somewhere, "will seem to the generality of mankind so pal- pable a truism, that their wonder will be how an opposite statement could possibly have been made. But the plain testimony of the consciousness was departed from, because it was thought to contradict the theory of the spiritual nature of the miiad. Having described the real and sole seat of the consciousness to be a spiritual essence, not itself occupying space, how could its own simple elementary sen- sation be felt, it was said, in anything but itself, and there- fore in a quite unlocalised manner 1 An argumentative in- ference (as has often happened) was allowed to prevail over the plainest experienca No such inference, however, I must observe, is necessarily drawn from the spiritual nature of mind. The follower of Kant draws no such inference, who lays it down that " Time and Space are forms of the Sensibility." Sir William Hamil- ton, our northern representative of this department of philo- LOCALISED SENSATION. 451 sophy-; draws no such inference, but exposes the fallacy of his predecessors, Brown, Stewart, and others, and shows that their starting-point of a pure subjectivity was a fatal error, legitimately conducting them to some sort of idealism. I do not wish, for many reasons, to use tlie phraseology of the Kantian, or even that of Sir William Hamilton ; I merely mention these great authorities to show that this elemen- tary pure sensation, unconnected with space, which is still so great a favourite with our metaphysicians, is not a nec- essary inference from our belief in the spiritual nature uf the conscious being. How prevalent this dreamy hypothesis that commences our life with a pure suhjedlcitij still is amongst us, I had a striking instance just before I left England. One of our last psychological writers that has attracted attention (I am writing Anno Domini 1850) is Mr MorelL The most popular and the most instructive of our text -books of physiology is the work of Dr Carpenter. Well, the i»hysi- ologist quotes the metaphysician, and both appear to have no doubt whatever that the infant mind feels, ivasons, Avills, in some purely subjective mamier, before it has any cogni- tion of a world in space. Here is my note from Dr Car- penter ; the italics are in the original : — " If, as has been well remarked by Mr !Morell, we could by any means transport ourselves into the mind of an infant before the perceptive consciousness is awakened, we should find it in a state of absolute isolation from everything else in the world around it. Whatever objects may be presented to the eye, the ear, or the touch, they are treated simply as sul>- jedive feelings, without the muid possessing any conscious- ness of tliem as uhjeds at all. To it the inward world is everything, and the outward world is nothing." That the eminent physiological writer to whom all non- professional readers have been so especially indel)led, shouUl quote with assent a passage so little accordant with the general tenor of his own speculations, is an additional proof that he considered he was referring to what was the received 452 DEVELOPMENT OF THE INDIVIDUAL CO.VSCIOUSNESS. (loctriue amongst mctapliysicians. But what a strange wild doctrine it is ! " iJcfore the percejttivo consciousness is awakened ! " Carry hack your thouglits to sucyi a time, if you can, what will you discover? Just nothing at all. The earliest sensations are huilding up this perceptive con- sciousness. Ina.smuch as they are felt in space, they are cor/nitions as well as sensations. What there is of conscious- ness at all is both perceptive and sensational. This little infant Fakir, living " in a state of absolute isolation from everything else around it," is to me utterly inconceivable, is a mere nonentity. Sensations in its own little body, sensations on its superficies, sensations in its muscles, are all localising each other by relations felt between them. These make up its psychical existence. So far from living out of space, it lives entirely in space. You may describe the perception of these relations of co- existence, succession, diversity, as itself a sensibility, or you may describe it as a primary act of the reason ; only do not, as some have done, call it reasoning. 'So less an authority than Lord Brougham could fall into such a mistake as to say, " The very idea of diversity implies reasoning, for it is the result of a comparison." Comparison is no other than the perception of this diversity. You cannot make the first perception of diversity an inference of the reason ; there can be nothing earlier in the mind from which to infer it ; it springs simultaneously Avith sensations themselves. To know that you have had two sensations, is to have felt the dif- ference between them. There ought to be no needless mystery thrown over these relations of Space, Time, and Diflerence. Every sensation is felt tchere the nerve lies, and when the nerve is affected ; but one solitary sensation coidd not be recognised as in space, neither could it have any order of succession, nor any (litt'erence or similarity. If such a thing exists, it is not a consciousness. From two or more sensations these rela- tions spring, and then there is constituted a recognisable state of consciousness. TOUCH. 453 Section III. — Touch. Our internal sensations, and the superficial seiisation of tact, localise each other. Witho\it an " internal " there ■would be no recognisable "superficial," and vice versa. Each individual sensation is felt, you say, where the nerve lies, but there must be two points at least for the recog- nition of position. From simultaneous sensations, internal and superficial, there arises a consciousness uf our own bodies as occupying space. Nor am I able a moment to pause between tliis knowledge, and the consciousness of the rela- tion in space between our own bodies and the non-sensitive bodies around us. For we no sooner live than we move. The several sensations already described, internal and super- ficial, together with those of muscular movement, constitute the 2jerceptio7i of touch. ISTo one indeed supposes there is any difticulty in arriving at the knowledge of the external world, if the knowledge of our own bodies as existing in space is given. This last knowledge not given, no ingenuity can explain the process by which we obtain our belief in the external world. To introduce the feeling of muscular movement is idle, if the liinh that moves has not been, as the learm-d say, cognised as in sjmce. And what is the sense of resistance to a creature not recognising itself in space 1 When philosophers represent to me the infant, in its purely subjective state, as icilling to move, and finding an obstacle, and then calling the will the me and the obstacle the not-me, and so getting, at the same instant, a knowh'dgo of itself and of the external worhl, — I am lost in tlie ni;ize of absurdities that rise up before mo. How can the human being will (if by will is meant, as it must be here, a mental determination) till there is knowledge what to will 1 Tlie infant must have moved by spontaneous or involuntary con- tractions of the muscles, or by a certain «//anticipati'd ell'ort, before it could have wished to move, or have moved by an' intended or anticipated elfort. It must have known wliat 454 DEVKLOPMENT OF THE INDIVIDUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. motion was, and if it had known this, the wliole problem would have been already solved. This infant, if it could will anything, could only will the return or prolongation of a certain supposed subjective sensation attendant on muscular movement. And why sliould tlie not-me — that which pre- vents this desired sensation — be anything in space ? Avhy more in space than the me ? 8ome power or force opposed to its wiU seems all that the infant could think of. Our cogitative infant might as well think it was another and opposing tvill as anything else. No real world comes out to us in this way. Even very acute "writers seem to be misled by the double use of the word " internal." It is employed both to mean spiritual, and also the space within a certain boundary. !N'ow it is only in the last sense that its cor- relate is external in space. DraAV a circle, and you imme- diately have a within and a without. To a bounded sensi- tive body there is necessarily an external space or external body. But the opposite to tliis spiritual will of our quite spiritual infant, must be just as mysterious as the wiU itself. There is nothing to jwslt it in space. How strange a business is the explanation given by Eeid and Stewart of our perception of touch ! Xothing in ancient or medifcval philosophy seems more fantastic. There is first a mere sensation unconnected with space, and from this the mind passes, as by a mysterious symbol, to a perception. It " interprets " this symbol, this " sign," into a perception. Such curious macliinery is pure invention. No man, or metaphysician, ever caught sight of this "sign," was ever conscious of anything but what is here called the "inter- pretation." Section" IY. — Vision. I have said that the internal and the superficial sensations assist in localising each other, and thus producing the con- sciousness of our sensitive bodies in space. This being given, resistance to muscular movement becomes intelligible ; and these together constitute our perception of Touch. I have now to add that this perception of Touch is a necessary con- VISION. 455 dition of Vision. Without the position in space given to us by this perception, there could be no vision. I must be conscious of standing here, or I cannot see the object there. If the image given by the light were the sole consciousness, it would not be vision. The necessary relation between the here and there would not be felt. The consciousness, so to speak, would be solely in the image of sight. But my body standing here in close contact with the earth, and many con- tiguous things more or less remote, has its given position. By which means this other position of the luminous fonn is recognised, and becomes to me a cognition. But how shall we describe this new sensibility of light and colour, which of itself would not be vision, but which, given to a creature who has already the perception of Touch, constitutes the conspicuous element in the perception of vision 1 We said that our sensations were from the commencement localised. Here is one localised in a space beyond the body. If numerous points of contact upon the skin are felt as cover- ing a certain area on the superficies of the body, this seems only in consistency with the nature of our jihysical frame. The nerves of touch are there. But if points of still more subtle contact upon the retina of the eye, are not felt on the retina, but give, as their result, the sensation of a correspond- ing luminous area in a space beyond the eye, this seems a strange anomaly. It is as if one should say we felt out of the body. ^Nevertheless, I must accept the anomaly just as I find it. Such is, in fact, the nature of this sensibility. It is not localised on the retina. The subtle touch of light has tliis result of a luminous point in some space beyond the retinji. I have read with attention the received explanations of the matter, and have come to the conclusion that, in the present state of our knowledge, the only true philosopliy is to accept the simple fact as it stands before us. The ordi- nary explanations proceed iipon the assumption that tliere was once a sensation of colour not localised in a space be- yond the eye. This is a mere hypothesis, and what is more, a really inconceivable hypothesis. 456 DEVELOPMENT OK THE INDIVIlJUAI- CONSCIOUSNESS. It rciiuires a littlo moral courage to rest in the simple unlearned stiitement I have made. But it is far better to accept nature's ajtparent anomaly than to have recourse to a fantastical hyi»othesis to explain it. Our psychological writers interjtolate an imaginary sensation, which was once, they say, felt only in the mind, but which is not recoverable by us, owing to the obstinate associations it has formed with the perception of touch. Dugald Stewart, and others of his school, explain vision as they explained the perception of touch. This writer more than once draws our attention to the "remarkable fact" (!) that the sensation of colour or light, " which has in itself no outwardness " — a mere mental state — " having no similarity whatever to the thing ex- pressed " — shoidd become so associated with external forms in space, " that we find it impossible to conceive of it apart from some extended surface." If by " extended surface " is meant a resisting surface, it is quite possible to conceive of light apart from such a sur- face. Press the optic nerve with your finger, you have a globe of light which you do not connect with any resisting substance. But what is truly impossible, is to conceive this sensation of light that has " no outwardness " — that is, no place in space. A luminous appearance in outward space is just the simplest fact Ave can get at. Science, some future day, may present us with a nearer insight into the matter ; at present it stands thus : — contact upon the retina by some subtle matter is not followed by the sense of tact, or by any sensation localised on the retina, but by a sensation of points of light, in the direction from which those delicate touches come. ]S^o doubt there are associations with the sense of touch wliich fix for us the relative distance of visible objects. It is possible that all visible appearances might appear originally at the same distance from the retina. But a sensation of light that has " no outwardness," is not a sensation of light at all. We are merely uttering words to which we can attach no meaning. The pain felt in the eye itself, from excessive or sudden light, is another matter. The sensation VISION. 457 of light itself is no other than this marvellous apparition in space. I must observe, that the plirase " association of ideas " is not applicable to all the combined operation of the senses of touch and sight. I have said that of itself the eye could not give us vision, because the position of the luminous form beyond us, is only revealed by the position in space already acquired by touch. But this is a case of the joint operation of two organs of sense, not of association of ideas : the real fact being, that what we call the perception of one sense, is a state of consciousness, the result of several senses. Phy- siologically speaking, there is but one organ, the brain and all its tributaries. The eye is the organ of vision, because it is added to a creature who has already the sense of touch, and the faculty of movement. It is planted on the common organ of the brain, and so becomes the marvellous organ it is. Much of what psychologists have here called association of ideas, is the originally complex or combined aotiuii of the nerves of sense. Our Scotch friends have, in particular, overlaid the sub- ject of vision with their doctrine of association of ideas. They seem to be afraid of attributing anything directly to the senses. The extent to which I)r Brown and his disciples have here applied this doctrine, will one day rank amongst the " curiosities " of meta})liysical literature. "We have two eyes, and see but one image. To a .simple man this seems a very simple matter. Two sensations aro only two to the consciousness, by reason of some relation of diflerence felt between them. Two images exactly alike, seen at the same time and in the same place, are not two, but one. The luminous forms given by l)oth eyes at the same time, occui)y so very nearly the same s])ac(', that there is no perceptible difference. There is nothing to render them two to the consciousness. Dr Brown explains the matter by his favourite doctrine of association of ideas. He, like his predecessors, accords to either eye sirai)ly some vague " visual feeling," whicli none but the metaphysicians knows anythuig about. ^\jid then 458 DEvr:T,or:MEN'T dk thr individual consciousness. he remarks, tliat it matters not how many " visual feelings " tlie two eyes may generate ; these visual feelings have been accompanied by the touch of a single object, and therefore eternally suggest only a single object, " If," he WTites, " the light reflected by a single object toiiched by us had produced, not two only, l)ut two thousand images, erect or inverted, the visual feelings thus excited, however complex, would still have accompanied the touch of a single object ; and if only it had accompanied it uniformly, the single object woiild have been suggested by it precisely in the same manner as it is now suggested." If there had been two thousand images, and they were so nearly alike in all particulars that no relationship or sense of difference arose to the conscious- ness, they would, in fact, be but one image. As to the " inverted " image here alluded to, there is, in my simple view of the matter, no difficulty to be explained. The inverted image on the retina was never the object of our consciousness, while that upright image in the air is precisely the direct object of our consciousness. Of the other special senses I have no occasion to speak. I proceed at once to the Memory. Section Y. — Memory. How soon memory of some kind is developed it would be hard to say. Any repetition of an impression, the external cause being removed, has been sometimes described as a memory. In the processes I have been hinting at, where the repeated or revived impression of one sense blends with the actual impression of another, there may be said to be a species of memory. But where the revived impression blends thus immediately with some other (forming the component part of a new perception), where it does not stand out sep- arate in the consciousness, a recognised rejjetitkm, there I shoidd not give the name of memory. This recognition of the past seems to belong to a perfect memory. As touch was a requisite part of vision by supplying one of the two positions in space ; so present perceptions, whether MEMORY. 459 of touch or of vision, are requisite to memory by supplying one of the two positions in time. Without a here, there can be no there; without a^j;'eo)e«^, there can be no past. Although the revived impression is a new sensibility, and must have, in general, some inherent difference from an actual impression, yet this alone cannot relegate it into the past. There must be existing present impressions for the relationship of past and present to be felt. Were there no other present than the revived impression, the revived im- pression would itself be our present. And this is exactly what takes place in dreams. The senses, in that condition, giving us no actual present, revived impressions or images, I^roduced by the spontaneous action of the brain, take the place of reality. They are not recognised as memories or mere imaginations, but fill the quite unoccupied space. You will not confound the feehng of the relation of suc- cession with memor}', for this feeling, as I have said, is found in the sim2)lest state of sensational existence we can con- ceive ; one sensation is felt to follow another. The succes- sions of the revived past are our memories. Let us look back on so much of the road as we have traversed, and note how completely the mind is a develop- ment of that kind that the preceding state becomes an ele- ment in the subsequent state of consciousness. We have internal sensations necessary to the development of Touch. We have Touch necessary to the development of Vision. We have both past and present perceptions neces- sary to the development of Memory. And Memory, it is very evident, is necessary to the development of Imagina- tion, or the ncAV combination of thoughts ; necessary to the development of Anticipation. Without a Past no Future. And we shall still see, as we proceed, that tlie higlicr senti- ments of the social or intellectual man take their stand upon the lower. Speaking of the memory, it has been well remarked that the periodical changes in nature, and esjiecially the alter- nation of day and night, have greatly contributed to its distinct development. Events, by being associated with 460 DEVKLOPMENT OF THE IXDIVIDUAL CONSCIOUHNEHS. thesfi periodical diaiifjos, whicli can themselves he distinctly nunihered, get a clear definite place in the order of suc- cession. I would observe that there is a sense of familiar It ij, from having seen a thing before, which can be referred to nothing but a modification of the sensibility, but which does not constitute a complete memory, unless the previous perception, by being associated with other events, has obtained a place in some order of succession. When I see a thing the second time, my impression is different from what it was the first time ; but till I can recall where, and when, or with whom, or under what circumstances I first saw it, I have rather a confused and perplexing feeling than a memory. "When you look at any familiar object, as at any well-known face, you have this sense of familiarity ; but if you are not thinking of any time but the present, you do not apply the term memory to your state of consciousness. It has not all the elements that constitute a complete act of memory. In dreams we often have this sense of familiarity, accom- panied with the most egregious obli\aon of events. "We dream of a dead friend, perhaps the dearest friend we had ; we recognise him, and yet never once remember that he is dead. We have all that sense of familiarity by which the face is recognised as the face of ovir friend ; but in the dream this image has taken the place of reality, it is our actual present, and not one in a succession of events belonging to the past. Unless we dream the very incident of his ileath, we might see our friend night after night in our dreams, and not remember that he had ceased to live. The mention of dreams remmds me how closely connected are the reproduction of past impressions, and the new and varied combinations of those past impressions ; for the dream is an imagination as well as a memory. Perhaps an im- perfect, confused, inaccurate combination even jyrecedes in the order of development the precise and accurate memory. This would not be inconsistent vrith. what we shall have next to say of the importance and dignity of the Imagination. It may be true that perfect and precise memory may not be MEMORY. 461 at first acquired, and yet be also true that the faculty of making new combinations of thought, and especially new- combinations of distinct memories, is one which pre-eminently distinguishes the human being, and conducts him onwards to his highest attainments of science. With the full development of memory — this reproduction of the perceptions of sense, in order of time, and so that rela- tions may be felt, or comparisons made between them — ^vith tliis commences our intellectual being, our triie spirituality. To think of a thing is to remember it ; and when we say we examine any present object of the senses, we are recalling other objects, or other events, in connection with it. The very consciousness of our oum powers of acting and of think- ing is due to memory ; for consciousness of power is antici- pated action, and anticipation is founded upon memory. "Wliatever we may determine about the bare sense of per- sonality, or the mere Ego, our consciousness of continuity of being must be due to the memory, and the I myself, that stands here at this time, receiving different impressions from all things, seen or remembered, according to my habits and culture, must be the result of my Avhole antecedent development. Without entering upon any disputable point of contro- versy, we may, at all events, note how, with the growth of memories, and thoughts, and anticipations, the very character of the self changes. It is this being that thinlis, and that has thought, to whom our sensations more and more belong. This pre-eminence of thought is the real spirituality of man ; for if the spiritual essence is not exercised in thinking, ho can have little cause to boast of it. He thinks, he remem- bers, he recombines, perceives new relationshijjs amitlst his thoughts, has new feelings and sentiments. He seems to owe nothing to the earth; he travels on with a Imst of memories and anticipations of his own creating. Ivu-li in- stant of his life is but that point along the liiie at which he surveys a past and a future, i)rqj»'cted ])y his own intt-lligencc. This body is now "the macliine that belongs to him." Its sensations apparently belong to this spiritual being; and 4G2 DEVELOPMENT OF THE INDIVIDUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. when lie tries to look l)afk upon his earliest stages of exis- tence, ho cannot divest himself of this tJwu/jht-self, and he sees even in the infant, busy as yet in forming its percep- tions, a self akin to his own. Yet could we really transport ourselves back to our first infantine state, wo should lind the self close gathere conduct, and moulding the inner life into one harmoniou.-; whole. The man rises above the fluctuation of events, for Jie is constant. In its last and highest phase I see in the conscience the felt union between the created hiunan reason and the Divine creative Eeason. But the conscience has THE MORAL SEXTIMEXTS. 475 many forms or varieties of development. Throughout all human history religious sentiments have blended with those purely moral, but they have mingled in different proportions, and both the religious and moral sentiments have been of a very different complexion. iS^owhere is it more necessary to take notice of a certain order in the development of our thoughts and sentiments than in this intricate subject of Ethics. Again and again do men try to coerce all morality, all that men understand as moral goodness, into some definition that, in fact, only accurately expresses a certain portion of this vast subject. It is a history and not a definition that the subject requires. Xot a few have taken the last and highest form of morality — a sentiment of pure duty, unexpectant of reward or punishment of any kind, and have attached exclusively to this the name of virtue. Others, fixing upon the lower but more general sentiment springing from the fear of punish- ment, or the desire of esteem, have altogether ignored the existence of any higher phase of moral sentiment. Some (like our Paley) have embraced the motives of religion as well as those of morality in their definition of virtue; ap- parently forgetful that if Virtue is that good action only which is done " in obedience to the will of God," vice is that bad action only which is done in disobedience to God. How this would restrict our notions both of vice and virtue I need not say. The only result of such definitions, if accepted, would be to drive us to coin new names for the old vices and virtues that cannot possibly be included in tlie new limits. A learned Spanish Jesuit, in his * Medulla Theologize,' did give for his definition of vice what is the exact coimterpart of Palej'-'s definition of virtue, and raised such a storm about his head as is not yet quite forgotten. As to our Paley's definition, it figures at the commencement of his book, but it cannot be said to interfere with his subsequent exposition. Xowhere is that preililection so strong whicli I have already remarked upon — the predilection to believe that what is best in our minds was also first — original, intuitive. 470 DEVKLOr.MENT OF THK IXDIVIDUAL CONSCIOUSNESS. Tliis not only oliscures the ui>j)rf nature is liable to be interrupted ; that the type may be jnodilied, in certain unessential particulars, by the slow action of climate, food, &c. ; and that these modifications DIVERSITIES OF RACE. 493 become, in their turn, hereditary. To which class of facts are we here to attribute the greatest weight 1 One observation I ^viIl hazard. "When I am referred to the unliealtliy influence of certain "hot and swampy dis- tricts " of Africa as a cause of the blackness of the negro, or as mainly concerned in the process of acclimating the white man — as if the adaptation to the climate was obtained tlirough disease and physical degradation — I must demur. It was surely the healthy Asiatic peopling the more healthy parts of Africa, who first underwent those modifications Avhich ended in a perfect adaptation to the climate. It is surely not disease that lays the foundation for the finest specimens of physical power that the sun looks down upon. On the coast of Africa, the black man, tall, well formed, in full health and vigour, braves a heat that strikes the Euro- pean into hopeless lassitude. I do not say that his ancestor was not a white man, who came from Asia, and that arr adaptation to the climate may not have been gradually brought about, but the process coiild hardly be that to which we give the name of disease. It unfortunately happens, in this controversj'-, that every array of facts can be accounted for on either hypothesis. The gradation of races, the intermediate peoples you may interpose between any two extremes, may be explained either by supposing one race undergoing changes as it gradually spread over the surface of the earth, or by the intercom- munication of different races, meeting and blending ^^^th each other. So the degree of similarity which philologists think they have traced between all the languages of the world, may, in the estimation of some, point to a common origin for all the inliabitants of the world. To otliers it may appear that such similarity as the philologist is able to trace, may easily be explained by the simple fact that all mankind have similar organs of speech, similar organs of hearing, similar wants, and similar faculties of mind. The antiquarian, or the historian, can help us least of all. The earth is everyAvhere peopled ])efore an authentic note of history is heard. Tradition only speaks of the slufting and 494 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETV'. cliaugiiig, tlic rolling here or there, of tlie great seas of human population. "What carries us hack farther than this, comes manifestly from the hary) of the poet, or it is the early speculation of philosophy uttering itself in the language of the myth. Varieties there doubtless are amongst the inhabitants of the world ; but these inhabitants themselves are constantly changing and intermixing. No man can point to any spot on earth, and say this spot shall be always inhabited by barbarians. It is very possible, too, that a people, whether from a difference in race or influence of climate, may be unable to originate what yet they may be able to learn, or to imitate. The science of Europe may be taught through- out Asia, though it might never have been produced there. And who knows but that, when the problem of a powerful, rational, equitable society, shall have been worked out in these temperate zones — so favourable to strenuous and per- severing endeavour — who knows but that the bright example may be seized upon by many a nation in the East, amongst Avhom it may even extend with the rapidity of a new re- ligion 1 The Asiatic, appropriating the science won by our severer labours, and such of our arts and inventions as may be serviceable in his more lenient cUmate, will carry them off as lawful spoil and imenvded pillage, to his own more favoxu-ed soil and more delicious skies. There, in the brightest regions of the earth, he may exhibit the most perfect, as he exhibited the earliest, of the forms of civilised and social existence. Humanity, after all, is one. And just as any people advances by one individual rising above his compeere (for which outgrowth of the iudiA^idual you can look to no other cause than the same creative and beneficent Power to which all individuals owe their existence and their growth), so aU mankind advances by a like pre-eminence amongst this or that people. "We, then, planting om-selves in England, and in the nineteenth century, endeavoiu* to look back on the great stream of historv, and forward, so far as any indica- tions of the futui'e can be detected by us. ANCIENT CIVILISATION. 495 " Everything that exists depends on the past, prepares the future, and is related to the whole." Each age, in its place in the succession, has had a certain perfection or unity of its own, hut has been also a preparation for its successor. Something of tliis I may be able even in this brief sketch to indicate, as I rapidly trace the progress of mankind — in the arts which administer to the comfort of life, in science, in morality, in religion; or say, in industrial prosperity, in laws and government, in specidative knowledge. Section II. — Ancient Civilisation. It would be useless to inquire how men lived in that long period which probably elapsed before written language was invented, and of which no record has been transmitted to us. The first records themselves strangely enough present us with gods, and demi-gods, and giants, instead of men; and fables of the imagination instead of real events. ^len exercised their imagination first, before they tasked their memory. The commencements of every people are shrouded in mystery or fantastic fable. iSTot unwisely. It was AveU that men should respect themselves, and there was perhaps a time when the tapestry hung up by the imagination at one end of the vista, was a better subject of contemplation than the bare and unsightly truth. Whatever the com- mencements of the race have been, they Avill be ennobled, and perhaps explained, by the future. \ATien the whole programme of humanity shall be unfolded, every part of it will be seen to be fit, and in its fit place. Ah-eady we can afi"ord to tear doA\ai the tapestry, though instead of gods and heroes, and a golden age, and a garden of innocence, a most rude and primitive people should be dindy seen, half hidden by the interminable forests amongst which thuy ensnare or pursue their prey. Some speculative writers have done theu' best to fiU up this vacant space in our annals, by descriljing the progress of mankind from the wild hunter to the less wild shepherd, and from the shepherd to the settled agricultui'ist. Yet, as 496 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETV. tho climates of the earth arc various, and offer at once various kinds of food, it is more probable that these im- jiortant difFerences in the method of oljtaiij.ing subsistence (which lead to so many otlier differences in life) were de- veloped, not successively in any stationary population, but according to the localities men occupied. The earth, the common mother of us all, would, at least, educate her chil- dren, as soon as they extended their area of population, into various arts and methods of obtaining food. Some would receive a liigher education of this kind tlian others. When certain writers have suggested that no nation ever civilised itself, and have therefore represented civilisation as coeval with the race of man, they have overlooked the fact of this early difference established between the several tribes or nations of the earth, and of the assistance they would render to each other. What assistance, you wiD say, can the less civilised and less instructed afford to the more in- structed, who often convert the former into their mere slaves 1 I answer, that this very conversion of them into slaves was a very marvellous assistance, as I shall have oc- casion by-and-by more fully to explain. When the curtain draws up, and we really catch some glimpse of the world as it was in olden times, what is the spectacle presented to us 1 The scene opens on us with great cities abeady built, in Egypt and in Asia, Thebes and Memphis, Nineveh and Babylon, with wide outlpng regions occupied by less settled and pastoral people — pastoral, not therefore peaceful — with some of whom these imperial cities are making war, to others offering commerce. We seem to see also certain Arabian tribes, who report themselves as having broken loose from an Egyptian slavery, and who, under their great prophet, are bent upon conquering for themselves a settlement in the land of Canaan. They con- quer in the name of their god, and are destined, in their stormy and troubled career, to develop, through many phases, up to its purest form, the religious sentiment, and to give to it the highest possible expression. I suppose I may consider it undisputed that the ci\'ilisa- SACRIFICE SLAVERY. 497 tion of these and other great cities of antiquity — even those of Greece and Italy — has been surpassed by that of the pres - ent capitals of Europe. But if any one should be doubtful or captious on this head, I should beg him to reflect on these two elements of the ancient civilisation, — 1, Amongst social institutions. Slavery; 2. In religious ■worship, Sacrifice. These two institutions or customs, on which we are now able to look back, are sufficient of themselves to establish the fact of human progress within the historical period. It is true that both Slavery and Sacrifice, under various modifications and various interpretations, have survived to periods of civilisation which, in many respects, might bear comparison with our own. But their nature and origin are undisguisable. They bear the indelible stamp — the one of having originated in an era of violence, when sheer Force was in the ascendant — the other in a period of dark igno- rance, when either a very savage or a very childish imagina- tion predominated in religion. Slavery, in the great cities I am speaking of, arose out of war; and war, again, was carried on with the olyect of en- slaving other people. Men were captured, bound, dragged in and compelled to labour for the victors : the women and children had perhaps been put to deatL '^^^lat aspect slavery may have borne in patriarchal tents, or in some pastoral communities, is another matter : it might here have been nothing else than that hiring for life which would have been the only equitable, and perhaps the onlj' possible, con- tract for labour at a period when commerce had not yet introduced the use of money. But in the great cities of antiquity we have indisputable proof of its origin in Avar, and that the captive was converted into the slave. The rite of Sacrifice tells its strange tale with the same distinctness. Many were the subtle interpretations and doctrines connected with it in later times ; — and in later times it was practised in connection with far loftier concep- tions of God than could have been contemporaneous with its institution ; — but the imagination that could have given rise to the slaughter of the ox or the lamb, as a mode of M'orship 2 I 498 TUE DEVELOPMENT OF aOCIETY. and propitiation of tlio god, transfers us at once to wliat we should call the infancy of the human intellect, if the infancy were not of so terribly passionate a character. For it waa not the ox or the lamb only that was slain : in the earliest periods of which we have historical record, human sacrifices extensively prevailed. And this points very plainly to an imagination exercised tinder the dorninunt injluence of the passiuns of war. That the god Avas held to be pleased with the slaughter of men and of beasts — that the pouring out of blood propitiated him — that the voluntary intiiction of suf- fering was an acceptable mode of testifyuig devotion — that such ideas prevailed, is indisputable. Men who desired nothing so fervently as the destruction of their enemies, and to whom no sight was so acceptable, imagined that the god who was to give victory in battle, woidd be himself pleased with destruction, and they Avere Avilling to offer it to him in any shape that might be supposed to secure his assistance. I consider this early, most prevalent, and most passionate form of religion to be deserving of especial study, and shall return to it again. I do not pretend to decide whether men commenced with simple and innocent offerings to the god, and then rose in their bidding for his favour, till they sacrificed human life ; or whether they commenced with this horrible rite, and sub- stituted animals and other offerings as they became more peaceful and more humanised. The custom of making offerings to some supernatuiixl power seems invariably to accompany a certain ignorant and unreflective state of society. Travellers tell us of simple savages who offer meat to their idols — put it to their mouths — with exactly the same unreflective imagination that prompts a child to put the cake it is eating to the mouth of its doU. TMiat served as food to man, was given to the god, with some vague feel- ing that it woidd be food to bim also. And the custom, once established, would jierpetuate itself by the belief which is sure to foUow on any rehgious custom, that the god woidd be angry if the accustomed service were not rendered. The most respectable origin that can be assigned to the rite is, ERA OF SLAVERY. 499 that as men approaclied any liuman being, any prince or governor whom they wished to propitiate, with some gift or tribute, they approached their supernatural ruler also, bear- ing in their hands whatever gift they could. I apprehend that it could not be first introduced as a symbol; it AvoiUd be first considered as a service, grateful, in some way, to the god ; afterwards, in more enlightened times, it would be treated as a symbol — as the mere expression of devotion, or the shadowing forth of some religious mystery. A feeling which demands some respect from us, mingled with the most painful and odious rites of sacrifice. AVhen we can do no service to a being greatly superior to ourselves, we can at least show our devotion, and prove our will to serve, by doing some disservice to ourselves. We can wound, and cut, and mangle our own bodies — we can destroy our most valued possessions — we can destroy our cattle and our slaves. This self-imposed loss may be also an expression of penitence. As religion advances in its devel- opment, our duty to God becomes more distinctly of a nwral nature ; the rite of sacrifice loses its character of a gift or offering to the god, and becomes a propitiation for oiu' moral guilt. It assumed this higher character pre - eminently amongst the Jews. — But I must not be tempted to pursue this subject any further at present. Section III. — Progress of Inditstry and of Industrial Organisation — Era of Slavery. In ancient civilisation Slavery was everywhere present. It is an institution we now justly hold in abhorrence, and we congratulate ourselves on our escape from it; but an institution once so general had, we may be sure, its legiti- mate place in the development of liuinan society. We must not simply recoil before a fact of this description, but must endeavour to comprehend its full significance. Unless one man had possessed the power to coerce many others to Avork for him, in order to please liis tastes and 500 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. desires, tliorc would liavc Lceii no industry Lut of that kind wliicli. each man practised for liis own wants and those of his fiiniily. These heing satisfied according to some rude stand- ard, Industry would have remained stationary. The simplest arts only would have lieen prr.ctised, and proLably in the rudest manner. To perceive this, we have only to ask our- selves, For whose benefit would any of those arts have been first practised or attempted, wherein the efforts of several men arc required for the production of that which only one can possess or enjoy 1 Take the tent, or the habitation, for an instance. You wish to pass beyond that rude stage of the art of building in Avhich each family builds for itself, builds some structvire that just suffices for shelter — you wish to pass from the hut to the house. 'Now it is evident that it would require the labour of many men to build one much larger and superior house than those which each man had contrived to raise for himself. The task would never be entered on — the wish coiUd never arise — the requisite combination of labour Avould never have been brought about — unless one man had been in the condition to compel others to work for him. That combination of the labour of many for a common purpose — which is so justly extolled by the political economist under the name of " division of labour " — was first brought about by the power of one man over others ; in short, by Slavery. And that important office of the " capitalist," the suppljnng food to a labourer occupied about other work than the pro- curing of food for himself, was first performed by the owner of many slaves, and the proprietor of the corn for which he neither ])loughed nor sowed. It was the poAver of a despotic master which united multitudes in a common labour. It was the wish or the caprice of such a master that raised the standard of production in any art. If the object to be con- structed were of a complicate character — as a house or a palace — this would necessarily lead to that division of labour Avlicrein each one limits himself to some specific part of a general task. It is the slave-owner who has the key of the granary, and he necessarily is the first capitalist ; but he ERA OP SLAVERY. 501 sustains the part very imperfectly, since he employs his capital only for himself. The political economist very justly attributes the origin of civilisation to that fertility of soil which enables the labour of one man to support several. But this essential condition of an easUy obtained supply of food, standing alone, "woidd lead only to idler Hves throughout the favoured district. It is an easily fed midtitude, and the institution of slavery (compelling many to labour at the command of one), which together inaugurate civilisation. Without this institution, some practice, no doubt, of barter and exchange, some rude " division of labour " would take place ; but no design coidd be entered on for the production, by many, of what only one or a few can enjoy — as a large house, elaborate furniture, splendid trappings, armour, and the like. Only a despotic power can effect this. A subsequent era of society Avill reap all the benefit of the labour and ingenuity which was in the first instance forced into existence by an arbitrary wiU, and the very arts thus rudely fostered will aid in producing a better organisation of society. It is thus one era prepares for the next. Slavery does not exist amongst savages of the chase ; there is no way of supporting a slave. But there is a certain domestic slavery we find even amongst them. One whole sex seems to be made the slave of the other. The first use which the stronger sex makes of its strength, is not assuredly to help the weaker, but to make the weaker sex work for it. Domestic as well as social order seems, in the fu-st instance, to be obtained by mere Force exacting obedience. Whether the union of the Family requires, at its first institution, tliis harsh discipline, I cannot say — one does not like to think it ; but, except some superstition has early intervened, the savage woman is generally seen to be the slave of the savage man. She carries the burden, cooks the meal, and retires while the man eats it. This last trait marks the harsh nature of the bond ; for, of course, she must take her share of the necessary labours, and it would be difficult enough to define what that eciuitable share would be. Tliere is a stage when 502 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. tlie conjugal union i.s little bettor than a mere slaver)'. The man has to keep his wife as an nxclumve pnssesitioii. This is something gained to society : only he holds her with too rude a grasp. In the ancient civilisation we are speaking of, the whole .•society seems organised — in its domestic, industrial, and polit- ical relations — by mere Force. It is a slavery everywhere — in the house, in the workshop, in the palace. But great things were done under this first organisation of society. On the banks of the Nile, whose periodical overflow occasions so singidar a fertility, popidation thickens — power grows with numbers — a city is built — wars of conquest are undertaken — the enslaved popidation of outlying districts are brought in and compelled to work. The boldest imagination sets them at their task. They raise pyramids, palaces, temples, and fill them with curious works of art. These men — who, if they had been labouring for themselves, woidd have been impelled each, by his own petty want — have become the servants of this great magician — the imaginative faculty of man. On the banks of the Xile, or in the plains of Asia, the labour of multitudes was tasked for the service of lordly masters — but of lordly masters who themselves lent their ear to the suggestion of the man of thought, the man of genius — of him who could devise a new thing, and foresee new possibilities. In this way the spirit of Thought was moving and moulding. Barbaric splendours arose, and also many useful productions, whether of the loom or the forge, which have since been repeated and multiplied for the ad- vantage and enjoyment of numbers. "VMien we look back to the palace of some Pharaoh, or some great Satrap, we see the invention and industrj- of a whole multitude set at work to exhibit to the world one great model of art, enjo^Tnent, beaiity, luxury — afterwards to be copied piecemeal, or on a dimiuished scale, for thousands. I doubt not that the usefiU and elegant articles of furniture which now so agreeably adorn the residences of free and equal citizens, may be legiti- mately traced to the power of some Satrap dreaming of ERA OF SLAVERY. 503 nothing but his soHtary magnificence — to liim and to that unknown man of genius who was called in to help the dream. Nor am I aware that we ought to feel much commiseration for the crowd of enslaved labourers. They, as the world then stood, lost very little when they lost their freedom, and they gained something in their habits of industry, even though these at first were enforced on them. And note this always — that a life made up of few elements, or few enjoy- ments, may seem to us a sad one to descend into, but is not on account of its mere simplicity an unhappy life. The earlier generations of mankind, like the ruder classes of our o^\n time, may have had, for the most part, a very Hmited existence, but not therefore a miserable one. The more we think of it, the more clearly will it come out to us, that the great governments and polities of antiquity were due to this relationship of slavery ; so far due to it, that other and co-opcratmg causes would have been ineffec- tive without it. It is commonly said that the first wide Despotism arose out of war — out of conquest. The commander and victor in battle retained his authority in peace. But what enabled him to retain authority over soldiers as brave as bimself — to perpetuate the authority of the camp in the city — and not only to perpetuate it in his own person, but to transmit it to his son? This — that there was a domestic tjTanny in each man's house, which bound the lord of it to uphold that existing rule, whatever it might be, which retained the whole community together. Every owner of a slave was himself a despot ; and if despotism or a military rule was established, he would support his own power by supporting that of the great national despot. At a subsequent era these lords might combine and form an aristocracy. A monarcliy of limited extent seems naturally to resolve itself into an aristocracy. An extensive despotism, where combination amongst the chiefs is extremely difficult, supports itself by its own magnitude. Property in land and cattle, it is often said, will of itself introduce some measure of law and government. Very 504 TUB DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. true ; but, tliougli it soems a harsh thing to say, it was property in man which first introduced settled stationary governments, and led to the great city. The possession of laud alone is not always found to settle and fix a popula- tion. Agricultural triljos, who have no slaves to till the soil for them, are apt to he as nomadic as pastoral tribes. A peculiar spot like that of the banks of the Js'ile, not only fertile in itself, but surrounded by a desert which makes their " happy valley " precious to its inhabitants, may detain its j)opulation. But even then, without the institution of slavery, it would always have remained a mere village population — each family living in its oavti hut or tent. I have no wish to disguise the harsh nature of this relationship of master and slave. But it was what the times demanded. What we see most prominent in all early periods are the passions of war. These, too, have their terrible joy. It was some step in advance when the victor spared the captive to convert him into a slave. A harsh relationship it must have been under these circum- stances. Ko equal rights ; labour compelled by the scourge ; obedience prompted by force. Yet the relationship itself modifies, and its harsh lineaments fade away. If the slave is a domestic, some community of feeling and of interest will rise up between him and the family he serves. If multitudes of slaves are herded together, they have a society of their owro. — a society within a society. Xature and habit So contrive it that no permanent condition of humanity is ■\vithout its solace. Harsh enough, however, the relation must still appear to us. But it is indispensable that we note the important part it has performed in the onward progress of society. • A single tjTant compels thousands to work for him — to build a palace, or it may be to build a tomb for him — and he gives them a rag and an onion apiece. What seems more monstrous than that these half-naked creatures, who have so much to prociu-e for themselves, should be toUing at an immense pyramid for the dead carcass of a man 1 But the natural order of events is often precisely ERA OF WAGES. 505 that T,'liicli, at the first blush, we pronounce to be most unnatural; for we think — very mistakenly — that what is most rational would be first chosen. This most rational thing is just what we have, through many curious paths, to get at. The great pyramid of Egypt presents no very rational or very amiable object to a reflective man. It stands there a most egregious egotism ; at the best, a sub- lime folly; an eternal mountain of stone, and this absurd mummy at the core of it. ^Nevertheless, the knowledge and skill were doubtless very great which this monstrous symbol of egotism was the means of eliciting. Let it stand there for ever in the desert as a monument of a great era in the progress of mankind. Throughout all this ancient ci\alisation, note one thing : The Judge and the MoraHst, Law and Public Opinion, all decree in favour of this right of property of man in man. Men become enlightened jurists and profound philosophers, and reason much of the public good — and Eeligion puts on her high moral aspect, and enforces the most equitable and philanthropic maxims of conduct; but all these general- isations of law, morality, and religion circle harmless around this institution of slavery — embrace it, or do not opjiose it. The pviblic good reqiiires it, or did require ; its neces- sity is still believed in. It is written down, as with an iron pen in the table of the law, that man has an undisputed right to his slave. Section IY. — Era of Wages. I advance at one bound from the Past to the Present, from the era of slavery to what, so far as the organisation of industry is concerned, may be called the era of wages. The Many must work for the Few before the ^lany can work for the ^lany. And this working for the Few is brought about, in tlie first instance, by compulsion — by slavery — which, again, is the result of war — the combina- tion of armed men giving to few the power over many. It may appear to us that the harsh system of slavery 606 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. lasted much lon^^er tlian was necessary, but its necessity as a prior condition to the system tliat followed cannot be denied. And what system is it that dies out just when wo think it might bo dispensed with? How could it be a system, and have all the permanence and stability of custom and habit, and not also manifest this inconvenient and obstinate vitality ] He who has reflected on what we owe to custom and habit, will not be very impatient when he observes them still perpetuating some institution long after it has reached what seems to us its legitimate period of dissolution. It was only in the city abeady built and peopled — it was only in the already organised community, that the new relationship of employer and employed, of capitalist and Avorkman, destined to substitute that of master and slave, could spring up. It would be needless for me to describe what has been narrated by many others, the manner in which free and paid labour was substituted for compul- sory labour. Speaking generally, one may say that there grows up in the great city (as descendants of free men and otherwise) a large class who are neither slaves nor proprietors of slaves. Of these some apply themselves to trade and commerce, and enrich themselves ; others, being poor, are wiUuig to enter into their service. Thus the relation of employer and employed woidd gradually arise, and for a long time coexist Avitli that of master and slave. It would probal)ly soon be found by the enterprising citizen that, even though he could purchase slaves, the paid labourer was more profitable than the slave. The slave must be bought and fed, and was after all an unwilling workman ; it was better economy to huy the labour onhj, and labour of a more voluntary character. The improved plan would make its way slowly from the to^vn to the country. The owner of land and serfs manumits his serf, and pays wages to him as his labourer. He manumits himseK at the same time from the responsibility of maintaining his serf. But the change of one system for another has never perhaps been effected' in the case of laud without the aid of co-operating ERA OF WAGES. 507 causes, sncli as political revolutions, or that destruction of the Eoman empire which dispersed the inhabitants of cities into the country, and gave both new owners and new labourers to the soil. One cannot wonder that the change should be slowly efTected Avith regard to land. He who has land and slaves seems to throw away his land when he parts with the slaves who cultivate it. Only in a settled country, where all the land was pretty well appropriated, could he have been sure that the possession of the land would have called back, or retained for him, the manumitted serfs. Besides, till trade and the use of money have penetrated throughout the coun- try, there must be some modification of slavery or serfdom. With no money and no shops, how pay yoiu? labourer in Avages 1 And to pay him in subsistence, and hire him only by the month, would be the worst and most cruel of systems. A liiring for the whole of life, by subsistence for age as well as youth, sickness as well as health, would, in the absence of money wages, be the only equitable bargain. Mark now how, with the proved possibility and establish- ment of a new system, the moral code of society changes ! Slavery has become criminal. The rights of property have been thus much abrogated, that property in man is gone. To claim such a property is stigmatised as a flagrant ■\\Tong ; and society cannot go back to its old code. We call this right to personal freedom an eternal right, altliough it is comparatively new to us ; for it must be eternal for all time to come. Slavery can never again belong to what we deem the perfect type of society. Let us unreservedly and cordially admire what has been accomplished in Europe under this new organisation of in- dustry, and under Avhat may be described as a new moral code, so far as one relation of life is concerned. Security to all of property ! Free disposition for each man of his own labour ! This was the new charter ; and for chief adminis- trator, the capitalist, who not only combines and directs the labours of many, but combines them for the service of all classes of the community. How have the industrial arts 608 Till': DEVELOr.MKNT OF SOCIETV. prospered undor this new system ! How have all their results been multiplied ! What large numbers enjoy all that human labour and ingenuity have produced for the sub- stantial wellbeing of a man ! The Despot and the Task- master, having done their part and lived their time, have retired from the scene ; and whatever was effected by arbi- trary poAver, is far better accomplished by the persuasive capitalist with cash in hand for all means of coercion. In these later times especially, the rapid progress of all sciences and all arts is the theme of perpetual wonder. I need not add my acclamations ; I wiU add only, that nothing indi- cates that we have advanced to the limits of tliis species of progress. On the contrary, every one feels it to be quite as certain that new discoveries in science, and new processes in art, await mankind in the future, as he knows it to be impossible to divine what those discoveries and processes will be. And now if this progress continue — if the multitude of mankind should be able to command by their labour those advantages which pass familiarly under the names of comfort, competence, civilised condition, and the like, how can I but foresee in tliis a preparation for a still greater approximation, and a more equal and permanent relationship, between em- ployer and employed 1 I cannot but foresee in this power of producing for the midtitude an abundance of all the requi- sites of a humanised existence — combined with the increas- ing intelligence of that multitude — a condition of things in wluch this great business of " food, clothes, and fire " wUl be conducted in such a manner that want, and the great evil of our present state, uncertainty, will be driven out of the world. Not that I suppose a time will come when men wall suddenly say amongst themselves, " Lo ! we have now a productive industry wliich, if wisely and equitably directed, would suffice to give house, clothing, books, instruction, and the like, to all. Let us then reorganise this industry, that it may accomplish so desirable a re^idt. Let us set to each one his task, and assign to each the conditions of a happy existence." This is wild talk, and shows an utter oblivion LANDLORD AND CAPITALIST. 509 of the manner in which society progresses, and in wliicli all great permanent changes are effected. The " desirahle result " is already in part accomplished, and the part accomplish- ment will gradually lead to such modifications in our cus- toms and relationships of life as will tend to its complete accompHshment. Meanwhile all our prosperitj^ and wellheing, present and future, are bound up with fidelity to the existing system — the charter we live under — the present rights of property. The landlord and the caj^italist are as essential to our civili- sation at this moment, as the hand that holds the spade or forges the steam-engine. I would assist in making this clear if it were at all necessary. For not only do I hold this conviction in common with all sober and rational men — in common with tliose who would smUe at my hopes of the future as visionary — but on account of these very hopes, I perhaps hold the conviction with even more earnestness than they do. Everytliing depends here in England, the future as well as the present, on faithful allegiance to our laws of property. Perhaps a few words from a Utopian, in ojiposition to those sophisms or mistaken moralities, by whicli thi'se in- stitutions of Landlord and Capitalist are occasionally assailed, may not be amiss. I cannot imitate the energetic style of the mob-orator, but the pith and substance of his reasoning might l)e stated thus. After describing the landlord's title as originating in mere force, and stigmatising it as usurpation (forgetful (piite that what he calls force is nothing else than that spontaneous development of society springing from the nature and pas- sions of mankind, Avithout which he Avould not liave been here to talk about society at all), he would probably proceed to say : " I can understand the sujn-ome justice that the man who sows shall reap ; and in order botli to sow aiitl to reap, he must have a property in the land. A man and liis family have a sacred right to so much of the soil as they cultivate and live upon. And if the son succeeds to the fatlier, he also is clothed with the same perfect and indisputable right. 510 THE UKVELOr.MENT OF SOCIETV. But tliat a man should ovm land, and iidicrit land, and enormous portions of it, which he cannot cultivate, "which other persons cultivate, giving him large tribute in the shape of rent — in this I perceive no justice at all " Not," would he continue, " is the inherited wealth of the Capitalist to me in the least more equitable. It is to the invention of money we owe the capitalist Money not only enables us to reward a man's labour by giving a general claim on the labour of others ; it also enables the man who has this claim given him, to postpone, at his pleasui-e, the exercise or assertion of it. He can not only postpone his claim to the days of sickness or of old age, but he can waive it during his whole life, and transmit it to his child. The accumidation of such claims in the hands of the descendant becomes capital, or may become capital if he is disposed to employ it as such. IS'ow it is quite just that A, having wrought strenuously and gained his reward, should be able to postpone the enjoyment of that reward to any period of his own life ; it is quite just and proper that one use he should make of the claim he has on others, should be to educate and provide for liis family, and place his son in a position to labour as he had done before him ; but is it just that that son, who has hunself done nothing for society, should make a quite indefinite demand on the in- dustry of that society 1 Because A wrought well, in and for his own generation X, is this a reason why B shoidd live idle upon the labour of generation Y 1 By what right can B assert a claim \ipon the harvests of the earth, who neither this year nor last year did anything, in any the most circuit- ous way, towards their production 1 " The answer is clear. Such is for the good of the whole. This man who inlierits his father's money (if he is not a spendtlirift, but desirous of adding to his Avealth) makes liis claim on the harvests of generation Y, that he may call workmen about him and set them upon this or that under- taking. He feeds them as they work, and products of all kinds are midtiplied, and the very industry of the fanner is stimulated to obtain them ; and, finally, the granai-y itself is LANDLORD AND CAPITALIST. 511 better filled than ever. This " unjust inheritance " proves to be the source of general prosperty to generation Y, The capitaUst does nothing to produce, at least directly, the corn and the meat that feed the labourer; but he is quite as necessary as if he did ; for it is he who combines men together for the production of conmiodities, whether of need or of luxury. If, indeed, men had intelligence enough to form the same combinations, for the same jiurposes, with- out his aid, his office might be dispensed with. But they have not this intelligence, and great must be the trahiing and discipline, and elevation of taste, before they could possibly have it. You complain of the misdirection of industry — that the workmen are not exclusively employed in producing what they themselves want, ^^^ly, this is one of the indispen- sable functions of the capitaUst — that he employs men in producing something of a liigher character or description than could be produced for all ; than could, at least in the first instance, be produced for all. And as to the Landlord, without him, in some form or other, there would never have been any civilisation at all, nor any products of industry beyond the rudest and quite indispensable. To him all refinement is in the first place due. In England, at this moment, if it were not for the landlord, the earth itself would be utterly defaced ; not a tree would be left growing ; nothing but a miserable patch- work of half-cultivated plots and allotments would meet the eye. I need not add that the capitalist, in his character of man of wealth, performs also many of the functions of the landlord. Some one perhaps says, This seems true, but explain to me why there is this contradiction between institutions which are to command approbation, and the plainest maxims of justice and equity. He Avho sows should rwip ; and wo should share alike in what God gives to all. Explain to me this contradiction. I both can and will explain it. The maxims of justice, as you call them, and which you adopt as the last general laws 512 THK DEVKLOPMENT OF SOCIETY. to wliicli appeal is to be made, are not tlie ultimate rules of morality that you take them for. They have to submit, and to he subordinated to, a higher and wider rule, llie good of the ivhoU is tlie paramount, all-emljracing law, to which appeal is always finally to be made. The only unalterable law of morality is this, that the good of the whole be se- cured, at every epoch, according to the existing power and intelligence of mankind. This maxim, that a man should possess the produce of his own labour, or a full equivalent to it, admirable maxim as it is, is not final ; it has to submit to a greater law — the good of the whole ; it never has been applied unrestrictedly in any human society, worthy of the name, and never could be so applied. All such excellent maxims as express themselves in the terms Equality and Fraternity — " Share alike," and " Love each other as brothers " — submit, in each age, to different limitations and interpretations ; and rights which contravene such maxims are still pre-eminently moral rights, if the good of the great organic whole of society require them. "WTien alluding, in the last section, to the transition from the era of slavery to the era of wages, it will be thought, perhaps, that I should have made specific mention of the teaching of Christianitj'^ as one cause of this transition- I am least of all men disposed to underrate the good offices of religion, and hold it to be one of the greatest causes of human progress that the most philanthropic maxims of morality have been taught imder the most solemn sanctions of religion. I readily admit that the influence of the Chris- tian priesthood was exerted in favour of personal freedom. Eut Christianity, at its institution, did not array itself against slavery ; and, what is more, it would have been exerting itself uselessly, or mischievously, if it had assailed one social system till there was another so far developed as to be substituted for it. "When it had plainly become pos- sible to manumit the slave or the serf, -w-ithout detriment to society, the teachers of Christianity tlu-ew the weight of their exhortations into the turning scale. But the industrial problem had first to be solved. ERA OF PARTNERSHIP. 513 In some of the United States of Christian America, slavery- exists to this day. And why 1 Precisely because the culti- vation of the soil in those states is thought to require it. And so long as this conviction lasts, it is evident that the teaching of Christianity will have no effect. The industrial problem must first be solved, or some way seen to its solu- tion. For my part, I can have no doubt that this black serf also will be soon manumitted ; it will be found to be good economy to liberate him; and it is this prevailing belief that the experiment might be safely made, that emboldens the Americans of other states to denounce the system of negro slavery. It is possible, in like manner, that there are points of view in which the present rights of property, and the pres- ent relations between employer and employed, do not coin- cide with the philanthropic and equitable maxims of moral- ity embodied in Cliristianity. Yet no enlightened moralist, or Christian divine, assails those rights, or those relations. If, indeed, there is some other industrial problem destined to present itself in its turn before us, and if this problem should approach its manifest solution, then the moralist or the divine would wisely extend the application of his benevolent principles ; he might then call for change where he has hitherto preached nothing but resignation. But to assail laws that are still essential to the wellbeing of the whole society, would not be morality or religion ; your " jus- titia fiat, ruat coelum," is, in every respect, an impossible business. Section V. — Era of PartnersJiip ; or, some Considerations on the Effect likely to he produced by Increased Almndance and Increased Intelligence. — The good of some social whole, not the Principle of Equality, our true Moral Guidance. I must candidly acknowledge that if tliis Cotif'ssio Fidci had been written two years ago, I should here have intro- duced a somewhat long chapter on that Era of Partnership ■2 K 514 THE DEVELOr.MEXT OF SOCIETY. into wliich I tliink tliat our prcsont era of wages will grad- ually rise ; the relationship of employer and eni])loyefl merg- ing into the happier relationship of partnership between labour and capital, or between labour and labour, in some industrial association. But every year I live makes m<' more indisposed to indulge in any speculation that may be construed into a prediction of the precise nature of the cus- toms or modes of living of a future generation. I shall limit myself, therefore, to some indications which lie open to us all, and which are matters of observation rather than of speculation; I shall confine myself to the discussion of those general principles, the truth of which cannot be denied by the most despondent of reasoners. Men, I have said, combined their labour first under thf compulsion of the Task-master, afterwards \inder the tutelage of the Capitalist; they will come at length to combine voluntarily, with foresight and full consciousness of the ends to be obtained by combination. The two previoiis stages may be considered as necessary steps, necessary edu- cation for this last stage ; which, indeed, will re(pure a high education, in moral training as well as industrial power. Do you regret this 1 Do you regret that a secure material prosperity to all men will only be the result of, or must necessarily be combined with — say the very highest senti- ments man knows — Love to man, and Love to God 1 If you do, you seem to me to have missed entirely the whole meaning of this intricate and varied progression of man- kind. AMiat is it all but one great education for a lif»- animated by these sentiments 1 — a life not painfull^' com- pressed and impoverished in order that those sentiments may live (as our friend Cyril thinks), but a life varied, cheerful, and busy, as seem the motes in a sunbeam, which yet, with all their movements, appear but as one ray from the source or fountain of all light. Of my confidence in the future I do not abate one jot. But in proportion as I see the grandeur of the end — this noble education of mankind — and the multiplicity of means that our Divine Instructor employs — in such proportion do I grow timid ERA OF PARTNERSHIP, 515 in the attempt to trace any portion of the programme of the future. We -wi'ite down in our moral code that man shall not suU himself to man. This is now our firm and estahlished law. We write down, what may not be altogether so permanent, that he shall seU his labour in market overt to the best bidder, for the day or the year, as the case may lie. Wlion I read the other day in our great j)opular journal, that the right and privilege of the English artisan is, that he can carry his labour to the market where " it will fetch its price just as oil and tallow, or any other commodity," although I could not but acknowledge, as I read, that this was the best arrangement hitherto possible, and that he who sought to disturb it was simply a mischief-maker, yet I could not help recoiling from the idea presented to me ; I could not recog- nise in it the best possible an-angemcnt for all time to come. A man's wages represent his subsistence, his life. One must wish, at all events, that no member of society should be de- pendent for the means of life upon changeful and precarious circumstances, altogether beyond liis control, and wliicli may make his labour a drug in the market. liemember that a precarious subsistence is not only an evil in itself, but ren- ders almost impossible any cultivation of prudence, foresight, and other moral habits. I admit that the highest equity hitherto practicable is that the labourer shall freely seU liis labour at the best price he can get. He brings his two hands and his hungry stomach into the market-place. Society gives him so much standing-room. IJuy his lal)Our, and he has a certain recognised status, and feeds conformably. If no one buys, he must beg. Public charity gives something grudgingly out of the granary ; it is unearned, and must be always felt as a degrading gift. The man is liere amongst us, and must not die in the streets ; his membership of society does amount to this. But what sort of member of society that man is likely to become, to whom employment and subsistence are insecure — or how such a man is likely to bring up his children — the records of every jail in the country wiU testify. I have no scheme or project to pro- 516 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. pose, but I have a faitli tliat the descendants of the present generation will gradually rise into some better membership of society than this. That a time will come when that security for subsistence (as the reward of industry) without which there can be no high cultivation either of the intellect or of the affections, Avill be extended to all — is a faith which " no fire would burn and no seas wash out of me." JJut I will only attempt to indicate certain tendencies or principles of action which seem to be leading to this happy result. The extended oi)eration of the principle of voluntary asso- ciation is that wliich jM. Guizot, a profound historian, a minister of state, a man not at all of an enthusiastic tem- perament, has fixed upon as the distinguishing characteristic of these later times. And I am sure few Englishmen will dissent from this opinion. Some of our greatest under- takings have been accomplished by the association of small capitalists ; it is thus our raih'oads have been laid down. Associations for the prosecution of science, for the encom-age- ment of the fine arts, have sprung up aroimd us. As to religious worship and religious teaching, there is not a vil- lage in England that has not its chapel and its school sup- ported by voluntary contribution. If every village has its chapel, every little town has its benefit club, distinguished sometimes under strange designations, as " Odd Fellows," " Foresters," and the like. That these are not new, but only increased in number, is the more favourable to the argu- ment. It seems to me that these voluntary associations, which have for their object to render mutual assistance in the task of providing for the necessaries of life, are espe- cially noteworthy. A still more hopefid sign may be discovered in the fact that Avorkmen have been permitted to deposit their savings as capital in the manufactories in which they still remained as workmen. I am not aware how frequenth^ this has taken place ; but the late discussions upon the law of partnei-ship have revealed the expectation of reflective men that such a practice will become frei|uont. Xothing could operate more INCREASED POWERS OF PRODUCTIOX. 517 beneficially on society than the frequent combination in the same person of capitalist and workman. It would tend to raise the whole body of workmen, and would have an admi- rable influence on the relationship between employer and employed. A large factory might become to all intents and purposes a large partnership, and Avages gradually as- sume the character of a share in the profits. In such a factory the spirit of gambling would be checked. You will not confound an association of this description with joint-stock companies, which, unfortimately, have added new temptations to the spirit of gambling and of fraud. In these last, people deposit a portion of their capital, generally such portion as they can afford to lose ; they look for their dividend, but never look at all into the management of the common concern. This falls into the hands of a fcAV clever and active men, who are tempted to commit frauds by the facilities for fraud placed before them. A new form of dishonesty rises amongst us, and there is a general outcry that the whole morality of the country is tainted. If I should predict tliat a factory will become a great per- manent establishment, or partnersliip, in Avhicli there will be different ranks, according to the industry, prudence, and intelligence of the partners — in which generation after gen- eration might rear their children in full confidence in the future — I shall be told that I am drawing largely on the imagination. I will limit myself, tlierefore, to some reflec- tions on the probable results of Abundance combined with Intelligence. I mean abundance obtained by industry, and of those products that are extendible to all. The connection between prosperity and amenity of maii- ners and social affection is generally perceived and admitted. Want is very savage ; liunger and hatred are very near allied. All men recognise these truths ; and I have only to caU attention to them. If men have to struggle for very life, for self-jn-cservation, all their being is absorbed in this one effort. This is nature's laAV, and a most wise one. Each creature must strive to the utmost for its own preservation. Men whose daily bread is a matter of daily anxiety, Avill 518 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. have tlicir thouglits so iixfd (jii tliis oiio .suLjoct, tliat it vriU entirely occupy their Held of mental vision. Let them he, according to a common and very significant phrase, " l^eforo- hand with the world " — let them earn their subsistence by prospective and systematic labours — the field of vision ex- pands. They are, at all events, in a condition wherein en- larged views of their own interest, and of the interest of the society t(j whicli they belong, may be taken. That they will take such views, will mainly depend on a collateral intellectual education, into which I shall enter by-and-by. How Avell is the ship navigated while every sailor moves to his function with sense of security ! He navigates the ship for his own safety, as Avell as the safety of others, but the sense of personal danger is not there to disturb or to engross him. Ikit let the terror of ship^Teck fall upon the crew, and " duty to the good ship " is necessarily gone — is transformed into personal anxiety each one for liis own pre- servation. Something like this takes place in the navigation of the good ship Society. There must be a freedom from the anxieties of self-ju'cservation, if all are to take their parts in a spirit of duty to the whole. That abundance of the products of human industry (food amongst others), which at first sight seems to be merely the extension of the comforts and luxuries of the few to the many, is in reality the condition on which alone both few and many can rise to a high level of thought and action. You have somewhere said, Thorndale, in your Diary, that when the poet exclaims — " Ah, when will all men's good Be each niau's rule ! " he does not mean that it should be each man's wotivc. No, not his sole motive. But excuse me if I say you have only stated half the truth if you do not recognise that the desire for the advancement and prosperity of some whole, of which we form a part, is itself a distinct and prominent motive in the minds of most cultivated men. It is a motive which will take a larger and larger share of theii- thoughts as men DIFFUSED IXTELUGENCE GOOD OF THE WUOLE. 519 get dissnthralled from personal anxieties. "We think and we work for others as Avell as for oui'selves. It is a joy to do so. But it is not a sort of joy or motive that men can feel with fear of shipwreck before their eyes. The greatest blunder which speculative men have com- mitted, and still commit, is a certain hankering after ei^uality, or that justice which demands that each man should have the fuU undiminished result of his own labour. If he does not positively wear the shoes he makes, he must receive a full equivalent for them. Very right it should be so, if other interests permit. But this is not the high and noble and ultimate principle of morality for which it is taken. The great unalterable principle of morality is the preservation and advancement of the organic whole of society. But as this organic whole advances to its perfection, the condition of every individual member of it is raised ; and it may be- come the practicable object and very end of such a society, that the elements of a high and happy life be extended to all. Perhaps it might be accepted as a definition of a perfect state of society — that in Avhich the rjood of the whole is tan- tamount to the highest Icind of good for each. If a society had been organised on the principle of Equality, it never 'could have risen above the dead flat level of universal poverty. And introduce such a principle at any later period, it would still act as an antagonist to progress. Take a simple illustration. If the combined labour of twelve men could produce only a cloak for one, it would surely be better that they shoidd make the one cloak than none at alL Thus only could they ever learn to make more cloaks. They make one : eleven of them, let us say, make a cloak for tlie one to wear (it will be probably that one who wears also a sword by liis side — usurper, too, as it is caUed, of the land). By-and-by, owing to improved processes of manufacture, cloaks are mul- tiplied ; all the twelve have cloaks. But the same ingen- uity that multiplied cloaks has also discovered a new and rare material for their manufacture, and one cloak is made of velvet or satin. Will you now introduce the principle of equality, and say that no velvet or satin shall be manufac- 520 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. tared till it can ho niannfacturod for all 1 Any scheme, whether it calls itself hy the name of Socialism or Commun- ism, which proceeds on this principle of J>[uality, is evi- dently a scheme for repression of industry and the degrada- tion of society. And the only excuse that can be given for men of intelligence and philanthropy ever falling into such schemes, is, that the physical distress by which they were surrounded so occupied their minds, so engrossed their sym- pathies, that it seemed to them at the time that everything should he forfeited, if only all could he well fed. All will be well fed, but not by limiting society to the task of procuring food, or by subordinating everything else to this great task. It is a society doing many other things well, that will perform this task well. One notices, not without interest, that the principle of equality has from time to time allied itself with an ascetic morality. Moral and religious teachers, full of indignation at the spectacle they beheld of suffering on the one hand, and luxury on the other, have assailed an inequality of ranks, which seemed to them incompatible with justice. And they could assail it the more freely as they were very willing to bring down all the world to that level of the quite indispens- able, in which alone our inequalities could disappear. Happily their teaching, which would simply have destroyed whatever there was of decent or decorous in life, has been ineffectual. In fact, it is that very abundance which, under the name of luxury, they were stigmatising (sometimes very excusably), that Avas preparing the way for a higher species of equality than they dreamt of, and for the appliciition of even higher principles of morality than they had assumed for their guidance. That sentiment of Duty to some social body to which we belong, which appears in some form in the rudest stages of society, is being constantly strengthened, and its field of action constantly enlarged. If you look well into it, you will find that both The Family and The Society, as they rise up spontaneously amongst us, are perpetually educating us to think and work for others as well as ourselves. In the SOCIAL RELATIOXS MODIFIED. 521 family, each meBiber of it is interested for the whole, as well as for himself. The father labours for his child, without knowing whether the child will ever repay the labour be- stowed upon him ; it is an even chance, say the staticians, whether he will live to an age when he could render any service towards the support of his parents. I glanced for- merly at the relationship of husband and wife, as it exists in savage life. How does the relationship alter as civilisation advances ! Pity and excuse the poor savage, rather than blame him. If every day was a new chase after the day's food, how completely the business of food must have ab- sorbed him, how utterly impossible it was for refined and un- selfish feelings to grow up in him ! They do grow uj) (God's greatest bounty to us) where the conditions of life permit their development. It Avas said, more eloquently than truly, that the age of chivalry was gone. There is the essential feeling of chivalry in every citizen who proudly conducts liis wife to the pleasant home wliich is the result of his own in- dustry. The Avords wliich Shakespeare puts into the mouth of Katharina, in his " Taming of the Slu-ew," very faithfully express what is a general truth, when we compare civilised wdth savage life. The reformed shrew is stating the case of the hxisband, and may overstate his rights and dignities; but she seizes upon a real substantial truth. " Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee And for thy maintenance ; commits his body To painful labour, both by sea and land ; To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks, and true obedience." Beyond the family, and merely as members of society, men, you say, have not manifested much desire to work for others. One thing I know — that the very organisation of society has at all times comjx'llcd them to work for others as well as for themselves ; that there has been no society, worthy of the name, in which men have not, consciously or 522 THE DEVELOPMENT OK 80CIETV. unconsciously, willingly or unwillingly, laboured for others. To me nothing seems more jtlain than that the whole current of our AVorld-eJueation has this for om; of its great results — the elevation of man above his ovni immediate wants, so that he may take interest in any national, or more limited associa- tion of men. Commerce is thought to bestow a very narrow, restricted, and selfish education ; but look with candour, and look attentively at commerce, where it is conducted by men who are no longer under the influence of immediate want or anxiety. Do you think that it is exclusively a love of gain that leads to such enterprises as the steam-ship that bridged the Atlantic for us ? It is not so that I read men. And note in the great commercial world what confidence grows up in others. I sell house and land, and take a scrap of paper in return — a man's cheque upon his baidcer. I say that if you will look largely, and without prejudice, at the education which commerce is giving, you will find much to admire in it — habits of trust and confidence in each other, and enthusi- asm for great undertakings, as well for the thing itself to be done, as for the profit made in doing it ; habits especially of systematic, prospective industry, labour for coming years, and not only for the support of the child, but for the futvire manhood of that child. ]\Ioral Progress ! Have you not encountered many able men who, at the very mention of moral progress, or an im- provement in that actual code of morals enforced by public opinion, meet you Avith a very shout of derision ? They can understand a material or industrial progress — they can understand that you may build better houses, make better clothes, multiply every useful commodity, travel faster, and augment every means for communicating knowledge ; " but moral progress ! " they exclaim — " what is there, or can there be new in morality, in its precepts or its motives ? From every pulpit in Clu'istendom flows and fulminates a diA^ne eloquence, setting forth the sublimest maxims of conduct, and enforcing them by the most terrible denunciations, and by promises which almost overwhelm the imagination by their grandeur. Such streams of diA^ne eloquence have been MORAL PROGRESS. 523 flowing for these hundreds of years, and the type on which the world fasliions itself remains much the same. Xay, if you choose to go back to the remotest antiquity, you shall find contemplative Brahmins teaching from their Vedas, or what not, how we are all brothers, and should love and help each other as brothers. It all profits nothing. The Avorld listens to the moral rhapsody, listens and applauds, and goes on its old way. You cannot have more exalted morality taught than is taught in every parish church tlu'oughout England, nor enforced by more terrible penalties, or more sublime rewards. What can be the meaning of youi- Moral Progress 1 " These clever people do not see tliat the industrial progress in which they have faith is bringing about (in connection with other causes, tliis very one, for instance, of the Chris- tian pulpit) that moral progress of which they are so in- credulous — is giving us that condition of things in which the affections and the intellect can develop themselves in nobler proportions. The moral and religious teaching they allude to has its high office, but alone can do little for our ad- vancement. Morality is, in one sense, of most venerable anti(|uity ; in another sense, it is the newest thing under the sun. There are certain general proi^ositions and maxims which Ave hear repeated as soon as we hear any distinct utterance of man. But the application and interpretation which these maxims receive (which really constitute the moral code) are very various, and happdy admit of unprovement from age to age. It is a very poor fallacy to say that there can be nothing new in morality, because the same general prin- ciples have been enunciated from time immemorial. It la the understood application of those principles wliich con- stitutes the living morality of the day. Be just ! Bo honest ! Be charitable ! Forgive cacli other ! Love each other ! In every civilised pcrioil such precepts have l)een uttoreil ; sonio of them, however, very faintly. But Avhat is being justi AMiat is being honest ? To what extent am I to be chari- table, and to forgive others, and to serve others 1 "What arc 524 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. tho modes in which I am to manifest my universal love and l)rotherliood ? To these questions very different answers are given, and it is plainly tlie answer to these rjuestions that reveals the actual morality of any period. To love tlieir neighbour as themselves taught men at one time to treat their slaves humanely, at another to manumit them alto- gether. What shall he held to satisfy the precept in our own day, is often found a difficult matter to decide. The good of the whole, which is the paramount principle of morals, is necessarily appealed to at different epochs to sanction very different laws and customs. It Avas for the good of the whole that the great King should exist — should rule, and domineer, and compel men to combined industry'. It was for the good of the whole that a feudal Baron, taking up the powers of government with the rights of property, should execute what rude justice he was able. It is for the good of the whole, at the present moment, that the great Capitalist exercises an absolute power over his " hands," as they are sometimes not inexpressively called. The good of the whole may sanction very different relations between man and man — very different rights, duties, responsibilities. Eut as power and intelligence increase and diffuse themselves. The good of the ivhole approximates nearer and nearer to The good of each one of the whole. A perfect moral code must be the last product of our pro- gressive humanity — the result of the full development of its powers, affections, and intelligence. Our standard of Thn good, that state Ave Avish for all, must be elevated, as our means of realising that condition for all, are augmented. It is A'ery true, as the great IlebrcAV prophet said, that God does from time to time " Avrite a ncAv laAv in our hearts ; " but it is in His own grand creative way. I am reminded here that it is impossible to do fiill justice to this subject of Industrial Progress, unless I revert to other linc^ of progress — Eeligious and Scientific Progress — and bring these doAvn to the same epoch on Avhich we are noAv standing. To these, therefore, I must now address myself. RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. 525 So interlaced are all parts of our great subject, that I have a difficulty in determining the best order in wliich to treat them. The simplest method I can devise is, in the next place, to saj^ what occurs to me on the topic of Ee- ligious Progress ; then, having touched upon, I. Industrial Progress, and, II. Religious Progress, I shaU be at liberty to discourse somewhat more freely on. III. Intellectual or Scien- tific Progress. This is not a very logical programme ; for the third, and last, of these divisions necessarily embraces much that might be [introduced under the two previous heads, and indeed carries us very widely over the whole field of human progress. But it is the best programme I can devise. Section VI. — Progress in, and through, Religion. There is a Law of Progress enunciated by M, Comte which has been received with favour by a few eminent thinkers in England. I need not state it at any length. You are familiar Avith its three stages — the Theological, the Metaphysical, and the Positive. Many subtle truths, bear- ing on the great subject of human progress, have been elicited by the author of this law, and arranged under these consecutive divisions ; but as a law of the progi'essive de- velopment of the human mind, I cannot possibly receive it. In our psychological inquiry, we saw that from the very nature of the growth or development of our ideas, there was a necessary transition througli imagination or guess - Avork into truth. Combinations of ideas are first formed by the mind itself, and these combinations receive the name of truth if they are found to bear comparison, or to harmonise ■with nature. It is thus we rise to higher and wider know- ledge than the senses can directly give us. We exchange our imaginations for theories. There is a necessary transit thrt»ugh error into science. One may even say that, without error, the very idea of truth, as an object of our search, could never have occurred. It is the discovered discrepancy between the spontaneous imagination and the course of nature that 526 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. startles us into ^iwhelief, and thence into inquiry. All idea- tion as well as perception is, at first, synonymous with belief. This function of the imaf^ination is, I apprehend, the fundamental truth expressed in M. Comte's law, and the only truth to which we can give so broad a title as a law of progress. What he designates as the Theological and Meta- physical stages, are only two forms of the imagination. In the one, a person is imagined as the cause of events ; in the other, a thing, an essence, or a force. And altliough the second may he elaborated from the first — the shadowy per- son being converted into as shadowy an essence, and the imagined will into an imagined force — yet the imagination certainly does not pass in every case through this course. The most frequent origin of the second or ^letaphysical mode of thinking, has been the illusion which language throws over us. A word which in reality expresses only some property or collection of properties, is supposed to ex- press some specific essence or occult substance, the cause of such properties. This source of error may be quite inde- pendent of the Tlieological stage ; as when, in our own day, Heat is presumed at once (without any scientific inquiry which may, or may not, justify the presumption) to be a specific matter, causing our sensations, and those external changes and movements we ascribe to it. In reality, we have nothing before us hut these sensations and these ex- ternal movements. AYe gather them together under the term Heat; and then, from the very nature and use of language, we speak of Heat as the cause of these sensations, and these external changes in tlie matter around us. Thus the Metaphysical stage has, or may have, a quite independent origia from the Theological. Eut the main and obvious reason I liave for expressing my dissent from M. Comte's law, is the implication it contains that Theology is based entirely or solely on the imagination ; or, in other words, that it is altogether a mere transitional form of thought. There have, imdoubtedly, been theological modes of thinking, which may be justly described as transi- RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. 527 tional ; but we do not find that tlieology itself deserts us as we proceed, but that higher forms of theology arise. M. Comte represents the Theological stage as merging, or having a tendency wholly to merge, in the Positive or scientific. This, in common with the vast majority of thinking men, I must deny — not without some surprise that such an asser- tion should ever have been made. One thing is palpable, that, as matter of fact, no such tendency has yet been ex- hibited by mankind. It is matter of history and observa- tion that old religions die out — into new religions. There is not the least tendency yet observed for religion to merge altogether into science, but there is a tendency for science to rise into religion : witness our ' Bridgewater Treatises,' which, if I were a bold man, I shoidd say were introducing some new modifications of our general faith. The fundamental truth, I repeat, and that which really constitutes a law, or method of progress, is this — that we necessarily proceed through imagination into reason, through error into truth. ^Ye do this in theology as we do it in science. Theology passes through its imaginative stage just as astronomy does ; but there is a true theology just as there is a true astronomy. Here also the imaginative is the fore- runner of the examined and reasonable conviction. Not that there is the same direct objective knowledge of God as there is of a planetary system, but that the whole of nature, as scientifically understood, stands out to us as a created tcJioIe, and is intelligible only as the manifestation of a Divine Idea. Theology, from its very character, must alwaj's overlook the Avhole of nature and of man. Certain modes of tlieo- logical thinking which have assisted to build uji govern- ments, or to prompt to speculative knowledge, have i)asscd away, but the result has always been that human society, and the laws of nature, were finally surveyed from a new theological point of view. Science breaks loose from one mode of theology, in order to jjursue her free and indei)en- dent labours, but ends in herself creating anotlier mode of theology, under which lier own truths receive their full significance. 62S THE LIEVELOPMKNT OF SOCIETY. Lot US contemplato witliout reserve tlie imaginative forms of theology, wliicli, as our knowledge advanees, become purer and less imperfect, and which also have their fit place and appropriate office in tlie successive stages of human progress. We shall find here also an harmonious progression. Looking back at the earliest known stages of human development, nothing is more remarkable than the part Imagination has played. In other word.s, the combinations first formed amongst our thouglits have been most wild and unreal. You would say that dreams were the first thoughts of man. Aiid it is true enough that the moment the strict wants of his physical nature cease to guide him, his thinking is very much like a dream. Why should it not be 1 For the dream is still a sort of human thinking, imperfect enough, but manifesting, at all events, the marvellous power of new combination. But this imagination, this day-dream, these mj'thologies, these heroes and demi-gods, these cosmogonies, and I know- not what beside — are we to conclude that this stage of growth was utterly lawless, and that it was not, in fact, strictly preparatory to subsequent stages 1 Not so. It will 'be found, on examination, that this era of imagination, like every subsequent era, prepared its successor, and that this theological imagination was the precursor (whatever other purpose it effected) of a grand and rational theology. It is by the religious imagination — through gods and divi- nation and the like — that man first starts into intellectual life. What make you of this 1 That the intellectual life shall, at a subsequent period, altogether depart from its original direction, and ignore religion ] I, for my part, find that the first dream of imagination is in a line with the last truth of reason. I find the whole series one consistent de- velopment. Religion grows with science, and they are ulti- mately seen to be inso]iarable. What is the theological imagination of early times 1 It is essentially this — that man transports himself into nature — endues the great objects or powers of nature with human feeling, human will — and so prays and worships, and hopes OFFICE OF THE IMAGINATION. 529 to propitiate, and to obtain aid, compassion, deliverance. "Well, tliis primitive imagination is in the line of truth. We begin with throwing a man's thought there into nature ; we purify and exalt our imaginary being ; we gradually release him from the grosser passions of mankind. We are, in fact, rising ourselves above the domination of those grosser pas- sions ; and as we grow wise and just, we make the god wise and just, beneficent and humane. Meanwhile science begins to show us this goodly whole as the creation of one Divine Artificer. And now we recognise, not without heart-beat- ings, that God indeed is not man, but that He has been educating man to comprehend Him in part, and to be in part like Him. Are not the Imagination and the Reason here strictly affiliated 1 We begin, as it has been boldly and truly said, by making God in our own image. What else could we do ? N^ature had not yet revealed herself to «s in her great unity, as one whole, as the manifestation of one Power. We make God in oiu' own image, but by-and-by, as our conceptions on every side enlarge, we find that it is God who is gradually elevating us by the expansion of our knowledge into some remote similitude with Himself. He is making us, in one sense, in His own image. This correspondence between the human and the Divine is the key-note of all religion ; and Imagination, in her apparently wild and random way, had struck upon the note. God is making man in his own image, when He reveals to him the creation in its true nature, when He inspires him with a knowledge of the whole, and a love for the good of the whole. But the first step in this divine instruction was precisely the bold imagination by Avhich man throw out into nature an image of himself. The form that imagination thr(!W into the air was gradually modified and sublimed as man rose in virtue, and nature Avas lietter inulerstood, till at length it harmonises with, and merges into a truth of the reason. Was man to Avait for his God and his religion till his consciousness, in all other respects, was fully developed ? Or was the revelation of the great truth to be sudden ? 2 L 530 THE DKVELOPMENT OF SOCIflTY. Apparently not. ^Man dvojiml a god first. I>ut tlio dream was sent by the same I'ower, or came through the same laws, that revealed the after-truth. Nay, he dreams on still, and reasons on still, up to tliis very epoch ; and the dream is penetrated by the truth, and the truth is still beneficently pictured to him in the dream. Perhaps in religion some floating relic of the imagination will l)e always with us. Men cannot look upon the sun itself ; and the brightest part of the firmament on which they can rest their eyes are those pinnacles of the topmost cloud where the light seems to be made palpable to us by that earth-born vapour which inter- poses between us and it. To tell us to believe in God because savages have believed, is a miserable style of argument. But from the height of your own demonstration I iu\nte you to look back upon the childlike fancies of earliest epochs, and see how these were at once a substitute and a preparation for the Truth you now hold. In those days men had no demonstration ; they had imagination instead ; but such an imagination as woidd refine as the man refined, till at length it became almost one with truth. Men have always suspected that there was some great office performed by the Imagination, although the very name implies error, or some species of delusion. The simple fact is, that our first science, and our first history, and our first religion, took necessarily those wild forms we call by the name of Imagination. How could it be otherwise ? If man was to think beyond what the senses had directly given him, he must first throw some wild guess-work into the air, and then, by comparing it bit by bit with nature, improve and shape it into a truth. "Wonder not, therefore, that the intellectual progress of man has been hitherto of so eccentric a character. It is simple fact that he dreamt first that he might have in these very dreams new subjects for thought, for comparison, for judgment. Out of faiths of the imagina- tion he shapes, under the eye of nature, a new truth of the reason. There is no portion of the history of man which excites OFFICE OF THE IMAGIXATIOX. 531 in me so intense an interest as the progress he has made in, and through, religion. On all sides, and in every depart- ment of thought and action, he has been stirred, guided, and controlled by theological imaginations ; and these theological imaginations can only be contemplated as ])old anticipations of the coming truth — provisional faiths, forming a kind of provisional government for the human race, till the time shall come when all nations shall be gathered together under the one government, and in the felt presence and power of the infinite and beneficent Creator. How boldly the mind seems to expand in every direction under the influence of the great idea of religion ! I have been speaking hitherto of industrial progress. How slow, and steady, and near the earth, does this movement appear to be ! What a different movement we have to describe when we turn to man's imaginative faculties, and his specu- lative and intellectual progress as connected with his early religions ! Here he seems to fly through the air before he lights upon the ground. AVhat is common and familiar is the last thing he deigns to look at. Yiewing man in this his high imaginative aspect, his nature seems suddenly to alter before us. From a creature guided by his senses, and stimidated to action by unremit- ting wants and appetites, he has become a star-gazer, and the most omnipotent of dreamers. "We find him with his eye and his heart in the clouds; he is beset with invisible spirits ; his own shadow, multiplied and magnified, pursues him everjnvhere, and he never knows that it is his own shadow ; he consults it for his oracle, it speaks to him from the thunder, from the voice of birds, in the dreams of tlie night. So completely is imagination in the ascendant, tliat he no longer always sees and liears with his senses, some- times sees and hears what the fancy puts before him ; at all times conjures up monstrous fictions. You would say now that it was the distant, the remote, and the unseen that first kindled his intellect. And so it is. Thus begins his life of thought, of spccidative inquiry. This creature of daily wants and hourly appetites looked out 632 TIIK DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. at the stars above liiin, to road in thom his future destiny. He had travelled to them in imagination long before he knew, or cared to know, what people lay on the other side of the river, or the mountain, that Ijounded his own territorj'. That the fate of man in this world lay in man and in this world, was far t(jo simple a thouglit for him to stoop to ; there was a whole imiverse b(5yond which liad far more influence upon him than anything that was moving upon the face of the earth. How did he teach himself the fine arts ? He learnt sculj)- ture by shaping for himself a god he had never seen ; and his grandest lesson in architecture was the raising a temple which was to be inhabited by no one, or by nothing but the marble statue he hiiuself had formed. Music was cultivated that it might be a language fit for the gods to hear ; and to my fancy the most beautiful music has always retained in it something of religion : it is the plaint of human passion, but uttered as if in hearing of the gods — uttered and half subdued : I always feel that it is the troubled soul pouring out its agony under the ?late war ! Already its necessity, though still acknow- Icilgcd, is lamented. A time may come when our posterity shall find it difficult to understand the martial spirit that animates even our own day. They will be astonished to think that men of cultivated minds should have trained themselves sedulously for this iwofession of arms, and that thousands of people, withdrawing themselves from all han- dicrafts or useful employments, should spend their whole lives in preparation for a day of battle. Yet we " relish," as Wordsworth says, " Strangely the exasperation of the time." The dangers, and the passions, and the heroism of war, are courted, chanted, applauded amongst us. And it is right it should be so. War is still inevitable. The advanced na- tions of the earth would be trodden under foot by those less advanced, if they were not as powerful in war as they are skilful in the arts of peace. Every satirist, every moralist, every preacher declaims against war. I accept this general denunciation as prophetic that it will one day cease. Meanwhile, this most flagrant of our evils, and fiercest of our joys, has been our starting- point and stimulant along every line of progress you can mention. To war, as I have said, we owe the. Nation, and without this great union man would have remained intel- lectually a mere dwarf. It gave us the city and the empire. Had there been no large assemblage of men kept together by the sentiment of a common safety, or a common power, there would have been no great enterprise, and few great thoughts. The languages of the earth would have been innumerable. Each tribe would have spoken its own dialect, and have been shut up within it. There would have been no literature. Had a great mind vaguely bestirred itself, it would have been of no avail ; it Avoidd have been buried alive in the little viUage comnumity. But hardly could there have been anything great. !Men would never have combined but for some quiet domestic purpose, some business of the flock and the farmyard. There would have been no great projects, no THE GOD OF WAR. 547 great ideas, no palaces, no temples, and the gods themselves would have been dwarfed into mere household deities, and the patrons of a harvest-home. How much we owe to war in this province of religion, lias not been generally perceived, nor the nature of the debt. The passions of the combat are so pre-eminently violent — the fate of battles so uncertain — the victory so intensely desired — that war could not fail both to promote the worship of the god and to determine the character of the god who was worshipped. It intensified religion, which else (except under certain occasional circumstances) might have been little better than a poet's dream. To estimate its influence here, we must recollect in what ferocious spirit war was carried on in earlier times, and what despair it entailed upon the vanquished party. War was extermination ; and if an enemy was spared, he was enslaved. So ferocious and de- structive is war in its primitive character, that slavery some- times makes its appearance as an intercessor, and the repre- sentative of clemency. Every passion, let it be remembered, shared in by a unani- mous society, is supreme — unquestionable — asserts itself in the full blaze of day — has no misgivings — needs no vindi- cation — fills heaven and earth — asserts and vindicates itself most despotically. These fierce vindictive barbarians admire their own unrestricted anger — their own unlimited revenge. No idea of the reason has yet been developed in tliem, to interrupt and balk their passions, and bring them back cap- tives to the better thought. They rejoice in their angers, and give them frankly and unhesitatingly to their goil. Delighting above all things in the slaughter of their enemies, they at once believe that he also delights in his destnictivo power, in his free unrestricted anger. To them destruction is the great manifestation of ]iower. Blood is poured out as an acceptable offering. "What better could be devised ? Terrible is this god even to his worshippers ; not otiierwise could he be terrible to their enemies. No one knows when his anger may break out. No gentle worship suits eitlu-r the god or the worshipper; no ofl"ering of flowers, or the 548 THE DEVEI.OPMEN'T OK .SOCIETY. corn-sli('avo.«i, not even th(! lanilt or tljc dove will suffice ; the lordly l)ull is sacrificed ; tlic conriuered foe i.s dragged >x;fore the altar, and immolated there. If the death of the captive or the slave l)e too tame a spectacle, too slight a devotion, his worshijjpers will slay each other before him — will fling their own children into the flames to be consumed before his sight. They too enjoy " Strangely the exasperation of the time." And now, in order to see the importance of this terrible war-god, of this enthroned Anger and Terror, we have only to pursue the history of mankind to its next stage of civil- isation. Peace begins to dispute the reign of war. Law, Justice, Faith in treaties, are the earnest wants of the time. And lo ! the god of Terror becomes the god of Justice. Tf> him the scales are given, but the terrible sword not with- drawn. To him the office of Judge is assigned, but the old anger and terrible vindictiveness remain. This last is essen- tial. It is no calm administrator of law ; it is the offended Judge that is the terror to evil-doers. We mistake the matter entirely if we suppose that men ever proceeded at once to form to themselves the conception of a Divine Judge administering a law, and dealing out measured penalties. Or even that they began by imagining a Judge similar to what would exist amongst tliemselves in rude times, and then modified the character of this Divine Judge, as their own ideas of law and jurisprudence advanced. There has been always something more than Judge in the popular god that has formed the popular conscience. And if there had not been that something more, the popular con- ception Avould have been unavailing for its great purpose. Men would have proceeded to measure by anticipation the sentence of the Judge, according to theii' own standard of equity; and such a sentence, whether executed in this world or the next, woidd have generally had but little terror. It is the unlimited anger roused against the criminal in the bosom of the Divine Avenger and Judge, that has consti- tuted the real terror and available power of religion. The THE DIVINE JUDGE. 549 god is not the administrator of a law which sets bounds to his punishments ; nor has the criminal merely broken a law and incurred a definite penalty : he has offended the god, and brought down an infinite wrath upon his head. _ And to this very day the two elements of thought are constantly com- bined — of a Judicial Power, and of a personally offended Power. N^o sinner ventures to measure out his ovni punish- ment. There is an infinite anger above him. To this day I see a most needful element in the conscience, Avliich dates from the war-god of the sacrificial period — from the god of arbitrary and terrific Power. The belief in some passionless judicial Tribunal, that metes out strictly-graduated sentences, is the actual religious faith of no class of men. Such judicial Triltunal ethical writers may discuss, approving or disajiproving, Init it does not constitute the actual piety of any of their countrymen. Other phases of the religion of anti(iuity may be far more agreeable than the one I have been contemplating. Baccha- nalian festivals, or a worship conducted with manifestations of joy and abandonment to pleasure, may present a much less revolting spectacle. And the gathering of people together at great holidays had no doubt its good residts, keeping the people united, and the like. But this holiday aspect of reli- gion strikes me as comparatively of little importance. It was the god of battles, to whom men could give their very lives in self-devotion — the god who gave victory, whose rage was equal to his power — who could exterminate wliolo cities, — it was this conception that, in the mudilications it has undergone, has wrought so wondrously in human history. This Power became the Divine Judge, Lord and Ivuler of heaven and earth, and the punisher of crime. Suppose men to commence by forming the conception of a celestial Judge : they bind his hands at each epoch, by the same rules of measured retribution, or recpiisite ])enalty, which preside over human jurisprudence. The justice of Heaven is only a copy of the justice of earth, and .so nnich the less terrific as it is more remote in time and place. Supjioso them to commence with some philosophic conception of CJod, 550 THE DEVELOI'MENT OF SOCIETY. as the beneficent Creator of mankind — I do not say that this conception is inconsistent witli the idea of future pun- ishnii'iit — (for wliat is all our present life but a series of punishments or jienalties, teaching us to travel in the right road ?) — but men thinking ah initio would have found it inconsistent with that idea of future punishment which has been so effective on the human mind — the irrevocable doom — the penalty still inflicted when there is no longer any right road to travel. It seems to me, therefore, clear (and I point to it as another great instance how one generation prepares for the next) that a given age may obtain, by modification of those ideas which it has inherited from its predecessor, a more effective religious government than it could have thought out for itself. Humanity is, as it were, one life. Men of passion and imagination — men full of anger, and pray- ing for the destruction of their enemies, enthroned — not without feeling of a fierce cordiality — an infinite Anger in the skies. Afterwards the dark and gloomy throne was gradually shaped into a Judgment-seat — then into a Mercy- seat — but with the old thunders lingering round it still. "Without these there would have been no feared judgment, and consequently no vivid conception of mercy. Love makes its first entrance into our hearts under the name of mercy. The new Dispensation under which we are said to live, left the old Infinite Anger Avhere it was, and brought forward an Infinite Mercy, for ever to neutralise it. And now does not something like a climax stand out clear before us 1 For how could this great belief in Mercy, which is subduing the human heart to an unutterable ten- derness — how could it have appeared in the world but for its antecedents — the reign of DiA'ine Anger and of Judg- ment 1 The three great ideas of Anger, Judgment, and !Mercy are blended together most conspicuously in our own faitk But there is an idea higher than that of ^lercy which has entered last of all into the world. The word " Grace " not only signifies pardon, but the Spirit of God moving in us THE GOD OF LOVE. 551 to the production of a new life. I hold this word Grace to be one of the noblest, and of fullest significance, tliat has ever been uttered in popular theology. At this point the highest philosophy appears ])lent in that twisted cord of reason and imagination which binds so many ages together. For is it not indisputably true that God, by His free gift, is creating us, age after age, into new and higher life, and wiser love to man and to Himself? " Tlirow thyself upon the love of God, thy Creator ! " " Perfect love casteth out fear ! " These are the last utter- ances of religion in the most advanced nations of the earth. Add, too, that the perfect love which casteth out fear is the love also of goodness and of man. By no other means will fear be cast out, I speak generally of mankind, or of a society. I say the Furies will live for ever in the imagination of guilt or crime. Whether the Terror arise spontaneously in oiu- own mind, or descend from tradition, from the imagination of other men, the result is the same. It has been so ordered by God that there is no peace to the heart of man but in the great sentiments of vii-tue and the love of God. If any man holds that a human society — standing where we stand in the progression of ages — can escape from the fear of God by any other outlet, he must defend his own thesis. I should be a hypocrite, and false to'the most irresistible and ineffticeable sentiments of my own nund, if I taught such a doctrine; for I daily and hourly feel that there can be no peace with God unless there is goodwill to man, no escape from fear but in the sentiments of love and obedience. A people that piussed from superstition into crime woidd inevitably return — passion-led — back to superstition. I have no space to do justice to perhaps the greatest and most interesting subject that could come before me in this view of the progress of modern civilisation — the especial influence of Christianity. Eecall wliatever has been said of the value of a religious teaching whicli enforces morality by the greatest of hopes and fears ; — recall to mind that through a sacred record claiming a supernatural origin, it 552 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. is possible for the highest thouglit, the purest life, the sin- oerest love to man and God tliat has ever been developed on the face of the earth, to assume authority, and become the guide and example for a whole society ; — recall all this, and a]i])ly it in a quite pre-eminent manner to Chris- tianity. It has assisted to tame the barbarian, it continues to chasten and refine our civilisation. In consistency, how- ever, with my own point of view, I must be permitted to remind you that a great system, whether of Government, of Jurisprudence, or of Religion, may exist as a substantive instrument of education from age to age, and yet be itself the product of the past and flowing ages of humanity. "\Ve have at last nothing to rest upon but this God -created Humanity, this human consciousness developing itself accord- ing to the laws God has appointed. The noble life, the living word, the exalted sentiment, the great thought, and the martyrdom endured for its utterance — all these are divine, in one sense, but they are still human. Eeligion has developed itself as normally as Industry or Science. Reason and Imagination have wrought together, and grand and tender sentiments due to their combination have been dif- fused over the hearts of men, spreading from generation to generation, and from nation to nation. I do not constitute myself an interpreter of others, but the majority of the intelligent laity of England, in tliis middle of the Nineteenth Century, do not (so far as I can judge them) yield allegiance to any writings simply for their claim to a supernatural origin, or miraculous immunity from error; — if they did, they would probably think the work of inquiry Avas at an end, idle and useless, their only work being to study such wi-itings ; — but they revere the sacred Record of Chiistendom, because they find in it one of the grandest developments of the God-created mind of man ; they find in it great truths and purest sentiments ; and they rejoice that through the teaching of the sacred Record such truths and sentiments should become the heritage of all. They do not value its teaching the less because they per- ceive that the social requirements and growing intelligence SCIENTIFIC PROGRESS. 553 of each age mould to themselves and so interpret the ancient Record that it is ever new as well as ever old. Neither do they value its authoritative teaching the less because they may anticipate a time when this claim to an immunity from error may drop off, and be no longer necessary ; when great truths and noble sentiments may come self-authorised to the minds of all ; when these, and whatever other excel- lent Scripture may have won the world's admiration, may find in their beauty and truthfulness sufficient claim for teaching the successive generations of mankind. Such further considerations as space can be found for on this engrossing subject of religion, vnR be best introduced under the next head. Section X. — Intellectual or Scientific Progresfs. All knowledge, whether derived from observation of nature, or reflection upon ourselves and human society, has its specific value, but it is the perception of the laws of nature, the order and harmony of all things, the method of creation, as we should say, that is, above all, valuable in the education of the human race. It is to this I have now more particularly to refer. I do not affect the use of technical language, but you will bear in mind the meaning here attached to such terms as Imagination, Eeason, Reflection, and the like, and Avhat lias been said upon the development of the consciousness. Know- ledge grows either by direct observation of nature (facts arranging themselves in our memory in the relations of suc- cession and coexistence in wliich they had appeared to the senses), or by the intervening aid of the imagination; that is, new combinations are formed of facts or memories (ima- ginations), and by comparing these combinations of our own thoughts with nature, new relationships are observed in nature herself. Our imagination is either corrected or dis- missed, and conjecture gives place to a theory. We must, at the commencement of our career, outrun ex- perience by some fanciful conjecture, or we should advance 554 THE DEVELOPMEXT OF SOCIETY. 110 further than the direct teaching of sense and memory. We should not make a single experiment if we did not first make a conjecture. A man is ill, and you cannot cure him ; notliing as yet is known of medicine. And you will never cure, cither that man or any otlier, if you wait for know- ledge, liut, led by some fanciful analogy, or capricious com- bination of ideas, you try this thing and that, till something cures, or seems to cure. The man is in a burning fever ; you gather cool-looking herbs : if the moonlight is falling on them when gathered, Avill they not be still more cooHngI You test this and that hypothesis till some of nature's hidden relations are brought to light, and a truth is acquired. If it is not a sick man to cure, but some extraordinary phenomenon to explain, you have recourse to a similar expedi- ent. You conjecture a cause to fill up what seems a gap in the usual order of things. If the speculative mind were not to gratify its curiosity by this guess-work, the result would be that curiosity would die out in the hopeless blank of present ignorance, and nothing would be ever learnt. Cos- mogonies and astrologies, and the like fanciful hj'potheses, are the necessary forerunners of science. As science ad- vances, the guess-work assumes a very different character: our knowledge, we say, has taught us how to conjecture. Increase of knowledge is the initiative of all other im- provement. The progress of man includes progi'ess in his affections as well as his intellect ; this is, indeed, the most important progress of all ; neither can I — an artist — neglect to add that it includes progress in all those sentiments of the beautiful, and those emotions of pleasure wliich we embrace under such expressions as the love of nature and the fine arts. But all our affections, desires, and emotions would remain the same from generation to generation (as long as our external world remained the same), were they not modi- fied by the acquisition of new truths or new thoughts. Man set down here, face to face with nature, is enabled to under- stand more and more of God's works, and becomes by this intellectual perception a greater work himself, as well as a better worker. Moreover, a new world is developed, for SPOXTAXEITY PRECEDES REFLECTION. 555 his study and admiration, in liis own progressive humanity. Human society also presents itself to liim as a groat whole — as a great idea of God — and with this peculiarity, that with the knowledge of this whole is necessarily thrown upon him the responsibility of so living and so working, as, consciously and designedly, to sustain and aid in developing this social organism. All progress, we say, is traceable to human thought, but it does not follow that all progi'ess is the foreseen, intended result of this thinking faculty of man. Far from it. His thoughts or his inventions combine with what already is existing of thought or invention, and often produce results which the wisdom of no one man had foreseen. The instru- ment he invents for some limited purpose, fulfils otlier pur- poses he had never contemplated. A plan of operations is devised for some sudden emergency, and it gives rise to a permanent institution. He who invented money was (as Seckendorf says) reorganising society. What remote results are traceable to the printing-press and the musket ! From what a limited and partial design grew up the system and theory of representative government ! In all such cases the active thought of man is the primary movement, and there is activity enough of human thought in every step of the process, but the final or ever-spreading result cannot be said to be due to human contrivance. In like manner we may notice how, in his speculative and religious sj'stems, the thought or imagination of one man meets and com])ines with the thoughts of other men, and new products ensue, and finally there grows up a complicate system Avhicli was never origmated by any one human intellect. Looking back at the past hi.story of mankind, one is at first somewhat humiliated by observing laow little human reason has purposely, and with far-stretching thought, accomplished. A man puts powder in a tube, and lie changes the nature of war. Or he calls together a few men to tax tlicmselves and their fellow- citizens, and he forms an institution whereby democracy becomes possible to a groat people. How few groat results in the social and political world seem to have nSG THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. been accomplislied kiiowini^ly and purposely ! I!ut tlicn, again, this somewhat hnmiliuting thought may well change into a note of congratulation, for we see in all this how mani- festly progression is the divine scheme. Heaven is working with us. And if more is done tlian man had contemplated, the greater accomplishment becomes his own afterwards by voluntary adoption, and he works on henceforth with wider knowledge and larger purposes. As the plan of the whole develops, it is put (so to speak) in the hands of the young created artist, and the creature is taught, more and more, to work consciously towards its completion. ;Man must live before he reflects on life ; he obeys another before he asks himself why he should obey; he beUeves before he has investigated the grounds of his belief ; he has formed a social organisation before he has contemplated the ends to be answered by it. Property springs up, in the first instance, from the mere desire to clutch and to keep ; but if there is to be any keejying, there must be some limit put upon the taking, and so a rule gets established. ]Marriage, at least in its rudest form, as the exclusive possession which man, the stronger, keeps of one or more of the opposite and weaker sex, waits for no law to institute it. Combinations for attack and defence at once constitute something of a society, and of a government. What is once done, is done again, and custom is the first lawgiver. Mere revenge, and sympathy with that revenge, suffice at first to inaugurate some criminal law. In wounding one man you may wound two hundred ; the two hundred avenge the injury, and make it understood they will act in the same way again. So simple and incA-itable may be the first step in jurisprudence. The formation of society is ])lainly due to the spontaneous passions and actions of individual men : the harmony of the whole was not in the thought of any one of them. A reflective reason could not have presided over the origin of society, for Reflection miist have something to reflect upon. Society must be there be- fore examination and comparison of social relations can take place. But though Eeflection cannot lay the foundation, and build the first walls of the social edifice, yet as soon as SCIENTIFIC METHOD APPLIED TO SOCIETY. 557 any building at all is erected, it may begin to criticise, to reform, to rebuild. It is slowly that society may be said to grow completely conscious of itself. Even in the most advanced nations of our modern Europe it is only a minoritj^, of whom it may be said that they embrace in their reflection the laws and principles of the society in wliich they live. It is a long while since I read Rousseau's ' Contrat Social;' but if he really taught that society commenced with a deliberate con- tract or agreement as to the terms on which men should live together, it was as bold an hypothesis as the speculative mind ever put fortli. Such deliberate contract could only take place in advanced communities, and has never, in fact, been reaKsed, except in the formation of those " societies within a society," such as the Essenes amongst the Jews, and the Monies amongst the Christians. So far from being at the origin of society, such a contract would mark its maturity, and would then be only a voluntary adoption, by all its members, of the greater part of what already existed amongst them. A social contract by wliich all the adult membei*s of a society voluntarily and intelligentlj'' bound themselves to certain laws for the good of the whole, will be exhibited in that day when all men are reflective, and tliink alike of the good of all. To such a result there will, at least, be approximations. Hitherto Reflection has been confined to the Few, but already the balance is turning ; let us hope that it may become the habit of the INIany. Section XI. — The Scientific Method of lliought applied to Society. When Adam Smith api)lied a scientific method of think- ing to the daily industrial and commercial operations of society, and wrote his book on the 'Wealth of Nations,' I am apt to think that he did as notable "a stroke of work" ns often falls to the lot of one man to accomplish. Reflection on society here takes the form of science. Facts, which hail been looked at apart, or with partial and confused relations 558 TflE DEVELOPMEXT OF SOCIETY. to each other, are here seen each in its place, and forming altogether one harmonious whole. A new science, it is very justly said, was founded. " You are a bold man," some have said to me, " if, Utopian as you are, you invoke the political economist to your aid." I should be a bolder man, and in a very desperate con- dition, if I could not. To the best of my ability I have been a careful student of political economy. It seems to me that it would be difficult to overrate the beneficial effect likely to be produced by this study on society at large. By such a study society learns to knoAv itself ; to know what it has really done, what it is really doing. Here it is we learn what the community has undesignedly or spontaneously accomplished, — what harmonious result has been produced by individual effort pursuing quite individual objects. Most curious and unsuspected is the social mechanism revealed to us. From spontaneous impulses and selfish aims an organ- isation of society has arisen which it is most important we should understand. Thus, only, can we wisely think for the good of the whole ; thus, only, can we be educated to em- brace this whole at all in our minds. It has been sometimes said that Political Economy is a foe to all enthusiasm, to all generous motives. "Wait till its work is done. The historian of a future age may have to report that this study, more than any other one cause, is educating us for the highest of all enthusiasms — desire for the public good. Enthusiasm (if we mean by it the capabil- ity of acting on some great idea which predominates over a sordid selfishness) is the highest product of our reason, of our knowledge. I may, indeed, know what is good for the whole society, and yet have no desire that that good should be realised ; but I cannot have the desire at all without the knowledge, and happily oiu" minds are so constituted that, ?<«?c.N>' so)ne quite personal want or passion has enslaved its to itself, the knowledge of what is good for others will be fol- lowed by some desire for its accomplishment. Look at our oa\ti contemporaries ; mark how discussions upon subjects of political economy are constantly calling forth FEELIXG OF DUTY TO THE SOCIETY. 559 and confirming the mode of reflecting upon society as one organic whole, ^o truth comes out with more distinctness to all minds than the reciprocal dependence of class on class. Every individual who knows anything, knows now that it is impossible to separate the interest of one class from another. You may dismember society, but if it is to live and prosper, there must be health in every limb. Wealth ceases to be wealth if you have not peace, order, and contentment in the working men ; and all organised labour vanishes from the scene if wealth is destroyed. Only as an organic whole can we live and advance : the very modifications of our organism are the highest efforts of organic life. What the political economist reveals to me is the wtirk, you say, of Spontaneity. But Eeflection has wrought too, and has certainly wrought in this revelation of it. And Reflection will work on, here and there, at the modification of it. You cannot stop one of these workmen more than the other. Reflection accepts, rejects, alters. If it contents itself with adopting, as the best system, that which the pas- sions of men and their acts of untutored, unsystematic judg- ment had created, this very adoption marks an important change in the spirit of society. A new spirit has entered into the social organism, which may henceforward exert a plastic power within it. Glance now at the state of opinion in England, and say if I am fabling, or dealing with some figment of the imagina- tion, when I pronounce that " the good of the whole " lias become a noble care to very many amongst us. To me, look- ing abroad amongst my contemporaries, nothing so conspicu- ously characterises our age as the number of nol)le minds you see in it full of the desire to promote the general good. In this habit of thinking for the good of society, you would say, indeed, that most of us had become philosophers. Modes of thinking which, in the palmy state of Clreece, were familiar only to a few men, who might have been packed together under a single portico of one of their own beautiful temples, are as common amongst us as the cries of the market-place. Notice how generally, by rich and poor, by learned and 660 THE DEVELOl'MENT OF SOCIETY. simple, tlic claim is admitted wliidi society has on each one of us for his contribution to the public good. It is felt that each one of us owes all he has, and all he is, to society, and that he is bound to contribute his best of labour and intelli- gence to that organised community which is at once result and source of every individual life. That man does not belong to our age who docs not manifest an extreme reluc- tance to be included in the class of idle men. He is not idle ! He repudiates the odious distinction. If he does not work with his hands, he manages, he overlooks, he combines the labours of others. If he has no land or factory, he makes for himself an occupation in some philanthropic scheme. He builds a school, or helps to erect a public bath — he collects and distributes judiciously the charitable alms of others — he is busy at a Savings Bank — he is heart and soul in some Eeformatory. If he can do notliing else, he WTites a book. Having nothing to give but his ideas, he gives them. And say he has nothing of his own to give even here, he can dis- seminate amongst the many the truths of the few. By some plea he escapes the stigma of idleness. The man of property is heard to avow that he holds his wealth as a trust as well as an enjojTuent. It is to be en- joyed under bond to society. He admits that, notwithstand- ing all his muniments and parchments, he has hardly a " good title," unless he makes a good use of his property. And the moment he has made this admission, his title is felt to be more secure than ever, for society is doubly interested in up- holding it. See you no sign in all .this 1 Does not wealth grow Aviser and more humane, just as labour grows less coarse and narrow-minded '? Is it social war or social har- mony you would predict ? If this is not " organic change," it is something better ; it is the new spirit moving in the organism wliich will effect from within, with peaceful gi'O-wth, what change may be needful. I see in the reflective charity, ■which is everywhere exercising itself around me, a new jus- tice in the making. The application of a scientific method to Government, and what is especially called Politics, has not been so successful SCIENCE IX POLITICS IX JUUISPRUDEXCE. 561 Some few principles have received general acquiescence, as the separation of the Adminstrative from the Legislative functions, and the Judicial from both. But if little is finaDy decided upon forms of government, one great truth stands out conspicuous — that the stability of every govcnunent rests on the acceptance by the people (whether by mere habit, or from reflection) of a given organisation, — or their willingness to act organically. How difficult, it has been said, to get your new constitution to march ! The force of habit has not yet bound the people, and they are far from having sufficient reflection to put a restraint upon them- selves. Although the very constitution they desired has been proclaimed, they persist in acting inorganicallij. If, when a legislative assembly has been formed, tlie Plebs will look in to see that it votes according to their judgment; if, when judicial tribunals have been established, the Plebs will extemporise other tribunals of their own, — there is an end to government. It is an organised people that a pulitician can alone respect, it is the only " people " he knows; an inorganic mass is to him a mere human chaos ; although he, too, must, of course, admit that there are times when organic forms are rudely thro^voi aside, and there can be no appeal but to the unfettered reason, or the unfettered passions of mankind. Here is the great advantage of what we call a constitutional government, that it enables organic changes to be organically made. It would be very unprofitable to enter into any iliscussion on forms of government, as the ^lonanhy, the IJcpublic, tlie Democracy. Let us say generally, that in propurtiun as ii people reflectively accept and submit to a given organisation, have they risen in the scale of intelligence, and of i)()litical morality. In a Democracy it is not enough that the minority have learnt to resi)ect the majority, but tin- nuijority must respect the minority, whenever this last aj^jeals to certain fundamental principles of jurisprudence or government. In other words, the majority must accept such fundamenttil principles as a restraint upon their own will. This at onco indicates how high a moral discipline such a form of govern- '1 X 562 THE DEVELOPMENT OF .SOCIETY. mont both promote.s and requires. Dur sontiment of the good of the whole is nowlierc more indispensable. How far a scientific spirit has intiuenced Jurisprudence in England, I must leave for the student of our laws to deter- mine. One may safely say that throughout society at large, right views of jurisprudence are so far entertained, that no extraneous or superstitious motives are required for the sup- port of law. Laws are understood as rules to be obeyed by all, for the good of all. In that spirit men make them, and obey them. Time was when the people were compelled into obedience by force, or by superstition. Mankind has lived longer, has had more experience, and has learnt to honour law for its own sake. The retention of the oath in our courts of justice does not speak well either for an intelligent morality, or intelligent religion. "Wliat duty more stringent than to give true evidence in a court of justice, and what superstition more flagrant than to imagine that it can be rendered more or less stringent either as a moral or religious duty, by making, or omitting to make, some ceremonial appeal to God 1 In one point of view this judicial oath is an instructive relic of the past ; and those who think it necessary still to retain it, regard it as belonging essentially to a past epoch, and only postpone its dismissal. With regard especially to criminal law, one may remark that it is but a small proportion of the people (large enough, however, to be terribly mischievous) who require to be re- strained from theft or murder by the punishments affixed to such crimes. If all punishments were abrogated, and a code of laws simply proclaimed, the greater number of people would be as little disposed to commit these crimes as they are now. To well-regulated minds a great crime is itself the terrible example. They are struck with horror at the idea that ungoverned passions may lead to such an act. EDUCATION OF THE PEOPLE. 563 Section XIL — Education of the People. Here, as well as anywhere, one may interpose a word upon the education of the people. The value of education to the person himself, and how, in general, it must teach prudence and foresight, wherever there is any opportunity for their exercise, I need not touch U])on. It is too well understood. But how the education of a class hitherto left much in ignorance, will act upon the whole of society, on the already educated, as well as the newly edu- cated, is not perhaps so generally understood. In government or religion, that alone can be adopted for all which is fitted for the greater numljer. The liiglier forms of civil government, the higher forms of the religious senti- ment, are forbidden to the few, while they remain utterly inappropriate to the multitude. Educate the multitude, and the whole can rise much higher than what is now the edu- cated part of society can rise. In the search for speculative or philosoj)hic truth, the in- quirer is often painfully embarrassed ])y a conflict l)etween what seems true, and what seems the most expedient belii-f. Every earnest thinker finds two very different questions intermingling with each other, — is this true ] is it expedient that it should be taught? — expedient that it should be be- lieved by an order of men exposed to other temptations tlian I am, and who, being less instructed, will not see all llie truths I see, and on whom, therefore, this truth may Avork like a mischievous error '{ The intermingling of tliesc two questions not only embarrasses the inquirer as to what he shall teach, but as to what he himself shall adopt as hi.s own ultimate conclusion. For where he cannot find the truth to be expedient, he very naturally, and almost laudably, njakes effort Avith himself to believe that wliat is most expedient is the truth. You will remember with what a mercile.ss energy Serken- dorf used to bring forward against our hopes of progress, that diversity of speculative opinion which .^cems to extend even as thought and education extend. I myself liave some- 504 TiiK i)i:vF:i/)r.MENT of society. times contenipliitcd with (li.siiiay tliat soemingly incurable contrariety of opinions, which ju-rliaps our very latest and best writers are exliihitin^' before us. Two men, equally celebrated for knowledge, for intellectual power, for zeal in the public service, shall put forth on politics, on religion, on every great subject that concerns society, the most opposite tenets. Yet surely Xature and Human Nature present the same objects of study to both. "Whence tliis diversity 1 I'artial knowledge, you will say, and error, which is the fate of all; and you will add, that as long as there is room for an erroneous judgment, there will be diversity of opinion. But yet there is another cause which operates most powerfidly in perpetuating this diversity, and retarding the general accept- ance of discoverable truths. The very best men are precisely those who cannot think for truth alone, for truth only for their own minds ; they are concerned for other men, for the public good, and what is best to be thought by all. Thus there comes before them one of those questions on which they can attain to no cer- tainty — the precise condition and requirements of other juen's minds. Most disputes resolve themselves into some dilFerent estimation of the wants and the intelligence of a vague multitude. Listen to two disputants, discussing forms of government, or articles of faith, you will hear reference made at every turn of the debate to that imi-eflective multi- tude without, who are supposed to be less A^-ise than the disputants themselves, but how much less wise there is no determining. The reference, you will say, is perfectly legiti- mate in a question of politics, because the condition, know- ledge, and temper of the multitude, enter as very elements into any debate upon government, but it is out of place in a discussion upon the truths of religion. But religion is one form of the government of men ; you cannot divest it of this character; and you cannot help endeavoiu'ing to find that doctrine true which can best govern mankind. AVhile there are villains to be kept in awe by any creed, the creed calculated to keep them in awe must be shared by the community at large. The villains alone will not keep up a EDUCATION OF THE PEOPLE. 505 "subjective hell" for tlieir OAvn restraint. Half the men who discuss the subject of religion are thinking less of wliat must be eternally true, than of what is the best belief fur society. " Yes ! if men were other than they are ! " is an exclama- tion which terminates many a debate. Well, men will be other than they are. If education and prosperity advance amongst the working classes, there will not be this ignorant, and needy, and too tempted multitude to think for. There will everywhere be men as wise, as rational, and as happily circumstanced, as the disputants themselves. That condition of their agreement which seemed impossible, has been real- ised; men are changed. Is it not evident that, such being the case, many of our old debates wiU be put on quite a new footing? The conflict between truth and expediency will be over. At all events, one truth must suffice for alL There can be no more virtuous hypocrisies. A whole people cannot dissemble. A silent but not unimportant revolution will have taken place in every coUege, in every lecture-room, in every study, in the inmost recesses of every mind. All society must advance, in order that any one class may reach its highest possible development. It seems that it never is allowed for any one little group or knot of men to rest content with their own isolated position. Such is not nature's plan. AVhether we look to the health of a man, or the wisdom of a man, we find that it is not permitted him to be well, or wise, alone. Our Dives — I have sometimes said to myself — is no had man. He is charitable. What if he encloses his mansion and his pleasant grounds within high walls, and thus seems to remove himself entirely from the sijualid poverty witliout — he surely nuist have quiet and cleanliness, pure air, and freedom from loathsome sights. Those hovels outside his garden walls would be niis('ral)le things to look at, and would offend all senses at once. He is distn-ssud that such things should be ; but he cannot rebuild the whole village, and if he did, he must add thereto the remodelling of the habits of all the villagers. He must interpose between him 6G6 THE DEVEIiOrJIKNT OF SOCIETY. aiul tliem that screen of beautiful trces j)reserve(l by liis protection, and which are not jtreserved for his pleasure only. Even the eloquent preacher wlio, Sunday after Sun- day, collects both ricli and poor under the same sacred roof, can suggest no remedy — suggests only palliatives — charity to the one party, and patience to the other. He sees that to destroy altogether the condition of Dives, by calling on him for an unbounded charity — to give all he has to the poor — would be simply to reduce us all to one barbarous level of poverty and ignorance. The existing plan must remain — we must be content with palliatives. liut nature is not content with our palliatives. The rich man may be blameless, and the eloquent and the wise may have done all they could; nevertheless, nature makes her pro- test. Out breaks the plague ! It comes from those hovels, and from the stagnant pool that lies amongst them, but it sweeps over the garden wall of the refined patrician ; it tra- verses those pleasant grounds, enters the chambei-s of that spacious mansion, and the dear chdd of the house Hes stricken by it. Typhus and other fevers will not always stay in the hovels in which they are bred. Those hovels should have been rebuilt; that stagnant pool that lies amongst them shoidd have been drained. By whom ? It should have been done ! But who was to do it 1 It should have been done ! Such inexorable protest is natiire accus- tomed to make. And as with health of body, so with health of mind. Look narrowly into it. The intellectual Dives would shut himself up in the pleasant garden of his own thoughts — pleasant gar- den, walled round from the turbident passions, the supersti- tions, and the panic terrors of mankind — open only to the calm and glorious heavens. All in vain. Those panic terroi-s leap his walls, and enter every chamber of his house, every chamber of his thoughts. They were bred in that crime, and ignorance, and suflering, that lies weltering there without ; but they do not stay where they are bred — they walk abroad through the minds of all men. That swamp of ignorance and vice should have been drained. By whom 1 It should SCIENCE AND RELIGION. 567 have beea done ! This is the only answer that you get. There is no perfect immunity to any man, from any kind of pestilence, till the whole city is taken care of. Section XIIL — Science and Religion. It often happens that in a sketch of this description, the most important of all truths occupies the least space in its enunciation, because it is familiar to every educated person. In our own age it seems unnecessary to dwell on the laws and invariable order of nature — or, in other words, on the unity of design and harmonious action of the Creative Eeing. That God acts by general laws, and not by sudden impulses, as of a human will or passion, and that what we call laws of nature are but the " varied action of the God," is almost a truism with men of reflection. Yet the recognition of this truth constitutes the greatest revolution that has taken jtlace in the mind, or history, of man. It is a revolution tliat may be more fitly described as stiU taking place, for the truth, in all its great significance, and with its full legitimate re- sults, wins its way very slowly over the mxdtitude. From the earliest period in which science, or a scientific observa- tion, makes its appearance — from the earliest period to which the literary history of the human race extends — this revo- lution may be said to have been taking jjlace, and it is not yet accomplished. When speaking of the earher periods of human progress, we found that the greatest ideas of the epoch were enunciated by a priesthood, and made, through the mstrumentality of imagin- ative faiths, to rule over the people. As we approach to e])ochs nearer our own, we find tliat a priesthood has a tendency to become fixed and stationary in its intellectual position. That very appeal to a divine origin for its ideas, for its books, for its forms of worsliip, which gave to all these a supernatural authority, becomes a chain and fetter on the mind of the prii-st himself. In fact, the priesthood has debarretl itself from free inquiry, and bound itself to some system of ideas, by those very means it adopted (whether altogether designedly or not) 568 TIH:: DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. to securn for l,ll(^se ideas an authority over other men. But the spirit of inquiry has not therefore deserted the world ; it rises outside the priesthood, and often in opposition to it. The pliilosopher now teaches, the philosopher is now the latest inspired of God, tliough lie claims no especial authority, hut simply invites others to look for themselves, and say if they do not see things as he has been enabled to see them. In Greece, a Socrates, a Plato, an Aristotle, are contemplat- ing nature, and that greater creation, their own minds, and are teaching a purer Theism, truer and more sublime doctrines of God and the relation between God and man, than are dreamt of in the temples of Jupiter and Apollo. These men, however, cannot rule the multitude ; and the ideas they put forth, though extending over the cultivated minds of Greece and Eome, must wait for such dominant position as they can assume, till the temple of Apollo is substituted by a far more spiritual Church. There rises up from time to time the great Religious Re- former, who, supported by faiths which he has in common with the priesthood and the people, introduces, through much opposition, and by means perhaps of his own martyrdom, some modification of the national religion which approximates it to that growing intelligence, and those advanced senti- ments, that had been making their way through philosophic inquiry. In India and Persia Ave have vague accounts of such religious reformers in a Buddha, or a Zoroaster. Amongst the Jews and the people of Ai-abia we have still better oppor- tunities of studying such religious movements. Looking backwards and forwards, along the whole line, as far as we can trace or anticipate it, of human existence, there is nothing to be compared, for grandeur or importance, to the development of this idea of the order and unity that exists in nature, and the belief that this order and unity represent to us the action and power of God. On this blade of grass before me all the powers of nature seem to have been expended. This which I call an individual thing, an indi- vidual life, and which I trace at first so complacently to the seed in the ground, is the creation of earth and water, air SCIEXCB AND RELIGIOX. 560 and light. The cjiuse of it is no other than all tliis varied planet, this planet and its sun. The whole, or, in other words, the Divine Idea of the whole, is the oidy cause you can assign. But it is evident that the human intellect had to work its way upward, through much varied knowledge, to obtain this point of view. Here and there a few may have anticipated it at a very early epoch ; but, speaking generally of human society, even at the present epoch, tliat mode of thinking which represents the Deity as acting through uni- versal laws, and developing thus one divine multifarious whole, has still to struggle for its legithnate ascendancy. The earlier way of representing the action of the god, as abrupt voluntary act, often in contradiction to the laws of nature, still disputes its supremacy. It is, however, already so well established in men of scientific culture, that they do not feel they have any longer to contend for it, but, for their OAvn parts, they, as from a secure position, can look back with interest and impartiality upon earlier modes of representing the Divine Power. Tliey see that these were appropriate to the epoch in which tliey rose; that they fostered sentiments of jnety, and jirovokcd to further inquiry. It is precisely the scientific age that can do full justice to an imaginative age. Perhaps there is nothing which more advantageously distinguishes the philosoi)hy of the nineteenth century, than its due appreciation and .'^eardi- ing analysis of those imaginations, those legends, or those myths, which enter so much into the first histories and early religions of mankind. In the eighteenth century the philo- sophical party (by such name Ave must call them, without im- plying by the name that they had a monopoly of philoso]ihy) satisfied themselves with detecting the work of imagination in much that had assumed the place of fact, in both .<*jicred and profane history. It was nnhj the imagination that had given rise to such and such legends, such jtrodigies in natur<'. such miracles of heroism. ]>ut the men of the nint'tccjith century have studied with respect this phase of huniun thought. They have seen noble .sentiment.s, and great truths dimly perceived, expressing themselves in the legend or the 570 TUE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETV. mytli. Only the imagination ! But let us study, they have said, tlie creature Avho imagines thus. There must Ije some law of liis progressive nature revealed to us in this univer- sality of his imaginations. I have attem])ted to sliow how the path to truth lies neces- sarily tlu'ough error. Before science had been at all devel- oped, and before men had a past history of their own species, by the light of which to recognise their OAfn position in the great drama of life, neither nature, nor human nature, could interest in their commonplace aspect. The marvellous com- monplace of this world could not have been perceived. But the imagination framed marvels of its own, which at once startled men from their apathetic indifference. They looked around at nature, and saw it full of supernatural beings, work- ing their 0"\vn unquestioned will ; they looked back into the shadowy past, and laid the commencement of a real history in a hypothetical one, in which gods and men are mingled together. I speak of this gi-eat office of the imagination as being most important ; you will not so far misinterpret me as to suppose that I should say of every imagination, or of every error, that it had its recognisable use, or led us forward in any perceptible way on our [jrogressive career. On the contrary, many errors have been manifestly and alto- gether of a most debasing and degrading nature ; as when the symbol of the wiser man becomes the very object of worship of the ignorant man; or Avhen some mythological story, wrought perhaps out of astronomical figures, signs of the zodiac, or personifications of nature, bids defiance alike to common-sense and moralitj'. Animal worship and image worship, or idolatry, seem so far from helping us forward, that they wear the aspect of a downAvard coui-se, the for- saking of a thought for an object of sejise; though in reality those who worshipped, like children, the mere idol, never rose into thought, but had remained children all theii* lives. The imaginative age had its charms : — " Fancy, what an age was that for song ! That age when not by hues inanimate SCIENCE AND RELIGION'. 671 As men believed, the waters were impell'd, The air coiitroll'd, the stars their courses held ; But element and orb on acts did wait, Of Powers endued with visible form, instinct With will " So sings our poet Wordsworth, and describes as accurately as more prosaic language could do, tliat early or imaginative stage of thought which we contrast with the later or scien- tific. By acts/ not by laios / the elder gods ruled; that is, by unconnected acts, not by those systematic acts we call laws. To the human being, his own passions, his own thoughts, start into existence without any known antecedent (there can be no trace in the consciousness of mere physical or any unconscious antecedents) ; he takes this type of sudden, partial, impetuous action, and applies it to his god, or to the events of nature seen as the doing of a god. Our precise definition of a miracle, as an interference with, or suspension of, the laws of nature, could not be present to an age that had little idea at all of laws of nature. 8onic acts of the god woidd be more wonderful and extraordinary than others ; but all that was attributed to him would alike emanate as from some human will that had an illinutalde power. Every act was a miracle, or at least a sjjecial ]»rovi- dence. To disbelieve in special interpositions of divine power, would be tantamount to atheism, because only in such interjiositions was the god supposed to reveal himself. In the miracles and Avonders attributed to the god, tliero would be no distinction drawn in an unreflecting age, be- tween what, in the nature of tilings, is possible and im- possible. The logic of those times was very short : What I can wish, a god can wish ; and what a god wishes, ho can accomplish. And as to evidence — a tale of wonder needed less than any other story, its own wonder secured its reception. No fanciful idea has l)een more popular than that of being transported instantaneously from one spot to anotlicr without passing through the intermediate space, and in dfliance of all material obstacles, such as bolts, and bars, and walls of stone. 570 THE DEVELOPMENT OF .SOCIETY. niytli. Only the imagination ! But let us study, they have said, tlie creature who imagines tlius. There must l>e some law of his progressive nature revealed to us in tliis univer- sality of his imaginations. I have attempted to show how the path to tnith lies neces- sarily through error. Before science had been at all devel- oped, and before men had a past history of their own species, by the light of which to recognise their o'stn position in the great drama of life, neither nature, nor human nature, could interest in their commonplace aspect. The marvellous com- monplace of this world could not have been perceived. But the imagination framed marvels of its own, which at once startled men from their apathetic indiflference. They looked around at nature, and saw it full of supernatural beings, work- ing theu" own unquestioned will ; they looked back into the shadowy past, and laid the commencement of a real history in a liypothetical one, in which gods and men are mingled together. I sjieak of this great office of the imagination as being most important ; you will not so far misinterpret me as to suppose that I should say of every imagination, or of every error, that it had its recognisable use, or led us forward in any perceptible way on our jjrogressive career. On the contrary, many errors have been manifestly and alto- gether of a most debasing and degrading nature ; as when the symbol of the wiser man becomes the very object of worship of the ignorant man; or when some mythological story, wrought perhaps out of astronomical figures, signs of the zodiac, or personifications of nature, bids defiance alike to common-sense and moralitj'. Animal worship and image worship, or idolatry, seem so far from helping us forward, that they wear the aspect of a downward coui^se, the for- saking of a t?iought for an object of sense; though in reality those who worshipped, like children, the mere idol, never rose into thought, but had romamed children all theu* lives. The imaginative age had its charms : — " Fancy, what an age was that for song I That age when not by hues inanimate SCIENCE AND RELIGION. 671 As men believed, tlie waters were impell'd, The air coiitroll'd, the stars their courses held ; But element and orb on acts did wait, Of Powers endued with visible form, instinct With will " So sings our poet Wordsworth, and describes as accurately as more prosaic language could do, that early or imaginative stage of thought which we contrast with the later or scien- tific. Jjj acts / not hy laws! the elder gods ruled; that is, by unconnected acts, not by those systematic acts we call laws. To the human being, his own passions, his o^vu thoughts, start into existence without any known antecedent (there can be no trace in the consciousness of mere physical or any unconscious antecedents) ; he takes this type of sudden, partial, impetuous action, and apj)lies it to his god, or to the events of nature seen as the doing of a god. Our precise definition of a miracle, as an interference with, or suspension of, the laws of nature, could not be present to an age that had little idea at aU of laws of nature. Some acts of the god woidd be more wonderful and extraordinary than others ; but all that was attributed to him would alike emanate as from some human will that had an illimitable power. Every act was a miracle, or at least a special provi- dence. To disbelieve in special interpositions of divine power, would be tantamount to atheism, because only in such interpositions was the god supposed to reveal himself. In the mii-acles and Avonders attributed to the god, there would be no distinction drawn in an unreflecting age, be- tween what, in the nature of things, is possi])le and im- possible. The logic of those times was very short : What I can wish, a god can wish ; and what a god wishes, he can accomplish. And as to evidence — a tale of wonder needed less than any other story, its own wonder secured its reception. No fanciful idea has been more popular than that of being transported instantaneously from one spot to anotluT without passing through the intermediate space, and in drtiance of all material obstacles, such as bolts, and bars, and walls of stone. 572 TIIK DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. We wish to he transported tliis inorneiit into a room some hundreds of miles off, wluirc dear friends are sitting. Pla4^;e ns, magician, in the midst of them in spite of doors, and locks, and this odious interval of space ! AVe do not consider ■what sort of task we impose upon the magician, we think of nothing but our wish. A solid body cannot pass from one place to another without traversing the intermediate space. It must cease to have the property of solidity, or of space" occupancy ; it must cease to be matter at all — it must cea.se to have motion at all ; motion means this passing through space. The supposition is utter nonsense. It is the same kind of contradiction, as to say of a given body that it could be at the same time a square and a circle, at the same time at rest and in motion. The only way in which the magician could perform, or rather seem to perform, the feat, would be by annihilating us here where we stand, and re-creating us there where we wish to be. Or if we give up the point of not traversing the intermediate space, but only insist that he should convey us through closed doors and solid walls, then, by some process of sublimation, the magician must so vaporise this too solid flesh, as to reduce our bodies to elementary particles of matter sufficiently minute to pass through such substances as wood or stone, and con- veying these particles with the rapidity of electricity to the destined spot, he must there put them together again — flesh and bones, and the running blood — in the same form as that in which they exist at present. P.ut of the many inventors of the many legends in which this sort of miracle is per- formed, who ever troubled himself with all these difficulties 1 The Avish is omnipotent in the realm of fancy, and when it is a god whom we have made our magician, it would be a sort of impiety to doubt the possibihty of any wish being accomplished. It is not yet felt or understood that creative Reason, and creative Power, are inseparable. It is inilispensable for the student of history distinctly to perceive that, Giving to the power of forming new combina- tions of our ideas — new combinations which have no counter- part in reality — a power, as we have seen, so essential to SCIENCE AND RELIGION. 573 human progress — the marvellous story, the prodigy, and the miracle must arise. It is quite a normal creation of the human mind in one stage of its progress. How one marvel- lous story begets another, how often it is repeated with addi- tions and alterations, no one thinks of denying. A prevail- ing belief in such stories is sure to bring forward new stories of the same kind. But you sometimes meet with people who say — " Yet surely there must have been such things at one time, or how account for that prevailing belief which has been the fruitful source of so many fables 1 " Such persons have not clearly represented to themselves the creative power of the imagination. A prevailing belief in Avitchcraft has brought forwanl such stories of witchcraft, uttered with such confidence of assertion, and supported by such delusions in the poor witches them- selves, that courts of law, and that not in an altogether un- civihsed period, have punished the supposed crime with death. Yet, in this age, if any one should m-ge upon us that there surely must have been some real witchcraft, either then or at a previous time, to account for this prevailing belief, we should reply, That a belief in witchcraft manifestly arose — not from a series of accurate observations on the etiects of charms and incantations — but from fanciful su])positi(ins, at once connecting certain evils, whose origin was unknown, with certain operations attrilmted to some fellow-man. In this Christian Xaples, where I now sit and vrrite, there still exists amongst the populace, and amongst more than the populace, the pagan faith in the " evil eye." Go farther East and you find the mother dressing her child in dirty rags that it may not attract the passing gaze of the stranger. A folly like this can live and perjietuate itself. Yet it surely never rose from any exact observation, tracing a connection between the look of a stranger and the sickness of a child. Take the more classic instance of divination, and of onicles. How manifestly here the desire created tin- faitli ! What desire in mortal man more strong, till it is cliecked by reflec- tion, than to know the future — the success of his present 674 THE DEVELOPMKXT OF SOCIETY. enterprise — the fate of tlie coming Lattk; 1 Will the victory be ours if we fight 1 The gods know, and the priest who is in comnmnication with the gods could loam. The priest is asked, till he is compelled to give an answer. Whatever advantage he may afterwards have taken of this faith in divination, or prophecy, it was not he who first, or exclu- sively, originated it. A universal desire originates a uni- versal faith, and generation after generation of mankind passes, and no nation goes to war without consulting the oracle. Yet at length the oracles are dumb, and all men now resolve them into a mixture of craft and delusion. I would observe that it is the disconnection of any given event of nature, or act of the creative Power, from its antece- dents and consequents, that is the essential distinction of the older and imaginative mode of thinking. It is this uncon- nected act which the theologian of ancient times delighted to contemplate, and which the theologian of a scientific age finds it almost impossible to conceive. If a criminal is represented as being struck dead by a flash of lightning, sent or created for the express purpose — this would be to the scientific man just as difficult a conception as if the earth were represented as suddenly opening to engulf the same criminal. He would have no difficulty in believing the fact that the criminal was struck by lightning, and might doubt the report of his being swallowed up by the earth ; but if he is called upon to believe that the lightning which struck the criminal was altogether unconnected with the electric state of the atmosphere and of the earth — was an unconnected and sudden creation — he is as much embar- rassed, and as completely tlxrown out of his usual mode of thinking, as if you required him to believe that without any earthquake, or any volcanic movement, the earth suddenly disclosed a chasm under the footsteps of the guilty man. In an unscientific age the lightning Avas always viewed as a solitary fiash issuing simply from the clouds. Nothing was more easy and natural than to believe it emanating at once, and quite abruptly, from the will or power of the god. But this solitary flash of lightning no longer exists to the eye of SCIENCE AXD RELIGION. 575 science. Very imperfect is the conception we are yet able to form of it, but we know that it is no isolated eflul"fnce issu- ing from the cloud, but the result of many antecedent and coexistent circumstances in the earth, the air, the sea. I do not say that no definition of a miracle could be framed by a scientific person (though I would rather not have to frame the definition) ; I do not say that a miracle is impossible — and not being impossible, I certainly should not assert that no human testimony, or no historic evidence, was sufficient to convince us of its actual occurrence. The often-canvassed argument of Hume, if intended as a barrier against all belief in miracles, is plainly ineffectual. He should have gone the length of saying that a miracle is not to be credited on the testimony of our own senses (in other words, that it is only our ignorance that gives anything we behold the aspect of a miracle), because Ave all feel that there is nothing we shoidd believe on the testimony of our own eyesight, which we should not also believe on the clear testimony of eyewitnesses. But to put possible or imagin ary cases is not very instructive. What is really important is to understand how the faiths of ])ast ages grew uji — how inevitably they arose in an unscientific period. So altered is our mode of thinking now, so rooted in the minds of scientific men is this Ijelief in the connected- ness of the phenomena of nature, and their formation of one harmonious scheme, that I doubt whether, if a miracle were really wrought before their eyes, they would believe it as a miracle. They would suspect that their own limit- ed knowledge of nature gave to the fact the anomalous appearance which it wore to them. If a veritable Midas were to present himself before them, who, by his touch, turned all substances into gold, they would no sooner liavo satisfied themselves of the fact, than they would begin to speculate whether this might not be an exalted conilition of some property possessed, in a less degrct^, by other bodies. The chemists would not rest content till they had analysed this Midas himself ; they would pass every morsel of him through the crucible, apply every conceivable test to every 576 TlIK DKVKLOPMEXT OF 80CIETY. tissue of liis budy, before tliey relinquished all hope of dis- covering the secret of this transmutation of metals — of con- necting, in short, this novelty with the already known phe- nomena of nature. So that if, in one age, every miraculous story is greedily received, and wonder itself is a passport to belief, in another age, hardly any amount of testimony would render the miracle credible. With us there is but one miracle, and that is the whole creation. God acts in all, and aU His acts necessarily har- monise. Order and harmony are essential to every exist- ence we can conceive of ; and we understand that order and harmony as the act of God. But you see directly that the greatest revolution that has taken place in the human mind must be also one of the slowest and most gradual. You see directly that the two modes of representing to ourselves the action of the Deity, though essentially contradictory and inconsistent, would nevertheless coexist for centuries, and often in the same minds. You see directly that, after admitting that God acts in the very order of nature, men would still, wlierever they could not see the order, revert to their old conception of arbitrary and unconnected action. You see directly that after admitting there are no miracles now, they would still cling to the wonderful stories of the past, which have come down to them with all the confi- dence of human assertion, and are mingled up, perhaps, with grand sentiments and vital truths. The transition is slow from the imaginative to the scientific period. Does it not seem to you that the great miracle of Creation, and of a progressive Creation, leaves, to our limited concep- tions, no room for any other miracle 1 'Nevr acts of Divine I'ower must surely be in harniony with the old. As for me, 1 find in the contemplation of any single atom of matter, in its single property of space - occupancy, a mystery and a wonder far greater than any transmutation of metals, or any magical changes, that have ever been imagined. I feel the power of the incomprehensible God in every grain of dust that holds itself thus potently in space. For it is a childish blunder that disesteems the palpable substance, and tries to SCIENCE AND RELIGIOX. ^TT take refuge in thin etherealities and ghostlj- essences. Your etherealities are near akin to nothing. The great wonder for us is the coming forth of the jialpable in space. Look liow the blank air is substituted by the oak and the cedar. Out of impalpable ethers comes forth this creation to fill the sky with beauty. "Wliat are your ghostly essences to this 1 That which we call inanimate nature is itself no other than a most wonderful organism ; for what is this fine balance and reciprocal action of solid and fluid, the vapour and the gas, but a great organic whole ? I need no other mystery than that of all creation. I look from the moss at my feet to the sun above — that great star — with which its life is so singularly blended — and find rest for my mind only in tlie contemplation of the whole as it exists in tlie ])ivine ]\Iind. And does it not seem to you that this relationsliip of Creator and Creature must be more and more felt, and tliat, as it aggrandises, it absorbs to itself other religious senti- ments, or gives them a new character, and itself takes its place at the very head of all human life 1 Gratitude, in the first instance, was allied with the supposition tliat God acts by special interposition ; but this is only an accidental asso- ciation, it is not essential to the sentiment of gratitude. I must surely feel peculiarly thankful for this great gift of life at a moment when I have been saved from sliipwreck; but I need not tliink, in order to have this sentiment of gi-atitude, that the wind had ceased to blow, or had changed its direc- tion, especially for my preservation. My very gratitude is this, that I am still one of tliat living race for wlioni all winds are blowing, and all nature's powei-s arc in ceasc'k'S.<« exercise. That man never felt the sentiment of gi-atiludo at all, who would not feel it pre-eminently on a day of battle, when he had been " under fire " and had escaped ; yet it would be a most egotistical method of thinking, to suppo.se that the bullet had an especial direction wliich missed liinj, and struck another. The God of Science — the God of the Conscience — lliesc two have been set in opposition by some ; but other and bettor men have shown triumphantlv that there is no ojipositinn 2 o 578 THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOCIETY. between them. I put it thus : Let any man be first familiar- ised with tins relationship of Creator and Creature, and then let hini turn an introspective glance ujxm himself. He sees that the idea of the good of the whole, which is developed in his intelligence, and which all progressive movements tend to develop with more and more prominence, can be no other than a partial reflex of the divine idea itself. He feels that, in addition to that obedience to his own reason, which is exacted in every case, and which is founded on the very nature of reason herself — he obeys the especial command and instruction of God when he acts in conformity to tlm idea of the good of the whole. And it is impossible for the cultivated mind — for the mind in which the ideas of God and goodness are once developed — to transgress, tlirough any fit of passion, this command of God and the reason, without feeling a trouble, a dis(|uiet, and remorse, which nothing but a return to obedience can allay. If such a one believes in a future state, this trouble of the mind will produce none but gloomy anticipations while it lasts ; this trouble, at all events, he must carry -with him to that future state. For such a man there is, in this world, no peace but in virtue. The idea of an approving and disapproving God who sees our thoughts — idea ever growing on us as our thoughts become grander and wiser — is tliis a conception which Humanity, hav- ing once seized, will ever relinquish ? Xever ! never ! I see this conception grooving clearer and more influential during the past progress of religion, and I can confidently predict, from the very nature of our development, that it will grow still clearer and still moi-e potential over us. To live serenely, as in the presence and under the eye of God, becomes the condition of happiness for every cultivated mind. "\Ye live, and must always Hve, under the government of God. But we get clearer ideas of the nature of that govern- ment. The following illustration occurred to me as I was sketching the other daj- some of the classic ruins in this neighbourhood. Bring before you the beautifid portico of a Grecian temple. You see first the tall and upright pillars, resting on the solid earth : these shall typify for us morality. CONCLUSION. 679 Superimposed on these, you have the entablature, with its glorious pediment, where the gods are seen lying in watchful and meditative repose. Our pillars uphold this pediment, these gods, and yet remove from them their sacred burden, and the pillars themselves, marble though they are, and though they rest upon the solid earth, will strew the ground with ruins. Here and there a broken shaft is all that Avill remain. Thus the earth-supported columns are also sustained by pressure from above. iNot always does the same god, or the same representation of the god, repose above the portico. In that sculpture the world has marvellously advanced. I have said that as we become reflective, the plan of human society is, as it were, put into our own hands, we have to work it out consciously. Man cannot free himself from this noble responsibility, except by going back into savage igno- rance. Not his to distribute, as Indac the sage had brought himself to fancy, rain and sunshine on the earth, but it has become his to help in the distribution of human griefs and human joys. This is a responsibility both to God and man : it is a responsibility, bear in mind, wliich all enforce on each, by the influence of public opinion. I like that passage, Thorndale, in your Diary (and I will conclude this section with it), Avhere you say : — " God nevei' pardons ; Ilis laws are irrevocable, the mind that deserts its better knowledge must suffer." " God always pardons ; for remorse is penitence, and peni- tence is new life and returning peace." Conclusion. " Of Avhat use," I am sometimes asked, — " of wliat use to disquiet ourselves with speculations upon a futui-e which we shaU none of us see — which few of us, and tliat in a very indirect manner, can in any Avay promote 1 " I answer, that this faith in the future makes to me tlie present intelligible, and that it serves as my guide in ileeiding many a question of the day on which an opinion vm,■ Stir **'^> ^^ c ^■(■j:m£\f^}^.MijMh M£iiiM(M!iMMM