<■ >^ "%, v r '-" ; ' %>**■ p ^ T > *+ ,*% +J* <* " .0 K "^ v * ^, 5 \* V ■A /> \ ^ 1 A^ / ^ r ^ V -9 c .-V 5 *>S ^ ? ^ <- "l \ ^ .A W \° °* ' -f J b "* ^ ^ v * PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. A STUDY. JULIA DUHRING. I like the study of men and women better than grass and trees.— Sydney Smith. Let us treat men and women well : treat them as if they were real perhaps they are. — Emerson. PHILADELPHIA : A J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 1874. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER, HENRY DUHRING, WHOSE NOBLE INTEGRITY AND ONENESS OF PURPOSE THROUGHOUT HIS CAREER SECURED TO ME THE RICHEST BLESSINGS OF LIFE, AND WHOSE PERSONAL CHARACTER IS AN IMPERISHABLE INHERITANCE, THESE PAGES ARE AFFECTIONATELY AND REVERENTLY DEDICATED. PREFACE. Believing that the study of Man is the most ennobling and satisfying of all human pursuits, it is natural that I should desire to lead others to the same conclusion. My aim then, dear reader, is not to enlighten — still less to bore you with moral truisms or platitudes — but simply to ask you to examine with me those earnest questions upon a solution of which so large a portion of happiness and misery depends. In this spirit I present the volume, remarking merely that were it withheld until personal judgment pronounced it finished, it would probably never appear. To my brother, Dr. Louis A. Duhring, I must ac- knowledge the encouragement so generously given, without which — it is not too much to say — the task would hardly have been either undertaken or com- pleted. J. D. Philadelphia, April, 1874. CONTENTS. I. — Philosophers and Fools II. — Finding our Level . III. — Chief among Realities IV. — Voice and Language V. — Who are Wicked? . VI. — Greater than Sceptres VII. — Man and Woman VIII. — Antagonistic People IX. — Romance versus Criticism 9 38 64 no 142 174 250 279 3 2 9 X- PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. Men go their roads, foolish or wise. — Carlyle. My friend, you make very free with your days: pray, how many do you expect to have ? — De Quincey. In one of those exquisitely satirical effusions of Douglas Jerrold called Punch's Letters to his Son, we find the following : " My Dear Boy : — I am much pleased with your last letter. Your remarks on the copies set you by your excellent master, Dr. Birchbud, convince me that schooling has not been lost upon you. " However, beware lest you look too closely into the signification and meaning of words. This is an unprofitable custom, and has spoilt the fortunes of many a man. You may have observed a team of horses yoked to a heavy waggon ; may have heard the bells hanging about their head-gear tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. The bells are of no use — none, save to keep up a monotonous jingle; although, doubtless, Giles the waggoner will assure you that the music cheers the horses on the dusty road, and, under the burning sun, makes them pull blithely and all together. Now there is a certain lot of sentences in use among men, 2 9 IO PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. precisely like these bells. They mean nothing — are not intended to mean anything — but custom requires the jingle. Thus, when you meet a man whom you have seen, perhaps, thrice before — and he declares that ' he is delighted to see you/ albeit it would give him no concern whatever if you were decorating the next gibbet — you must not, for a moment, look a doubt of his joy, but take his raptures as a thing of course. If he squeeze your hand until your knuckles crack — squeeze again. If he declare that 'you're looking the picture of health,' asseverate upon your honor that ' he has the advantage of you, for you never saw him looking better.' He may at the time be in the last stage of a consumption — you may have a hectic fever in your cheek; no matter for that; you have both jingled your bells and with lightened con- sciences may take your separate ways. "I could, my dear child, enlarge upon this subject. It is enough that I caution you in your intercourse with the world, not to take words as so much genu- ine coin of standard metal, but merely as counters that people play with. If you estimate them at any thing above this, you will be in the hapless condition of the wretch who takes so many gilt pocket-pieces for real mint-guineas ; contempt and beggary will be your portion." Very much in the same manner do we hear the words philosopher and fool bandied about in the world; in fact, so misused and misinterpreted are they, that few of us have any clear idea as to the kind of people they represent. What is a philosopher? What is a fool? Ques- tions full of import to all who think of men and PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. II women as something more than machines set up in special places to do certain work, and to be examined with interest only when through some unlucky acci- dent they are not in good running order. Are philosophers a class of men who, through presumably elevated studies and extended researches into the mysteries of creation, are so far above the rest of the world that they can by no possible agree- ment live with them upon terms of equality? Or a class who, according to the puerile, half-formed con- ceptions of one portion of the community, neglect the decencies and civilities of life and scorn the things other men seek and enjoy ? Or how far is Ruskin right when he says : " I believe that metaphysicians and philosophers are, on the whole, the greatest troubles the world has to deal with ; and that while a tyrant or bad man is of some use in teaching people submission or indignation, and a thoroughly idle man is only harmful in setting an idle example, and com- municating to other lazy people his own lazy mis- understandings, busy metaphysicians are always en- tangling good and active people, and weaving cobwebs among the finest wheels of the world's business; and are as much as possible, by all prudent persons, to be brushed out of their way, like spiders, and the meshed weed that has got into the Cambridgeshire canals, and other such impediments to barges and business." Knowing well how impossible it is to judge of any man's mind or feelings by one act or one sentence, we cannot forget that Ruskin himself takes care to qualify the above by a note stating : " Observe, I do not speak thus of metaphysics because I have no 12 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. pleasure in them. When I speak contemptuously of philology, it may be answered me that I am a bad scholar; but I cannot be so answered touching meta- physics, for every one conversant with such subjects may see that I have strong inclination that way, which would, indeed, have led me far astray long ago, if I had not learned also some use of my hands, eyes, and feet." In both these assertions there is much to awaken reflection ; for we can scarcely fail to see that from a practical, material stand-point, metaphysicians and philosophers, represented by such names as Socra- tes, Plato, Descartes, Spinoza, Berkeley, Kant, Fichte, Comte, and others, are really " the greatest troubles the world has to deal with;" and in the second asser- tion we see how utterly useless it is for any man to disavow or try to eradicate the natural tendencies of his mind, a wise provision which insures the perpetuity of thought, beauty, and utility, combined with that endless variety in the human organization which adds so infinite a charm to existence. If philosophers are people who believe the use and culture of the intel- lect the worthiest pursuit for man, it is no wonder the world finds them troublesome. Do we not all regard people given to abstraction, meditation, specu- lation, revery, and imagination, as more or less un- fitted for every-day life and likely to interfere sadly with material comfort ? In choosing a working-man, we naturally prefer the practical one who takes a special, undivided interest in the thing he does, and instinctively avoid the one who even appears to take an interest in things apart from his trade. Philoso- phers, however, have their place no less than practical men, and what we chiefly need is to study their char- PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 13 acteristics and discover what — in the truest sense — they represent and what they do. What are, strictly speaking, called philosophical or metaphysical studies possess a strong and subtle fascination for some minds, and, if honestly pursued, may bring profitable results ; but that these branches of learning are essential to the formation of a philoso- pher — a wisdom-loving man — does not seem entirely clear. " I have often been told," says Ruskin, " that any one who will read Kant, Strauss, and the rest of the German metaphysicians and divines, resolutely through, and give his whole strength to the study of them, will, after ten or twelve years' labor, discover that there is very little harm in them ; and this I can well believe ; but I believe also that the ten or twelve years may be better spent ; and that any man who honestly wants philosophy not for show, but for use, and knowing the Proverbs of Solomon, can, by way of Commentary, afford to buy, in convenient editions, Plato, Bacon, Wordsworth, Carlyle, and Helps, will find that he has got as much as will be sufficient for him and his household during life, and of as good quality as need be." Who, among the best minds of an age, cares what a man is by name, profession, or nationality, provided he have, in some form or other, evinced the noble manhood which scorns effeminacy and folly, and resolutely accomplishes a good work ? All men cannot be natural philosophers, metaphy- sicians, or theologians — nor is there any cause for discontent in this restriction, seeing that we could ill spare our poets, artists, and musicians — but all men can love wisdom and bend themselves to its require- ments. 2* I4 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. In a broad sense, the term people might be said to signify two classes, called philosophers and fools ; and although the divisions and subdivisions are countless, their distinctive characteristics remain the same. They are of both sexes, of all ages ; diametri- cally opposed to each other in system of thought, feeling and action ; eternally sworn to counteract each other's work ; and yet they have, from time immemo- rial, flourished side by side, and to all appearance will continue so to flourish to the end of time. The fools, it cannot be denied, have always greatly preponderated, and if we may read the future in the past, the world will, probably, always be thus overstocked ; neverthe- less, as weight of brain usually decides any contest in which human progression is at stake, the world cannot be said to suffer materially from that unpleas- ant preponderance. War, conflagration, pestilence, or any other extraordinary occurrence, shows us of what men are capable when roused : the philoso- pher is in this roused state throughout life, like other men only when taking the repose absolutely needed for recuperation. He regards work, not as the bane of existence, to be complied with simply as a means of securing comfort, luxury, or position, but as the in- dispensable condition of health, tranquillity of mind, and happiness. He does not, however, work to ex- cess, goading himself to a frenzy or stupidity from which there is no issue save misery; nor does he undertake tasks for which he is naturally unfitted, thus crushing out individuality and admitting incura- ble discontent. But having chosen his work, he is convinced the world can offer him nothing better; and that life, for him, means doing that and no other thing. PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 1 5 Pleasure he values not as a mode 'of " killing time" and exhausting vitality, but as a relaxation given by nature conformably to organization and to be par- taken of as freely as the air we breathe. How this boon comes to others he cannot tell, but to himself he knows it is one which cannot be measured, timed, or calculated. Earth, air, sky, and above all, humanity, bring it to him in abundance ; and the only drawback to complete satisfaction is the knowledge that others around him do not know the true source of this great good they seek. If the mind be in a receptive mood, a single flower, a fleeting cloud, a word or a smile, may bring the unalloyed pleasure which weeks of preparation often fail to procure. Wholly indescribable in language, always relative in nature, it is one of those curious realities which seem too closely allied to imagination to admit of direct analysis or explanation. Knowing that human happiness depends quite as much upon physical health as upon mental enlighten- ment, the philosopher studies the laws and conditions which produce it, and what he himself discovers, he strives to impart to others. Not by direct teaching how- ever ; for to the majority of men and women, hotly en- gaged as they are in the struggle for existence, physics are as unknown as ethics and esthetics. To them the structure of the human frame is as profound a mystery as — and, strange to say, far less interesting than — Heaven itself, and to tell them that pure air and proper food will do more towards elevating their minds than countless devotional exercises, would be wholly un- availing. Positive fact, conclusive argument, poetic sentiment, and earnest feeling are each and all wasted 1 6 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. if thrown before unappreciative minds. How many, indeed, among the intellectual minority in the world, are fully persuaded that the dividing line between the material and the spiritual nature of man has never yet been discovered ? That the clearest deductions of reason, the finest poetic fancies, and the sublimest flights of imagination depend mainly upon the care taken of the body? From the startling confessions of gastronomic culprits, the philosopher learns that more intellects have been dulled, more hearts de- praved, more promising careers marred by that form of intemperance than by any of the so-deemed greater vices. But, knowing the power of habit, that insidious parasite which grows over, around, and above the real self, thickly covering fair natural traits and crushing the noble possibilities which by right belong to them, he is not surprised that men and women generally are reaping a plentiful harvest of sloth and stupidity from their daily feasting. True, he himself may, through constitution, be liable to occasional excesses ; but he yields under protest, fully aware that the penalty will be, not only physical and mental injury, but that other which Horace Walpole describes as " my own scolding of myself — a correction I stand in great awe of, and which I am sure never to escape as often as I am to blame. One can scold other people again, or smile, or jog one's foot and affect not to mind it ; but those airs won't do with one's self; one always comes by the worst in a dispute with one's own conviction." More- over, when he commits an excess he regards his fall not as a trivial offence easily atoned for, but as a wan- ton debauch for which there is no excuse and the effects of which will be permanently felt. Judging then from PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 17 irrefutable facts, he regards fasting — as opposed to feasting and in the sense of controlling natural appe- tites — as a truth in physical science, reverences it as a doctrine of ethical faith, and endeavors to make his own practice conform to theory. He knows that brain-work which under fasting can be easily and well done, under feasting becomes a grievous task and bears the mark of a bungler; moreover, that under the latter regime, the moral aids suggested by reason, even if multiplied indefinitely, will prove wholly in- effectual in preserving men from temptation ; that greater issues than church or law dreams of hang upon the simple acts of eating and drinking, the first being a far more'frequent cause of intemperance than the second, in a sensitive organization destroying thought, impulse, and aspiration, and exciting a crav- ing for ignoble things ; that while the danger of this indulgence lies in its extreme subtlety as well as in the countenance received from educated and religious people, it produces a more marked degeneration of character than any other human weakness. He per- ceives, too, that if people of good natural parts, living amid influences favorable to self-control, do, through such indulgence, fall into lamentable moral delinquen- cies, it is easy to understand how people of inferior parts, living amid influences favorable to self-abandon- ment, may, after similar indulgence, commit deeds of villainy ; that if excess means a greater supply than is needed for any given purpose, all superfluous food should come under that definition, the degree varying according to the physique or moral estimate of the individual. Horace Walpole writes to his friend John Chute: " I have such lamentable proofs every day 1 8 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. before my eyes of the stupefying qualities of beef, ale, and wine, that I have contracted a most re- ligious veneration for your spiritual nouriture. Only imagine that I here every day see men, who are mountains of roast beef and only seem just roughly hewn out into the outlines of human form, like the giant-rock at Pratolino ! I shudder when I see them brandish their knives in act to carve, and look on them as savages that devour one another. I should not stare at all more than I do, if yonder Alderman at the lower end of the table was to stick his fork into his neighbour's jolly cheek, and cut a brave slice of brawn and fat. Why, I'll swear I see no difference between a country gentleman and a sirloin ; whenever the first laughs, or the latter is cut, there run out just the same streams of gravy ! Indeed, the sirloin does not ask quite so many questions. I have an Aunt here, a family piece of goods, an old remnant of in- quisitive hospitality and economy, who, to all intents and purposes, is as beefy as her neighbours. She wore me so down yesterday with interrogatories, that I dreamt all night she was at my ear with ' who's' and 1 why's', and ' when's' and ' where's', till at last in my very sleep I cried out, ' For God in heaven's sake, Madam, ask me no more questions!' " Between the extremes of feasting and fasting, the philosopher observes multitudinous grades of injury to body and mind from improper diet, each and all verify- ing scientific facts. He believes in the words of Prof. Youmans, that "to high and sustained mental power, ample lungs and a vigorous heart are essential. And these organs again fall back upon the digestive appa- ratus, which, if feeble, may impair the capacity of a PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 19 good heart, sound lungs, and a well-constituted brain. Digestion, and even the caprice of appetite, thus stand in direct dynamic relation to intellectual results. If the poisonous products of bodily waste are not constantly swept from the system, the cerebral changes are dis- turbed and the mind becomes stupefied. Foods, drinks, and drugs affect specifically the appetites, passions, and thoughts. Those fluctuations of feeling with which all are more or less familiar, the alternations of hope and despondency, are vitally connected with organic states. In high health the outlook is confident ; but with a low or disturbed circulation, thin morbid blood and bodily exhaustion, there is depression of spirits, gloom, inaction, paralysis of will and weariness of life." The philosopher is by no means exempt from phys- ical ills, but he suffers intelligently, not doggedly; he perceives the cause, discovers how far he personally is tb blame, and by what means a repetition of the suffering may be avoided. As regards sickness beheld in others, circumstances decide how it shall affect him, and his sympathy for such suffering is determined less by the special case than by the character of the suf- ferer. Even the most tender-hearted person must eventually grow callous if he see downright reckless- ness or neglect with regard to natural laws of health. In cases of ignorance, due allowance is made and harsh judgment withheld; but where this is not the palliation, and he beholds full-grown, intelligent men or women deliberately choosing to poison their sys- tems by all manner of intemperance, it is impossible for him to respect, and difficult to tolerate, such weak specimens of humanity. When sickness comes from 20 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. the source called fate or providence, in a word when unavoidable, his sympathies are deep and exhaustless; but when clearly the result of perverse conduct, when neither entreaty nor remonstrance will induce the subject to submit to proper treatment, his sensibilities gradually wax cold or give place to indignation. Firmly convinced that for people generally, peace, morality, and happiness depend mainly upon physical soundness, he refuses to apply the name materialism to that upon which all the finest sensibilities of the soul depend, and agrees fully with Brillat-Savarin when he says: "les animaux se repaissent; l'homme mange ; l'homme d'esprit seul sait manger. La des- tinee des nations depend de la maniere dont elles se nourrissent." The philosopher discovers, too, that there is an in- temperance of sleep as well as of food, and does not rest until a definite conclusion as regards himself and those under his care has been reached. To know what should be the effect of sleep upon every human being, he observes the freshness and happiness of well- cared-for children upon awaking, and how quickly the equilibrium is disturbed if the regular amount be less- ened or increased. Those who have closely studied this interesting phenomenon, all agree in declaring that one hour's excess will mar an entire day, as regards mood and ability to work. The elasticity of mind, the happy feelings, the satisfaction with self and others, which follow the due amount of sleep required, cannot by any possible effort be regained after such an excess. Indulgence begets indulgence, consequently the long- est sleepers are the most frequently heard complaining that they "never get enough," "never feel refreshed or PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 2 l rested." Energy, both physical and mental, tranquillity of mind, good humor, all these depend largely upon a proper understanding of this question. Languor, heavy eyelids, dull brain, unquiet thoughts, disincli- nation to exertion or duty, are some of the well-known characteristics of superfluous sleep ; and the more conscientious and quick-witted a person is by nature, the more marked will be these symptoms. To attempt to regulate the amount of sleep for different people, would be as absurd as to regulate that of food ; the essential in either case being to direct their own thoughts to the subject, and instruct them as to the important consequences involved in it. As each person has special strength or weakness, inherited or induced by mode of life, each demands special treatment con- trolled by general principles. To make people or children feel the advantages of instruction or advice is the only manner to make it effectual. Coercion is always distasteful and the instrument repulsive ; hence the antagonism usually existing between teacher and learner ; but when the latter feels a desire for enlight- enment, the relationship is at once changed into one of the utmost congeniality. If, under ordinary conditions of health, sleep be not refreshing and invigorating, making each new morning the beginning of a new existence, error is evidently lurking somewhere. With suspicion of error comes investigation, although pos- sibly it may be pursued only under annoyance and discomfort. Whether the individual take too much or too little sleep, whether it be influenced by food, exercise, occupation, thought, or motion, can be dis- covered only by careful study, reflection, and analysis of other minds. 22 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. Whatever of doubt, difficulty, or ignorance is ex- perienced by one person, has in some form been experienced by others, so that knowledge of others is indispensable to self-knowledge. But, while all are susceptible to the influences resulting from mode of life, certain organizations are peculiarly sensitive, liable to be elated or depressed, strengthened or weakened by matters which, upon others, would have no perceptible effect. Where there is great mental activity, scrupulous care should be taken to heed nature's warnings with regard to food and sleep, these being usually within control, while surroundings are not. Nature, if well cared for, is infallible, and, whenever she deigns to speak, may be relied upon implicitly. Voltaire speaks of " fashionable people who linger in the bed of idleness until the sun has made half his tour, unable either to sleep or to rise, losing many precious hours in that middle condition between life and death, and yet presuming to complain that life is too short." The philosopher, however, does not think it strange that people generally should have an innate dislike to early rising; only the two extremes, the practical and the imaginative, can find any charm in such a habit, the first because he has something tan- gible to be taken in hand, the second because the dominating faculty of his mind allows him no repose beyond a certain limit. " The flight of our human hours," says De Quincey, " is not really more rapid at any one moment than another, yet oftentimes to our feelings seems more rapid, and this flight startles us like guilty things with a more affecting sense of its rapidity, when a dis- PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 23 tant church-clock strikes in the night-time, or when, upon some solemn summer evening, the sun's disc, after settling for a minute with farewell horizontal rays, suddenly drops out of sight. The record of our loss in such a case seems to us the first intimation of its possibility ; as if we could not be made sensible that the hours were perishable until it is announced to us that already they have perished. We feel a per- plexity of distress when that which seems to us the cruelest of injuries, a robbery committed upon our dearest possession by the conspiracy of the world out- side, seems also as in part a robbery sanctioned by our own collusion. The world, and the customs of the world, never cease to levy taxes upon our time ; that is true, and so far the blame is not ours ; but the particular degree in which we suffer by this robbery, depends much upon the weakness with which we ourselves become parties to the wrong, or the energy with which we resist it. Resisting or not, however, we are doomed to suffer a bitter pang as often as the irrecoverable flight of our time is brought home with keenness to our hearts." What is time? asks the philosopher. Dare I claim any part of it, save these moments now in my hands ? The best which these can produce, this is true wis- dom, and every law of life warns me to use them as if they were the last. Not what I intend to do, but what I am doing, is the sole question of import; the inten- tion may be merely a freak of fancy, a subterfuge for exertion, an attempt to forestall admiration through brilliant planning; but the thing done stamps me as trivial or earnest. The philosopher has this su- preme advantage over all other men — he learns from 24 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. every thing, even from his own deficiencies, errors, and sufferings, so that life for him never can be a total failure. He accepts the truths discovered in science or daily experience, and views calmly all the varied phases of human character around him, believing always that even the worst evils have direct causes and possible ameliorations. Glancing at the lowest orders of society, he is amazed at the sobriety, in- dustry, frugality, and desire for improvement so fre- quently evinced. Noble indeed, he exclaims, must those be, who, living in such places and with such associates, can still summon energy to work for a pittance, can still hope, love, and endure ! When in- stances of aggravated wickedness are adduced in proof of the innate depravity of man, instead of being horror- struck, he is astonished that such cases are not the rule rather than the exception. Knowing the human heart, and seeing it exposed to unintermitted tempta- tions, he wonders that it does not oftener succumb, and deduces therefrom a vast amount of native vigor. Ascending to the higher classes, — where, through education and refinement, man often becomes the most beautiful ornament of the world, — he is more and more amazed at human capacity for physical and moral resist- ance. With such strong inducements to transgression, with such opportunities for selfish ease, with such inces- sant pleading from all sides for the indulgence of pas- sion or the gratification of ambition, how comes it that men are not more frequently voluptuaries, hypocrites, adulterers, and murderers ? Adamantine indeed must be the moral force which resists, even partially, the pressure applied to human frailty ! Into whatsoever strange places the study of humanity takes him, or PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 2 $ however numerous the bewildering speculations ex- cited, his reason never admits scorn or contempt ; for, through observation of the contradictions, inconsist- encies, and perverted inclinations of the best, he grows into a just and charitable estimation of the worst. Not that he finds any justification for baseness, cruelty, or crime, or that his compassion takes the form of weak sentimentality ; but that the study of cause and effect forces him to conclude that nothing better could be expected. He is not surprised, then, at seeing ignorant people live empty, frivolous lives, find their highest enjoyment in vanity, ostentation, or sensuality, and scoff at everything noble, earnest, or genuine. Can an illiterate man have any conception of the power and beauty of language when wielded by a cultured intellect? Can a woman, devoured by worldly ambition, dream of the exquisite delight to be derived from the contemplation of nature ? Can a child see any advantage in study, if at home he hear nothing discussed save material desires and plans ? Carlyle tells us that " Great Men, taken up in any way, are profitable company. We cannot look, however im- perfectly, upon a great man, without gaining some thing by him. He is the living light-fountain, which it is good and pleasant to be near. The light which enlightens, which has enlightened the darkness of the world ; and this not as a kindled lamp only, but rather as a natural luminary, shining by the gift of heaven ; a flowing light-fountain, as I say, of native original insight, of manhood and heroic nobleness; — in whose radiance all souls feel that it is well with them." By a happy combination of inherited gifts and self- mastery, the philosopher becomes the best type of 3* 26 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. a " Great " man worthy of our contemplation and reverence, the one whose influence will be felt long after other types have been forgotten. Turning to his antipode, the fool, we find him not necessarily distinguished by cap and bells, but often arrayed in the most dignified robes, and surrounded by all the paraphernalia of learning; he may, too, be honest and well-meaning, exacting from us charitable judgment even while greatly irritating us by special acts of fool-ishness. To him all* the absorbing prob- lems of science or philosophy which engage the noblest intellects, are wholly irrelevant to the exi- gencies of external life, and consequently beneath his notice. He regards ignorance — not as a misfortune but as a necessity, and one not to be altogether de- plored, since it enables him who chooses to profit by it to amass wealth or climb to high places of honor; sickness — not as the natural result of physical laws violated by ancestors or people themselves, but as a vengeful blow from the Creator of the universe, in punishment of sin, known or unknown ; subversion of plans — not as lessons inculcating humility and resignation, but as the malicious thwarting of evil spirits ; time — not as a gift to be conscientiously util- ized, but merely as a convenient arrangement of days, nights, and seasons, from which he is at liberty to drain as much ease and pleasure as possible. Finally, experience does not bring him consolation for per- sonal trial and disappointment, but simply hard facts without the softening tints of sentiment, labor without the support of principle, suffering without the indem- nification of greatness of soul. No marvel, then, that his eye grows dull with hopelessness, his heart cold PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 27 with unbelief, his mind rusty with disuse, his whole being dwarfed under the tremendous pressure of worldly affairs. Voltaire writes to Mme. du Deffand : "A burgo- master of Middelburg, whom I do not know, wrote to me some time ago, asking, en ami, whether there is a God ; if so, whether he concerns himself about us. Likewise, whether matter is eternal and capable of reflection ; finally, whether the soul is immortal : to which he begged me to answer by return of post. I receive similar letters every day." This species of fool is not yet extinct, and may be easily recognized : having no conception whatever of the process called "thinking," or of the treasure called "time," by means of which other men gain ideas of their own, he enters his neighbor's brain-premises, and pene- trates even to his soul-sanctum, with as much non- chalance as if entering a public reading-room. To make him understand that his questions are imperti- nently intrusive would be beyond human skill, so that ingenuity in escaping the infliction becomes a laudable duty. The fools who cause in us the severest conflict between natural repulsion and charitable judgment, are those who so habitually substitute shams for realities that they finally look upon them as synonymous : the religious fools, for instance, who try to make cheap virtues take the place of sterling goodness, and impose them upon the world at large in the form of resolutions, promises, plans, dogmas, ceremonies, and superstitions. "A man's religion," says Carlyle, "is the chief fact with regard to him. A man's or a nation of men's. By religion I do not mean here the church-creed 28 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. which he professes, the articles of faith which he will sign and, in words or otherwise, assert ; not this wholly, in many cases not this at all. We see men of all kinds of professed creeds attain to almost all degrees of worth or worthlessness under each or any of them. This is not what I call religion, this pro- fession and assertion ; which is often only a profes- sion and assertion from the outworks of the man, from the mere argumentative region of him, if even so deep as that. But the thing a man does practically believe (and this is often enough without asserting it even to himself, much less to others); the thing a man does practically lay to heart, and know for cer- tain, concerning his vital relations to this mysterious Universe, and his duty and destiny there, that is in all cases the primary thing for him, and creatively determines all the rest. That is his religion; or, it may be, his mere skepticism and no-religion : the manner it is in which he feels himself to be spiritually related to the Unseen World or No-world ; and I say, if you tell me what that is, you tell me to a very great extent what the man is, what the kind of thing he will do is. . . . Piety to God, the nobleness that inspires a human soul to struggle Heaven-ward, can not be 'taught' by the most exquisite catechisms or the most industrious preachings and drillings. No; alas! no. Only by far other methods — chiefly by silent, continual Example, silently waiting for the favourable word and moment, and aided then by a kind of miracle, well-enough named ' the grace of God,' can that sacred contagion pass from soul to soul." One of the cheap virtues religious fools practice is going to church, not because they derive any benefit from PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 29 the act, but because it is fashionable, or for the " sake of example," or because seeing and hearing any thing is less tedious than staying at home. Not that the church has not been and is not now the inspirer of grand results ! Regarded as a school of moral science where earnest men and women congre- gate for instruction, and where the teacher by personal character and attainments may influence brains and hearts simultaneously, it cannot be too zealously sup- ported. To be blessed — as many of us have been — with a minister whose moral faithfulness and intel- lectual supremacy stir the noblest faculties of our being to activity, causing us to hate sloth, folly, and cant, and driving us, spite of ourselves, to soul-loyalty — to be thus blessed during many years of youth and ma- turity, is to be fully convinced of the power of the church and of our own enormous debt to her. Such a ministry becomes to us a fact more eventful than birth itself, for without it we might have been super- stitious, bigoted, and unhappy ; with it, we have been roused to enthusiasm in the present, soothed by hope in the future, and penetrated by a profound sympathy for humanity. But in the church as in other schools there must be teachers equal to the needs of scholars, and schol- ars with minds eager for knowledge : where this is not the case, people who " go to church regularly," lend themselves regularly to a sham of the first magnitude. "I detest milk-sops and weak souls! Can there be any thing more disgraceful than to submit one's soul to the lunacy and stupidity of people we should refuse to take as our grooms ?" So wrote Voltaire in a burst of indignation, and so every ardent being feels who 30 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. desires to read the mysteries of soul-life by the light of reason. "The organ of the Divine Spirit," says O. B. Froth- ingham, " is the consecrated reason of the present time. The consecrated reason, I say ; by which I mean, the reason directed towards the personal and social im- provement of man. We say, the Divine Spirit is in the reason of the present time, as it turns itself hon- estly, seriously, believingly, reverently, towards the study of truth and good. We believe in the reason of man as it stands here at this last point of human development; we consult that reason for the rules of our faith ; we go to it for fresh disclosures of truth ; we walk by its light over the fields of sacred history ; among the passages of sacred books ; through the labyrinths of church form and usage. We press its lamp to our breast when we dip into the sea of cloud which the social condition of humanity is to us. What it tells us not to believe we put by, no matter how cherished and venerable ; what it bids us believe we hold to, no matter how new and strange. We are certain that if our aims are high, our purposes noble, our spirits pure, we shall arrive at our full measure of truth." So, it would seem, must every man and woman of sound mind think ; but fools of both sexes insist that reason, although good for every other science, or pro- fession, or branch of labor, is not good for religion. Here, they argue, the mind must not use its forces, but be simply receptive of the traditions of past ages, or the dogmas of strong-willed leaders. Among the ideas and principles which most strik- ingly mark the boundary-line between philosophers PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 31 and fools in social life, are those relative to honor — that delicate flower, that indispensable guard, that im- penetrable and yet easiest of problems, in which all the world is interested, but which all the world persist- ently refuses to deliberate upon. In a question upon which nations, communities, and classes hold such diverse opinions, who shall decide as to what consti- tutes honor or dishonor for individual man or woman ? The philosopher reflects profoundly, and answers boldly: I myself! Reason, conscience, and facilities for developing them have been given me with the direct object of enabling me to decide questions which vex and perplex the multitude. Why then, when issues as solemn as life or death are at stake, should I hesitate to use those means ? Thus he decides and acts, and although human weakness pre- vents him from making conduct always accord per- fectly with principle, he never ceases aiming at that height; even if, under passion, he commits a dishonor- able deed, his self-respect accepts no redress save unre- laxing activity in* repairing the breach. Admitting that social laws when violated must receive forfeit- ure of privileges from the offender, he nevertheless does not think the latter should receive ridicule and scorn from fellow-creatures who, possibly, are no more virtuous, but only less tempted. Walpole writes to Sir Horace Mann, British Ambassador at Florence: " There is nothing, sure, so whimsical as modern honour ! You may debauch a woman upon a promise of marriage and not marry her; you may ruin your tailor's or your baker's family by not paying them ; you may make Mr. Mann maintain you for eighteen months as a public minister, out of his own pocket, 32 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. and still be a man of honour ! But not to pay a common sharper, or not to murder a man who has trod upon your toes, is such a blot upon your scutcheon, that you could never recover your honour, tho' you had in your veins ' all the blood of all the Howards.'" The fool, on the contrary, reflects not at all, and answers servilely : Custom decides for me ! as for reason and conscience, they are only incumbrances in the way of pleasure, and where honor is in ques- tion to be wholly disregarded. Custom thus becomes what Sydney Smith calls the " foolometer with which no public man should be unprovided; I mean, the acquaintance and society of three or four regular British fools as a test of public opinion. Every cabi- net-minister should judge of all his measures by his foolometer, as a navigator crowds or shortens sail by the barometer in his cabin. I have a very valuable instrument of that kind myself, which I have used for many years ; and I would be bound to predict, with the utmost nicety, by the help of this machine, the precise effect which any measure w6uld produce upon public opinion." Doubtless the fool is often driven to folly through fear of ridicule, that spy in the domicile of self-con- sciousness which fastens its eye upon every move- ment, vetoes every impulse, and renders futile every attempt at free action. The philosopher may, at cer- tain stages, be just as susceptible to this pestilent presence as the fool ; but while the latter yields to it unresistingly, the former counteracts its influence by the aid of reason. Honor, in the fool's code, means appearing well in the eyes of other fools: to sustain that code he is ready PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 33 to make any sacrifice which does not require reflec- tion or principle, and descend to any depth in brutality or baseness. Throughout his career, he acts, appar- ently, upon the advice Punch — alias Jerrold — gives to his son upon the advantages of being " Nothing." After urging various objections to the learned profes- sions or a military life, this judicious father writes: "Again, then, I say it, my son, be Nothing! Look at the flourishing examples of Nothing about you ! Consider the men in this vast metropolis whose faces shine with the very marrow of the land, and all for doing and being Nothing ! Then, what ease — what unconcern — what perfect dignity in the profes- sion ! Why, dull-brained, horn-handed labour, sweats and grows thin, and dies worn out, whilst Nothing gets a redder tinge upon its cheek, a thicker wattle to its chin, and a larger compass of abdomen. There are hundreds of the goodly profession of Nothing who have walked upon three-piled velvet from their nurses' arms to the grave : men who in the most triumphant manner vindicate the ingenuity of the human mind ; for enjoying and professing every creature-comfort of existence, not even a conjuror, nay, sometimes not even a police magistrate, can discover how they get it Oh, my son ! I grant the secret may be difficult to compass; but study for it — search it out, though your brain become dry and rattle in your scull like a withered hazel-nut — still, once dis- cover how to live with Nothing, and you may snap your fingers at all mortal accident. Nothing, when a successful Nothing, is the Nabob of the world ! " Among women the term " honor" is likewise in- terpreted according to the wisdom or folly of the 4 34 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. individual. She who is emancipated from ignorance and caste, knows well that honor as understood by conventionality is not the delicate, fragile thing her own mind conceives, but something coarse and ex- pedient which serves, not to enhance the lustre of purity in her sex, but to hold in check passions which otherwise would rend asunder the domestic altar. To learn how small an appreciation of genuine honor some women possess, we have only to glance at those who, under the aegis called respectability, manoeuvre and intrigue unblushingly towards the accomplishment of gross aims ; or at the extraor- dinary developments furnished by those who have broken away from the restraints of pride, fear, and shame, and abandoned themselves to unbridled van- ity, passion, or lust. Were honor esteemed by women as a gem of intrinsic worth, we should be spared the display of cant, intolerance, and petty malice so frequently made by self-asserting virtue. " It always amazes me," writes Walpole, " when I reflect on the women, who are the first to propagate scandal of one another. If they would but agree not to censure, what they all agree to do, there would be no more loss of character among them than among men. A woman cannot have an affair but instantly all her sex travel about to publish it, and leave her off: now, if a man cheats another of his estate at play, forges a will, or marries his ward to his own son, nobody thinks of leaving him off for such trifles !" Nothing in the study of human nature seems more difficult to solve than this extraordinary tendency of woman to shun, traduce, and ostracise those of her PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 35 own sex who have been detected in violating moral or social laws. Might it not, perhaps, be partially- explained by applying to it the same motive which makes " good" children so eager to make known the derelictions of their " naughty " comrades ? Having been debarred by their " goodness" — which, literally translated, might stand as fear, pride, or calculation of consequences — from tasting the stolen fruit said to be so sweet, they take a petty revenge by exaggerating or blackening the errors of their more adventurous or less circumspect companions. Be this as it may, the trait of character which instigates one woman to de- nounce another because of moral weakness, deserves to be lashed with ridicule, satire, and contempt — any weapon indeed which would lay bare the base motive or mental imbecility that generated the deed. Such treatment might in time prove effectual in concealing, even if it could not cure, what must be deplored as a painful blemish upon female character: as for the efficacy of Christianity as a remedy, facts are continu- ally demonstrating that practical charity of this nature is wholly beyond its jurisdiction. " II n'y a personne d'aussi indulgent que les femmes vertueuses pour les femmes galantes," said Mirabeau ; and this is as true now in the nineteenth century, of Christian women in America, as it was in 1700, of Christian women in Europe. Is it not the plainest of facts that the most gentle, loving, and pure among women are ever the most ready to drop the mantle of mitigation over their erring sisters, while the would-be judges, harsh critics, and bitter censors are usually the most unenlightened and unlovely of their sex, women who, notwithstanding their boast, open or implied, of 36 PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. immaculate virtue, never knew the meaning of either warm love or warm charity? A thorough examination of the various types of fool found, say — for the sake of reducing the number to a calculable basis — in the most civilized nations alone, would doubtless result in many highly in- teresting discoveries as to the actual condition of existing generations, and the prospects of those to come. Probably, well-marked specimens might, with- out much difficulty, be produced from any one class of society ; enough, at least, to prove that no kind of mere occupation or accidental position would prevent the most striking attributes from developing. Litera- ture, society, science, religion, commerce, art, labor — all doubtless would be well represented, and afford abundant material for meditation and speculation ; which twofold process, if carried *on in many minds, might, in course of time, bring about changes which to sober, practical people of the present age, would appear far beyond the range of credulity. Could such people imagine, for instance, that the majority of men and women in the most favored classes of society, might — say two hundred years hence — be thoroughly convinced that artificial stimulants and gross indul- gences are not capable of producing the keenest sensations of delight pertaining to mankind ? That, in palpable demonstration of such a conviction, such a majority might be found living natural, happy lives ; striving neither to outshine nor to overreach their fellow-creatures; seeking eagerly, not the phantom wealth, but the reality character, and when attained, sharing her benefits generously with others ? " If you read," says Goethe, " you ought to under- PHILOSOPHERS AND FOOLS. 17 stand ; if you write, you ought to know something ; if you are to believe, you must use your reason ; if desires are excited in you, there must be a cause ; if you claim anything, you will not obtain it ; finally, if you have experience, you are bound to utilize it." How shall we become philosophers ? is a question at once all-comprehensive and — save through personal research and enthusiasm — unanswerable. How shall we avoid being fools? is a query to which all men and women should bend their highest faculties in the hope of receiving a response which, if not satis- factory, will at least serve to keep alive their interest in the subject, and make their conduct less fool-like than it otherwise would be. Laurel-Wreath, or Cap and Bells ? Which of these shall we choose for our distinguishing ornament, to wear now during life, and to be remembered by after death ? The first emblem means present toil, self-abnega- tion, anxiety, unrest, suffering, and — possibly — fame won by that discipline. The second emblem means present ease, pleasure, freedom from care, self-complacency and — " forgetful- ness and deep oblivion" — won by that laxity. IX. FINDING OUR LEVEL. Probe the earth to see where your main roots run. — Thoreau. A chances egales, il faut agir selon l'impulsion de son vrai carac tere. — Balzac. Doch wir bespiegeln ja uns immer selbst in allem was wir hervor bringen. — Goethe. From the instant mental consciousness begins, we hear certain objects spoken of by the friends and coun- selors about us, as desirable to be seen or obtained ; sometimes because such objects are of intrinsic worth, but oftener because it is the custom to see or obtain them. Usually, novices in any department are docile and well disposed to follow courteously-given advice ; consequently, the vast majority of mankind may be seen toiling up and down the great mountainous dis- tricts of knowledge, under the firm persuasion that such exercise, however distasteful, is indispensable to recognition by their contemporaries, During the no- vitiate — a period averaging twenty years — it is rare to find an individual halting on the road to discuss the wisdom of his course or its probable results ; still less would he place himself in positive rebellion to the established code, which prescribes such wanderings as essential to what is called education. 38 FINDING OUR LEVEL. 39 The season of juvenile submission once passed, how- ever, there come questionings which will not be set aside, doubts and scruples which persistently clamor for consideration. To work during the greater part of each day under a firm conviction, none the less so because unex- pressed, that our energies are being misdirected, and that the exhaustion which must presently ensue, will leave no soothing sense of time well spent, is to stunt the intellect, deaden the heart, and make life a hope- less treadmill. Until a man knows how the various ingredients constituting his character may be made to assimilate with the expenditure of vitality which every hour exacts, labor must seem to him an unmitigated curse. But, with a just estimate of his own worth, and a determination to prevent his personality from being overshadowed by the will or whim of another, he grants a cheerful acquiescence to the role assigned him in the life-drama of his generation. Before doing good service in any branch of human labor, men must be thoroughly convinced as to their own ability and purpose, as well as wholly divested of frivolity; and none can be in this serviceable condition until the level is attained where thinking and acting become harmonious. In cases where firmness and self-reliance are in- herent, prompt action upon thought is easy enough ; but where doubt and self-mistrust preponderate, the ridicule and vulgar prying of the world are like sharp-edged instruments impossible to avoid, and cruelly painful in their effects ; and if, through this or any other cause, a cessation of development ensues, gloom and uneasiness become habitual. 4 FINDING OUR LEVEL. Upon hearing of people who are cheerful under the heaviest burdens, uncomplaining and hopeful during the bitterest disappointments, the shallow-minded are either wholly incredulous or disposed to pronounce such a condition unnatural. But there is nothing more singular in this than in seeing other people dis- tressed and unhappy amidst the greatest prosperity, a phase too common to have escaped even the most casual observer. Once enabled to throw off the crippling effects of false teaching and servile imitation, there may be a steady advance towards the goal indicated by intuition and reason, those two potentates whose mandates, even when startlingly bold, are never beyond the capacity of their chosen agents. The individuals thus emancipated may be easily counted, while the multitude is ruled by the despotism of ignorance, luxury, or custom. Even civilization itself — that wondrous collection of forces which dis- tinguishes humanitarianism from brutality, culture from ignorance — even that, in seeking the generaliza- tion of talents for material advancement, bears down upon every attempt at individual life as hurtful to the general welfare. There are phases, indeed, in which civilization so strongly resembles a stupendous plan for the extermination of individuality, that only the strongest natures can discriminate between its help- fulness and its hindrances. Such natures, having learned the infinitesimal value of the world's judgment in comparison with personal conviction, are prepared to resist both the unreasonable demands of an auto- cratic conventionality, and the puerile expectations of popular opinion. From a worldly stand-point — that FINDING OUR LEVEL. 4 1 commonly considered best — it cannot be denied that impulse and conviction seem advisers greatly wanting in wisdom ; but from that other stand-point whence heroes are descried, there is a prospect encouraging to the loftiest aspirations and the most uncompro- mising principles. The hero of any age or clime, while keenly susceptible, it may be, to the incredulity or the scorn of contemporaries, nevertheless contrives to keep his personality intact. Come what will of mis- construction or contumely, he is not to be merged in the heterogeneous crowd which dares to think, feel, and act only after an extraneous criterion. To him such a fate appears ineffably degrading, and to avoid it, he is prepared to sacrifice both the emoluments of labor and the favorable judgment of the world. For him existence means more than a succession of fleeting pleasures, feverish pains, sanguine hopes, and wretched failures. Not callous to physical priva- tion or mental agony, he yet feels that these ills must be held subordinate to the great purposes which stir his heart, and that with him rests a responsibility which cannot be lessened by communication or sym- pathy. Glowing with an unquenchable desire for excellence, but encircled by those who cannot un- derstand either his aims or his conflicts, the hero must, to a certain extent, live apart from his fellow- creatures. He himself, possibly, is unable to explain how he came to think or feel thus, and there are hours of self-mistrust in which the most earnest com- munion with nature cannot prevent him from chafing under the apparent inconsistencies between the outer and the inner life. But into cessation from toil, or 42 FINDING OUR LEVEL. abandonment of his object, he is never beguiled ; and, after reiterated attempts to fathom the mysteries of being, he finally emerges imbued with that fiery energy which seldom fails to carry its inspiration to a*tri- umphant issue. The hero, however, appears only at rare intervals in human history, and when the dazzling vision has passed, we are forced to turn our attention to more common types of humanity, to those who, if they do not exact admiration, at least have a claim upon our interest and, possibly, our assistance. Viewed collectively, we find people living under certain pleasant or unpleasant conditions without am- bition beyond the gratifying of immediate wants. In their eyes, the feeblest innovation upon time-honored custom or ephemeral fashion, is a breach of decorum deserving of notice only as a target for ridicule, or as indicative of unpardonable eccentricity. In many cases, long years of imitation and repression gradually harden them into the stereotyped characters whose measured phrases and colorless acts have a painfully rasping effect upon warm, impulsive natures. To them, the brilliantly tinted phases resulting from intellectual growth, impassioned affection, and moral force, are wholly unknown. Judging all men by their own narrow experience and artificial ideas, they are un- able to distinguish innocent, spontaneous enjoyment from wilful transgression, and are continually con- founding the products of their own paltry time-serving with those of genuine virtue or enthusiasm. To face bravely the realities around us, accept the law of limitation inseparable from humanity, and fear- lessly choose such thinking and doing as will best produce inward harmony, is to begin a career which FINDING OUR LEVEL. 43 finds its chief glory in welding social and moral diffi- culties into noble action. That the complications of life may be justly dealt with, we must study our own mettle, and, by frequently challenging investigation of soul and sense, fit the mind to receive high moral conceptions as well as those images of grace and beauty which widen its influence without diminishing its power. Finding our level suggests a state in which content is the ground-work of both labor and repose, a con- tent arising, not from supine indolence or limited understanding, but from an irrefragable conviction that the finest attributes of the very self are in course of development. " However mean or inconsiderable the act," says Ruskin, " there is something in the well-doing of it which has fellowship with the noblest forms of manly virtue; and the truth, decision, and temper- ance which we reverently regard as honorable con- ditions of the spiritual being, have a representative or derivative influence over the works of the hands, the movements of the frame, and the action of the intellect." And again : " The greatness or smallness of a man is, in the most conclusive sense, determined for him at his birth, as strictly as it is determined for a fruit whether it is to be a currant or an apricot. Education, favorable circumstances, resolution, and industry can do much ; in a certain sense they do everything; that is to say, they determine whether the poor apricot shall fall in the form of a green bead, blighted by an east wind, shall be trodden under foot, or whether it shall expand 44 FINDING OUR LEVEL. into tender pride, and sweet brightness of golden velvet. But apricot out of currant, — great man out of small, — did never yet art or effort make; and, in a general way, men have their excellence nearly fixed for them when they are born ; a little cramped and frost-bitten on one side, a little sun-burnt and fortune-spotted on the other, they reach, between good and evil chances, such size and taste as generally belong to men of their calibre, and the small in their serviceable bunches, the great in their golden isolation, have, these no cause for regret, nor those for disdain." Simply assenting to truth, however, will not trans- fuse it into actual life. A man cannot at the same time be a boon companion and a profound thinker, a society favorite and' a true artist, a devotee of pleasure and a scientific explorer. The supreme object of each being should be to discover the key-note of his mission before the most vigorous years and the most valuable opportunities have for ever vanished. The idea that comes nearer than any other towards furnishing the clue to that mission, and, moreover, yields inexhaustible interest during the search, is edu- cation. To teach the unteachable is the most futile of human tasks, and each day of such endeavor verifies the assertion of De Quincey that education means, "not the poor machinery that moves by spelling-books and grammars, but by that mighty system of central forces hidden in the deep bosom of human life, which by passion, by strife, by temptation, by the energies of resistance, works for ever upon children, — resting not day or night, any more than the mighty wheel of day and night themselves, whose moments, like FINDING OUR LEVEL. 45 restless spokes, are glimmering for ever as they revolve." The mental atmosphere in which a child breathes during the first ten years of life, generates a system of ideas and principles which no subsequent training can entirely change. To observe the average instruc- tions of the nursery, — "that edifying domestic Botany Bay," — it might be inferred that the end in view was to make boys selfish and effeminate, girls vain and silly. From hearing externals perpetually extolled to the exclusion of thought or sentiment, both sexes are liable to develop either into reckless defiance of authority or into contemptible hypocrisy. Encouraged by ignorant attendants or careless pa- rents to indulge their most frivolous propensities, they acquire a habit of thinking unworthy thoughts, and gratifying low appetites. Hence the inevitable conflicts of maturer years find them weak in choosing and irresolute in pursuing any honorable career. Otherwise, it would scarcely be possible for boys to approach manhood with so slight a knowledge of their own capabilities that they talk of choosing science, commerce, or mechanics, as if mere choice could insure them success ; or for young girls to leave school and take their places in society with no stronger sense of membership than a desire to enjoy its privileges, occupy the best places, and become the recipients of boundless admiration and homage. The exceptions who rise above or sink below the domestic standard of intellect and morals are those children who have peculiar natural endowments, or who have been subjected to accidental external influences. To say that education is the actual source of all human 5 46 FINDING OUR LEVEL. happiness and misery, is indeed but a simple truism; but inasmuch as ample proof exists that even among professors of that science, very few look beyond mechanism and routine, truisms bearing upon so vital a subject may be repeated in every variety of tone and form. Whoever condenses into his doc- trines the closest intimacy with human nature and the strongest desire to render it honest service, will finally receive the broadest hearing and the profoundest respect. According to De Tocqueville : "There is no country in the world where there are so few ignorant people and so few savants as in America. There being few rich people, nearly every one must have a profes- sion, and every profession demands an apprenticeship. Hence, the Americans can give only the first years of life to the general culture of intelligence. At fifteen they enter business, and thus their education finishes where ours begins. If continued beyond that age, it is directed only towards something special and lucra- tive: a science is studied like a trade, and then applied exclusively to temporary needs. In America, most of the rich were once poor, and almost all the idle men were in youth busy; consequently, even when the taste for study might have existed there was no time to gratify it, and when the time has been acquired the taste is no longer there. Hence there is not a class in which intellectual pleasures are transmitted with hered- itary ease and leisure, and which honors the works of intelligence. The desire for abandonment to such labors is lacking, no less than the power. Human knowledge there, has a certain middle grade, one which all minds approach, some by rising to it, FINDING OUR LEVEL. 47 others by stooping to it. We find there an im- mense number of individuals holding pretty much the same ideas with regard to religion, history, science, political economy, legislation, and govern- ment." To enumerate the changes that have taken place in the United States since De Tocqueville cast his critical eye upon us would avail little if it could not prove that those very changes had counteracted the strong tendency to mediocrity which he so vividly describes, and with which we ourselves are uncomfort- ably familiar. Temporal prosperity rarely evokes those individual traits which culminate in strong character ; and in general, good fortune is far less conducive to mental development than adversity. Just as a man, amid ample opportunities, may live through his threescore years and ten without add- ing aught to his stock of ideas or sentiments, so a nation may live through successive centuries without in the least elevating its general tone of morality or intellect. Laying aside the panoply of national pride which covers so many defects, .we cannot fail to see that the qualities of character we prize most highly are those which exercise a direct influence upon tangible worldly benefits. The one, for example, called "common sense" — "cette idole des sots" — is honored as if it embraced every thing most ennobling in the category of human virtues ; and yet, in its subserviency to public opinion, its perpetual vigilance over petty forms of speech and manner, and its ruthless sacrifice of original thought to temporary ease, there is more to excite contempt than respect. Under no one name is there a greater 48 FINDING OUR LEVEL. amount of genuine intellectual force squandered than under this of common sense ; and those whose re- flective powers are not balanced with force of will, should zealously cultivate the instinct which leads them to avoid that enervating companionship. True, he who adopts this creed of common sense is exempt from numerous cares and embarrassments which stand in the way of success, and under all contingencies is assured of the encouraging sympathy of friends and neighbors ; while for the unfortunate wight who, un- blessed with that belief, refuses to see the advantages of following in the well-worn groove of routine, and rushes heedlessly into the dangerous grounds of inde- pendent thought, there is no epithet too censorious, no verdict too severe. Common sense, as usually interpreted, is the unfail- ing source of that mediocrity which finds its greatest satisfaction in doing "as others do," and regards spon- taneous action with suspicion and dislike. The quality called "industry" is one likewise liable to be misconstrued by a nation pre-eminent for prac- tical tendencies. To be persuaded or forced into a career of activity having no relation to our personal ability or ambition, is to cut short our plans of use- fulness by blighting whatever of originality we once possessed. The dogmatism or the muscular example of our neighbor should no more influence our own conduct, than his mode of spending money should direct our purchases, or his gastronomic tastes the choice of viands for our table. Industry, justly apprehended, is as much an attri- bute of genius as of humble labor; but the spurious FINDING OUR LEVEL. 49 kind which sets in motion our nerves at the caprice of another is an expression of force purely automatic and valueless. The term " selfishness" is from most lips a vague, unmeaning one, applied indiscriminately to those who appear to have as much regard for their own bodies, brains, and souls, as for those of others. In childhood, selfishness is as natural to healthy organizations as the impulse to take food or flee from danger: in maturity, it should be honored as a law of ethical self-preser- vation, the one which, perhaps, more than any other, prevents a being from being classed among millions neither better nor worse than himself. Can that which prompts a man to leave ordinary comfort for the sake of moral or scientific research, to abandon pleasure for philosophy, to forego worldly favor that humanity may be benefited, justly be termed selfishness ? Yet these pursuits are so stigmatized whenever they clash with material interests. Nature stamps her work plainly enough, and endows each of her children with the faculties best adapted to the work set before him ; human folly, however, would fain devise something better than nature, and persist- ently endeavors to thwart her beneficent plans. How many men in a nation have a vital faith in the indi- vidual possibilities within themselves ? Precisely this faith put into action constitutes genius ; and one thus animated finds no rest, no peace, until every hour of life is made to accord with his best conception. In vain does he glance at others around him, and try to find temporary relief in their irresolution, indolence, or laxity! His soul will not tolerate any such sham or compromise, but sternly turns his glance inward and 5* 5 o FINDING OUR LEVEL. holds up personal faithfulness as the only standard to be followed. So long as he knows himself inferior to the best that is in him, what avails it to see that he is no worse than his neighbors, that he is even respected, admired, or beloved ! If we cannot give ourselves good testimonials as to honest living and working, we become self-distrustful, inefficient, and unreliable. The enthusiasm or the disgust our work inspires in us proves whether it proceeds from our own conception or from passive adoption of another's idea. If from the latter, our daily drudgery will seem as hopeless as that of the chained galley-slave ; if from the former, neither toil nor failure will be counted in the keen delight we feel while searching for the level which is to bring us the use of whatever brain-power lies latent, and show us the purposes to which it may legitimately be con- secrated. What profound cause for thankfulness when people find something to do, something which, after the posi- tive needs of existence have received their meed of attention, will prove a satisfying and ennobling occu- pation ! Do we not see many poor, famishing souls in the so- called well-to-do classes wandering about aimlessly and drearily, finding no definite object of interest, and finally grasping at pleasure, fashion, or devotee-ism, as a means of filling up an otherwise empty existence? Self-consciousness, in its best sense, is a state imply- ing great intelligence, keen sensibilities, and a profound respect for human nature. The self is regarded from every possible point, not for purposes of pampering, but with the noble aim of developing and consecrating. FINDING OUR LEVEL. 51 Physical structure, mental calibre, inherited advan- tages or defects, are all patiently examined, and only when these are understood can conscious life be said to have begun. Individual life then becomes the key to that mystery called mankind ; and although we find in ourselves much for which we are not accountable, yet even this may inculcate patient forbearance for others. Why do so many people insist upon trying to do the things for which they are totally unfitted ? They begin again and again, try this and that, do a little, stop a little, weary themselves greatly, and finally de- sist only when aware that the next step would pros- trate them. Such can hardly conceive of the honest enjoyment attainable by the mere doing of the things for which natural tastes fit them. Not that a high degree of excellence is even then always possible, but this fact causes no uneasiness to one using energy in the right direction. True workers are content to work without any expectation as to results. Women, per- haps, suffer more than men from arbitrary customs. What, for instance, could be more depressing to a fine, buoyant girl, with no ear for music, than to be com- pelled to sit so many hours a day at the piano ? If a child of strong feelings, she will naturally shirk it whenever possible and take refuge in something more congenial. Even if a combination of ambition and conscientiousness enable her to stifle repugnance and persevere- — what, after all, is accomplished ? So much mechanism, nothing more : a musical box could do as much with less expense and fatigue. Put that same child to another task, and lo, instead of drudgery and discontent, we have ease and satisfaction. Why, then, 52 FINDING OUR LEVEL. do parents and teachers so often ignore this truth, thus rendering the application which should be a source of the purest delight a labor wholly beyond the strength of the laborer? Goethe says, " I confess I often admire those teachers and moral leaders who exact only me- chanical duties from their pupils. It is easiest for them- selves and easiest for the world." The evil effects of early misdirection are lifelong, and even the severest application in maturity cannot wholly remove the stumbling-block. As a result of this fatal perversion of force, the majority live on from year to year, resignedly going through with a series of duties so called, but secretly thinking life a weary, profitless routine : even the few, who by chance have been led to think for themselves and who rebel at every step against senseless forms, often lack strength to break the long-worn fetters. So-called modern enlightenment, by this same per- version of force, does its utmost to reduce thought and sentiment to a system, arguing, that if regu- larity and conformity form the basis of progress, the welfare of the nation demands the uprooting of any prejudice or obstacle which prevents the enforcement of those two principles. Hence, the quality of char- acter called "eccentricity," judged by this logic, is the cause of a large portion of that jarring and dis- content in social affairs which from time to time threaten revolution. "So-and-so grows eccentric," people say, and straightway open their eyes and shake their heads, as if foreseeing the unhappy consequences which must inevitably result from so unnatural a condition of mind. But the term "grows eccentric," implies FINDING OUR LEVEL. 53 a misapprehension, for " So-and-so" was of that same condition of mind at birth, although, owing to cramping and repressing throughout youth, he was enabled to conceal it during a series of years. Finally, however, nature resents such interference and forces special traits, whether physical or mental, to the light. The native "eccentric" lets go, one by one, the old prejudices, customs, and fears, and de- termines to live more in harmony with himself; this process is duly observed and commented upon by his fellows, the practical majority, who, in the in- terest of humanity at large, do what in them lies to thwart his aim. Impossible ! they cry, that this man should be allowed to continue his insane tricks — while we have muscle and means we must circum- vent them ! What would become of the prosperity of the world, were all men encouraged to think for themselves and act up to conviction ! Surely the most simple-minded can see that if individual action ever came to be deemed better for intelligent beings than a general following, irretrievable confusion would ensue ! Many, now connected by business and family ties, or involved in schemes of religion or philanthropy, would at once withdraw and assert their intention to lead wholly different lives : people, now submissive and contented in the service of the world, would utter wild and treasonable senti- ments, and eventually attempt to live in accordance with them ! In short, there is no sphere of human activity in which eccentricity is not a positive hin- drance to every accepted doctrine of civilization, and a direct encouragement to social anarchy! So reasons the world. 54 FINDING OUR LEVEL. Exhorted from the first dawn of intelligence to take other people as a standard, children soon learn to hold such firmly-rooted principles upon the subject, that even a liberal education may fearlessly be risked. Statistics assure us that, with the above preliminary course, cases are rare in which independence of thought and of action has resulted from any subsequent treatment. What just cause for satisfaction have not our law-givers and teachers in viewing the results of their combined exertions ! Thousands of beings variously endowed, made not merely to conform to established customs, but — what must be considered a still greater triumph — to the same modes of thought and feeling! To enforce similarity in dress and manner is compara- tively easy; but success in regulating the intellect and heart with mathematical precision, draws forth un- bounded admiration ! What more could be desired for the progress of a nation! In vain do philosophers remonstrate : What are our fellow-creatures, that we should strive so hard to be like them, and make such sacrifices to their opinions ! In their opinion, eccentricity is simply a living in accordance with the honest impulses of the soul, and, regarding conscience as an infallible guide, they see nothing to be dreaded in entering upon such a life. On the contrary, they maintain' that the world should be confronted with its own weapons of scorn and derision, made to realize that individual rights are not to be trampled upon ; that even when leading its votaries into strange freaks, these cases may serve to inculcate valuable lessons; that strangeness is more easily tolerated than hypocrisy, and vanity than apish- ness. Finally, they agree that what may be affected FINDING OUR LEVEL. 55 eccentricity in one man, is simply character in an- other, — a fact illustrating the futility of consulting any authority except personal judgment ; that while re- fined and cultured tastes would induce a natural desire to avoid clashing with ill-will or brutality, yet no exter- nal pressure would be able to crush moral conviction; that while permitting freedom of thought and action to others, they would demand similar privileges for themselves, and choose conflict rather than yield to unjust conditions. Every one would be eccentric if he dared, inasmuch as no two created beings are endowed alike ; but the penalties inflicted by an irritated world are so numer- ous, that people gradually accustom themselves to the miseries of conformity, and come to like what they once despised. Life is an inconceivably beautiful thing, so soon as we reach that point whence we can look out upon it through a clear conscience and a character well buffeted by experience. The one diffuses a pure, heavenly light over all the strange and complex mass which meets the eye, the other tones down our en- thusiasm without destroying its vigor. Enthusiasm is to the character what blood is to the physical life. Without it, lassitude and finally death ensue. Upon its quality, however, depends the beauty or deformity of the life it nourishes. Ideality is at the bottom of all true enthusiasm; the striving after per- fection makes the great artist, the noble philanthropist, the self-sacrificing patriot. The idealist soon discovers how easy it is to appear civil, courteous, respectable, virtuous; how difficult to be truly benevolent, tolerant, 5 6 FINDING OUR LEVEL. and charitable ; but is never satisfied until earnestly engaged in acquiring the best he sees. What Sir Joshua Reynolds says of painting, may readily be applied to those who flatter themselves they are living well when they are living in all respects like other people. " I consider copying," says Sir Joshua, " as a delusive kind of industry : the Student satisfies himself with the appearance of doing some- thing ; he falls into the dangerous habit of imitating without selecting, and of labouring without any de- termined object ; as it requires no effort of the mind, he sleeps over his work; and those powers of invention and composition which ought particularly to be called out, and put in action, lie torpid and lose their energy for want of exercise. . . . " How incapable those are of producing any thing of their own, who have spent much of their time in making finished copies, is well known to all who are conversant with our art. . . . " An eye critically nice can only be formed by ob- serving well-coloured pictures with attention ; and by close inspection and minute examination, you will dis- cover, at last, the manner of handling, the artifices of contrast, glazing, and other expedients by which good colourists have raised the value of their tints, and by which nature has been so happily imitated. . . . " When you have clearly and distinctly learned in what good colouring consists, you cannot do better than have recourse to nature herself, who is always at hand, and in comparison of whose true splendour the best coloured pictures are but faint and feeble. . . . " To him, however, who has the ambition to be a real master, the solid satisfaction which proceeds from FINDING OUR LEVEL. 57 a consciousness of his advancement (of which seeing his own faults is the first step) will very abundantly compensate for the mortification of present disappoint- ment. . . . " We all must have experienced how lazily, and, consequently, how ineffectually, instruction is received when forced upon the mind by others. Few have been taught to any purpose who have not been their own teachers. . . . "Tho' a man cannot at all times, and in all places, paint or draw, yet the mind can prepare itself by laying in proper materials, at all times, and in all places. Both Livy and Plutarch, in describing Philopcemen, one of the ablest generals of antiquity, have given us a strik- ing picture of a mind always intent upon its profession, and by assiduity obtaining those excellencies which some all their lives vainly expect from nature. . . . " Every object that presents itself is to him a lesson. He regards all nature with a view to his profession, and combines her beauties, or corrects her defects. He examines the countenances of men under the in- fluence of passion; and often catches the most pleasing hints from subjects of turbulence or deformity. Even bad pictures themselves supply him with useful docu- ments; and, as Leonardo da Vinci has observed, he improves upon the fanciful sketches that are sometimes seen in the fire, or are accidentally sketched upon a discoloured wall." Every teacher, whatever his special branch, helps us to find our level, that is, if our minds are in that teachable condition which implies desire and power of receiving. If we are satisfied to stay where we are mentally and morally, believing that there is nothing 5 8 FINDING OUR LEVEL. special for us to do in the world and that aspiration and ambition are only for those who have some won- derful talent, we are not teachable. Even when a mind is active and ardent, it may have become so habituated to thraldom — of custom, of the senses, or of habit — as to lose its power to project, invent, and soar. It may see the level where by right it belongs, and yet, owing to spiritual lethargy, be utterly incapable of the effort required to reach it. A soul that has been true to its earlier self is one of the fairest sights of earth, uplifting and ennobling all with whom it comes in contact ; and such truthful- ness implies a continual stepping forward, a steady, visible ascent, so that year by year retrospection shows many obstacles overcome, many advantages gained. Usually, however, people yield, after a short and in- effectual struggle, to what is called the " natural course of events;" in other words, they give themselves up to the current. If young, they are told that all young people have visionary, impracticable, and romantic ideas of life, which greatly interfere with worldly pros- pects, and that, consequently, it is a duty to eradicate or conceal them. To follow such counsel necessitates retrogression instead of progress, a gradual oozing out of whatever force once existed. " Etre respectable," says Victor Hugo, " cela im- plique une foule d'observances, depuis le dimanche bien sanctifie jusqu'a la cravate blanche bien mise. ' Ne pas se faire montrer au doigt,' voila encore une loi terrible. Etre montre au doigt, c'est le diminutif de l'anatheme." Nothing degrades people more in their own eyes than the consciousness of this dread of the world. FINDING OUR LEVEL. 59 Wretched slavery indeed when people dare not be themselves ! Ever at war with circumstances, they enjoy neither self-respect nor the consideration of that world they are so desirous of conciliating. They feel their mental and moral faculties daily decreasing in power, realize the cause, and yet shrink from adopting the only efficacious remedy ; they know the beauty of a genuine life, but are dragged down by indolence or irresolution to the level of the sluggard, and left there helpless, save for a few faint rays of hope which flash athwart the chambers of consciousness ; they encounter frigid looks and sentiments of indifference in those they hold in high esteem, while aware that if the better self had been heeded, friendship would have been a natural result ; they see themselves in low and un- worthy positions, when by right of nature they were entitled to those of trust and honor ; finally, driven hither and thither by vacillation, vexed by self-reproach, and wishing to return to the work for which original endowments fitted them, they are compelled to ac- knowledge themselves disabled and incompetent. From this condition the only chance of release is in their mortification and shame, which are manifest proofs of vitality ; each pang, however severe, is but the endeavor of nature to cast forth the ignoble fear and inertia which have interfered with the perfect working of the soul's mechanism. From suffering may issue a resolution to enter upon a nobler career. But what is resolution ? Not a word, a promise, a feeling, a something tangible or debatable, but a concentration of the highest powers of the soul to accomplish a given purpose. Resolu- tions, "made" or "broken," are, in the ordinary sense, so familiar as to have fallen into contempt; as a mere? 60 FINDING OUR LEVEL. form, they are indeed of no value and no one is the better or stronger for the making of them — on the contrary, a man is frequently enervated by a process which gradually comes to usurp the place of genuine, vigorous action. But, when it has become a reality, resolution is that state of moral enthusiasm in which a being does unflinchingly the behests of reason : the doing implies the resolution — without that doing, the thinking, planning, feeling, promising, and even suffer- ing, are worse than nothing. What a record, were the " resolutions" of a single generation gathered together and given us for inspec- tion ! And yet, spite of much discouraging testimony against the utility of resolutions, nature remains in- exorable and boldly asserts that each individual is endowed with strength to live up to his best convic- tions ; that whatever plea he may bring as an excuse for failure, is but clear evidence of his insincerity or cowardice. Difficulties there may be — but when did difficulty ever hold back mortals bent upon attaining their ends ? Is it not rather an incentive to all human undertakings ? While considering this subject, therefore, let us di- vest our minds of all cant, prejudice, and sophistry. Either we do or do not apprehend a thing : when we do, it is the shallowest hypocrisy not to act accord- ingly. Any kind of evil-doing acquires tenfold power for mischief when persisted in after the results have been clearly demonstrated. The mind apprehending, and the heart assenting, fitting action must inevitably follow, if there be honesty of purpose. Unhappily, people generally are not honest, not sincere, not brave, not enduring, not faithful, in matters pertaining to char- FINDING OUR LEVEL. 6 1 acter. Falling back upon good intentions, general kindness, or high aspirations, they forget the un- changeable law which demands action as a concom- itant of thinking. What is better calculated to bring contempt upon re- ligion than the common spectacle of preaching charity and practicing intolerance, or of descanting upon the beauty of love and letting hate pour forth from every word and act ! To observe the ordinary course of mankind, it might be supposed that it is bent upon proving the incompatibility of reason and action. Nevertheless, to the honor of humanity be it said, there appears now and then a soul so faithful to its own ideal, so determined upon the great work of self-mastery, that we bow before it reverently and murmur: So should, so might it be in every other soul ! Resolution, to be effectual, must burn in the soul with a clear, steady flame, diffusing warmth and vitality through every thought, sentiment, and act. The most insignificant daily duty must be dignified with high motive, and bear the stamp of will ; the monotonous, irksome, or painful requirements of our lot must be cheerfully complied with and made healthful by keep- ing in sight the ultimate end of existence — develop- ment. Through a marvelous provision of nature, man is capable of embodying in action whatever the mind conceives ; the secret of acquiring power is using it. Neither wishing, nor hoping, nor whining, nor despair- ing, will avail aught where resolution is felt to be weak; only the simple doing — from hour to hour and from minute to minute — of the soul's prompting, will bring strength. Resolution admits of no conditions, 6* 62 FINDING OUR LEVEL. no compromises, no temporizing, no glossing over, no counterfeit, but exacts unqualified obedience as a right If a good resolution come to an erring human being, he must cling to it as to a jewel beyond all price, upon which life itself depends. However weak at the outset, it may, with tender care, develop into something stronger, something which will lift him up out of the moral misery in which he is now tossing. Let him do the right thing, however hard and dis- tasteful, however repulsive to natural tendencies, how- ever warring with acquired habits and evil surround- ings, — do it, as he hopes for peace and self-content. If he be a thinker, so much the more certain is the penalty for non-doing ; thinkers are the first to see moral un- faithfulness in themselves, their keen perceptions fur- nishing a ready clue to their own strange and incon- sistent conduct. They see at a glance why they do the things which to others appear entirely inexpli- cable, and how certain results are unavoidable, from causes that have long been at work. A moral nature out of joint cannot do the work it could when in a normal condition. Body, mind, and soul, are all subject to similar laws and all indissolubly connected. Mysteriously sympathetic, they work to- gether either harmoniously and beautifully, or jarringly and destructively; diffuse upon all that come under their influence, either light and comfort, or darkness and wretchedness. Amid the discords of an abnormal life — one im- mersed in artificial restraint, uncongenial occupation, or enervating sensuality — may come an occasional hour of peace, when the mind, released temporarily from its hateful thraldom, once more dares to aspire. FINDING OUR LEVEL. 63 Intensity of thought arising from discontent and cul- minating in determination, may so thrill the soul that all the minor details of life grow dim and unimportant, while the grand possibilities of art or science assume proportions greater than any heretofore conceived, and a desire for their development becomes irresistible. III- CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. Our thoughts are the epochs in our lives : all else is but as a journal of the winds that blew while we were here. — Thoreau. If, as Carlyle expresses it, " the beginning of inquiry- is disease," the thing itself is nevertheless a proof of the truth contained in the optimist's creed : good in and out of every thing. Inquiry leads to reply, reply to dis- cussion, discussion to analysis, analysis to knowledge. Coleridge tells us that " the postulate of philosophy, and at the same time the test of philosophic capacity, is no other than the heaven-descended know thyself." Without this, the extraordinary brevity of life, as com- pared with the infinity of subjects presented for research, plunges the soul into an abyss of doubt and dissatis- faction. To discover, then, the realities which may lawfully claim our deepest interest should be deemed the highest of human occupations. Those that press most forcibly upon us are the human intellect, human passions, physical well-being, progress, and morality. To examine one of these realities without touching upon the others would be, of course, impossible; but, in ranking the intellect as "chief," it is only just to give it due precedence. 64 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 6$ Men, no less than children, veil their deepest ex- periences, and only through close study of intellect in all its phases and under all conditions can we learn the immense power it becomes in the world's history. Here, the peasant stands upon an equality with the prince, and the thought uttered or the project con- ceived is judged, not by an artificial standard, but by its intrinsic value. Capable of the grandest as well as of the most ignominious results, ceaselessly occu- pied either for good or for evil, the miracle- we call intellect discloses all the possibilities which human life, under the highest and the lowest conditions, may develop. To discover what man is, sound his capacity and test his endurance, to lift him above the prejudices and follies of his generation, to arouse an irrepress- ible indignation against injustice and oppression, to generate intuitions which qualify one soul to read and commune with another soul, — such are some of the worthiest functions of this power. The idea of this as the grand centre of life's best endeavors, vitalizes the most ordinary events, and in- vests every object, thought, and impulse with keen interest ; the epoch which reveals to an individual the consciousness of possessing it, yields to no other in grandeur, intensity, and solid happiness. What else can compass the universe, fathom the mysteries of the soul, establish intercourse with the great of all ages, and cancel present losses through the contemplation of things unseen ? Next to existence itself, it is the gift which calls for the most fervent thanks and gratitude ; and one who had tasted all the sweets of life and was finally per- mitted to choose only one as an inheritance, would 66 CHIEF AMONG IDEALITIES. unhesitatingly decide upon this as embodying the greatest amount of unalloyed satisfaction. Even when undisciplined and desultory in its action, incapable of any sustained effort which might conduce to the enlightenment or entertainment of the world, it is an exhaustless fund towards the elevation of the owner: with this in his control, no degree of mis- fortune or disappointment can ever plunge him into irremediable misery. Alluding to the effect of study, Walter Savage Lan- dor says : " The higher delights of the mind are very different in their effects from its seductive passions. These cease to gratify us the sooner we indulge in them. The earlier we indulge in thought and reflection, the longer do they last and the more faithfully do they serve us. So far are they from shortening our animal life that they prolong and strengthen it greatly. The body is as much in repose in the midst of high imagi- nation as in the midst of profound sleep." Numerous records of other thinkers bear testimony to this truth, and to the power of abstraction which may gradually be attained by fixing the mind upon elevating subjects : indeed, without the appreciative faculty which intellect alone can give, birth, wealth, social standing, fame, — even love itself, — are but empty honors or passing incidents. How much of energy and passion have been ab- sorbed by the past ? How much of the higher self does the present receive ? Of what do our aims for the future consist ? These are vital questions which intellect alone can answer. If once its keen edge be felt working its way into the very life, removing what is hurtful to make way for a sound and vigorous condi- CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 67 tion, we cannot obstruct its course without incurring incalculable losses. Whatever it points out must become a law to the individual, even if it take him over heights where no other dare follow, or expose him to dangers never before encountered; and from those rare instances of entire self-abandonment to such pointing ensue the results called success, honor, and immortality. Remembering, too, that "intellectual inequality comes direct from God, and man cannot prevent its continual reappearance," we perceive that the grade of power accorded to each individual is of slight importance compared to that ardor for enlight- enment which impels men to forego every temporal advantage rather than lose the wonders and beauties which their special endowments qualify them to com- prehend and appreciate. The morbidness and discontent with which intel- lectual people are often reproached, have their source in an abnormal condition of the mind's forces, one in which events beyond control, personal negligence, or lack of will-power, have rendered those forces tem- porarily valueless. But, just as physical privation finds its compensation in the gratification of appetite; or as the convalescent, when once again permitted to breathe the pure air of heaven, feels as if in another state of existence, the delights of which had been unimagined, so, in the intellect, the condition called exaltation often follows mental unrest, and is one so replete with deep unfathomable joy, that he who has been vouchsafed even a partial experience will no longer marvel at the visions of mystics or at the dreams of poets. Not only is satisfaction compatible with mental activity, but, where the will is strong enough to pre- 68 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. serve the equilibrium between thought and action, it is a certain result. That firmness of will which gives consistency to reflection, making it worthy to regulate conduct; which enables conception to be realized in form, and helps conscience to discriminate between justice to self and duty to others, is a force derived directly from intellect. Firmness is that bold touch of pencil or pen which brings out the idea with the definite expression that at once stamps it with character : it is that ingredient of human nature which adjusts, assimilates, and har- monizes conflicting powers, exacting respect even for mediocrity, and compelling superior endowments to be true to instinct and culture. With morality as the principle of action, the intel- lect may fearlessly be awarded full scope for experiment and adventure. Do not all earnest seekers after truth, those who dare to see, know, feel, suffer, and enjoy according to their own individuality, usually assimi- late on all of the great philosophical questions at issue? " How comes the mind to be furnished?" asks John Locke. " Whence has it all the materials of reason and knowledge ? From experience : in that all our knowledge is founded, and from that it ulti- mately derives itself." Of Joseph Priestley we are told that " he was a follower of the truth who de- lighted in the chase, and was all his life-long pursuing it, not resting in it." Of Socrates, Mr. Grote says : " For him, as well as for Plato, the search after truth counted as the main business of life. The declaration so often made by Socrates, that he is a searcher, not a teacher, that he feels doubts keenly himself and can impress them CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 69 upon others, but cannot discover any good solution of them, — this declaration, which is usually considered mere irony, is literally true." " La curiosite est la maladie de l'esprit humain," writes Voltaire to Madame du Deffand. "But," he continues, " I have at least the consolation of seeing that all the system-makers know nothing more than myself. The difference between us is, they want to be regarded as superior beings, while I do not : I frankly avow my ignorance. Moreover, in the search for knowledge, however vain it may be, there is one great advantage. The study of things which are far above us, renders the interests of this world very small in our eyes ; and when we have the pleasure of losing ourselves in Immensity, we do not trouble our- selves about what goes on in the streets of Paris. Study has this great good, it makes us live peaceably with ourselves, delivers us from the burden of our idleness, and prevents us from running from one end of the town to another pour dire et ecouter des riens." Intellectual research conducts to development even when apparently leading astray. As question after question arises, it must be grappled with until, by dint of personal prowess, its worth or worthlessness, as regards our aim, is tested. And in such conflicts, not what other men think of our vigor and training, but what we ourselves think of it, should be the one press- ing anxiety. Each question, book, incident, or emotion, can be of use only for a limited time; hence, from the shallow and unreflecting arise charges of inconsistency, fickle- ness, and immorality against mental experimenters and discoverers. Dangerous it may be to plunge jO CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. into all the mysteries of which intellect gives cog- nizance ; but, dangerous or not, in no other way can knowledge be acquired. That many a fall and bruise must be endured, many disagreeable objects encoun- tered, many dark enigmas pondered, is unhesitatingly admitted ; but, as compared with a narrow restriction, the ultimate gain from extensive research is beyond computation. " What is the hardest task in the world ? To think." Thus asks and replies Emerson, himself one of the world's greatest thinkers. " Pursue your studies in the way your conscience calls honest," says Carlyle. " More and more endeavor to do that. Keep, I mean to say, an accurate separation between what you have really come to know in your own mind, and what is still unknown. Leave all that on the hypothetical side of the barrier as things afterwards to be acquired, if ac- quired at all ; and be careful not to stamp a thing as known when you do not yet know it. Count a thing known only when it is stamped on your mind so that you may survey it on all sides with intelligence. Gradually see what kind of work you can do ; for it is the first of all problems, for a man to find out what kind of work he is to do in this universe. In fact, morality as regards study is, as in all other things, the primary consideration, and overrides all others. A dishonest man cannot do any thing real; and it would be greatly better if he were tied up from doing any such thing." Have not many of us learned that this dishonesty, of doing things for which we are unfitted, deteriorates our mental ability, and fills us with a miserable sense of the flatness and nothingness of life ? Doing things will never make us like them, or CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 7 1 enable us to put the best self into them : the soul re- mains the same whatever restraints are imposed upon it, although it chafes under unjust discipline, and grows sullen and morose. In vain do we strive to overcome nature, and force ourselves to act in opposition to her voice ! In vain are our most cherished wishes and plans given up for the sake of appearing like the rest of the world ! When our aim — as regards thus "appearing" — has been achieved, what then ? We become some- thing we ourselves cannot respect, and which others, if people of character, must despise. To learn how to think should be the primal object of every being's life, while the second should be to utilize the results of that thinking. In the early stages of intellectual life, revery — well called " la pensee a l'etat de nebuleuse" — frequently seems a state so replete with idleness, that a consci- entious soul frets itself continually and resorts to all manner of expedients to escape from that so- deemed temptation. But, upon the principle that preparation for work is the indispensable adjunct of ability, the impulse that drives men from the world to the solitude of the sea, forest, or mountain, is one to be obeyed rather than stifled. In the neophyte, ignor- ance or fear may obscure the significance of such a call, and thus cause an irreparable loss of opportunity and inspiration. To some natures solitude is a joyous holiday, in which the soul is re-created and fitted to resume toil in the crowded mart of human activity with augmented zeal and efficiency. To forget and to be forgotten, to seek uninterrupted communion with reason and imagination, and to be permitted to embody the re- 72 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. suits conformably to natural gifts — such, while in soli- tude, is the craving of every being in whom the intel- lectual element predominates. Whoever is thus capable of communing with nature, prays, not for more light, but for power to bear all that comes streaming in. The usual course of a liter- ary life begins with reading, follows with thinking, and ends with writing; and, that man's best legacy to man is the written history of the intellect's power and creations, is granted by the world's master- minds. Schiller writes to the sisters Lengefeld : " I am glad you remain faithful to Plutarch, for he lifts us above this insipid generation and makes us contemporaries of a better and stronger kind of humanity." To the influence of this ancient writer Alfieri likewise bears generous testimony. After referring to Rousseau and Montesquieu — the latter he " read twice from beginning to end, with wonder and delight, perhaps with some utility" — he exclaims : " But the book of books was Plutarch." Again, he says he found himself " for the third or fourth time in Plutarch and Montaigne." Of Plato, Emerson says : " Why should not our young men be educated on this book ? It would suffice for the tuition of the race, — to test their understanding and to express their reason. Here is that which is so attractive to all men, — the literature of aristocracy, shall I call it? — the picture of the best persons, senti- ments, and manners, by the first master, in the best times, — portraits of Pericles, Alcibiades, Crito, Pro- dicus, Protagoras, Anaxagoras, and Socrates, with the lovely background of the Athenian and suburban landscape. Or, who can overestimate the images with CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 73 which Plato has enriched the minds of men, and which pass like bullion in the currency of all nations?" For the well-prepared traveler, literature offers a realm of unlimited exploration, discovery, and diversi- fied enjoyment. The majority, however, are wholly devoid of preparatory discipline, and, when finally started upon their travels, marvel greatly at the pre- ponderance of fatigue and ennui, when, from the laudatory descriptions of others, they had been led to expect an infinite variety of delightful experiences. Books are living realities before which all other tan- gible objects sink into insignificance, which at every stage delight the soul, and in periods of inward tumult or outward calamity exercise an incalculable influence in sustaining and elevating it. Without them we should never know those complex inner springs of action, the comprehending and directing of which produce the very life of life. With what a sensation of surprise we often come upon thoughts, doubts, and difficulties, which we had supposed existed only in the recesses of our own being ! The nearest of earthly friends cannot teach us the truths we learn from books ; neither can any external condition of well-being yield that calm, sweet joy which arises from complete harmony with an author's thoughts and aims. " In Books," says Carlyle, " lies the Soul of the whole Past Time : the articulate, audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has alto- gether vanished like a dream. All that Mankind has done, thought, gained, or been : it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of Books." Books affect us precisely like people, and either interest, or bore, 7* 74 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. warm, freeze, depress, exhilarate, fatigue, or rest us. In the company of those people whose minds are attuned to our own there is never a feeling of discomfort or that mental uneasiness arising from a sense of being watched, wondered at, ridiculed, or despised. The same is observed of books that suit our mood and tempera- ment. Reading, like every thing else, needs an impetus : if entered upon reluctantly, no labor is more fatiguing; if undertaken philosophically, agreeably to natural tastes and inclinations, nothing is more refreshing and inspiriting. In vain does a man say to himself, " Such and such books ought to be read," and forthwith proceed to cram his mind with food for which there is neither appetite nor power of assimilation. Even with desire and appetite, we cannot pluck all the bril- liant flowers we see, or taste every luscious fruit that tempts the palate; and he who tries to read every thing ends by enjoying nothing, and losing whatever of self- poise his mind originally possessed. " Knowledge," says Carlyle, " depends on what we read after all manner of Professors have done their best for us. The true University of these days is a Collection of Books." But if knowledge of any kind is to have a beneficial effect, there must be spontaneity, eagerness, and enthusiasm in the acquisition. To state dogmatically what men should or should not read would be as futile as to dictate their pursuits or amusements. Languid when not interested, animated and tenacious when experiencing a desire for informa- tion, the mind speaks very plainly as to its needs and conditions. As, in material existence, all manner of ability and character are requisite to furnish food, raiment, and CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 75 luxury, so, in the life of intellect, an immense variety of books is needed to satisfy a large community. Re- ligion, art, commerce, and belles-lettres — all must have their distinctive priests and votaries, whose ability and zeal decide the progress of their respective interests. The proof that a book is good for a man is the degree of activity it awakens in subjects sanctioned by his highest meditations. To be saturated with it, to feel his soul stirred to its depths by the earnestness of another soul, is a satisfactory assurance that for the time being his choice is a wise one. Under lower conditions, reading is but a stimulant or a restorative, and to be sparingly used. A writer may have a world-wide fame, and yet be no inspirer for us : but from the multitude of ancient and modern authors within reach we can readily single out those who can minister to our highest wants and yield us the best companionship. " Nothing seems to me good," says Voltaire, " unless it can be re-read without disgust. The only good books of this kind are those which continually offer something to the imagination and flatter the ear by harmony. Men need music and painting, with sundry little philo- sophical precepts judiciously dropped here and there. This is why Horace, Virgil, and Ovid will always please, except in translations which spoil them." Whether a work of fiction will or will not stand the test of centuries is a question of far less importance than its actual effect upon the living men and women about us. That it is a means of instruction and enter- tainment extending into regions of heart and mind where no other would find access, none will dispute. Fiction, wielded by a master-hand, is an exponent of ;6 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. good language, good manners, and good morals. It portrays not only the outward affairs of men, but pene- trates to their inner lives to learn how they think, feel, and act, in their respective spheres; it studies and analyzes thus not from motives of idle curiosity, but from a desire to know human nature as it is, or as, under different conditions, it might be. It awakens a love of nature and that interest in science which in- variably follows that love ; engenders an appreciation of esthetic qualities and a desire for personal improve- ment which otherwise might remain wholly unknown. That the aim often fails of realization, none knows better, perhaps, than the author himself. But if — as often happens — what appears failure to the artist-mind bent on perfection, proves eventually of actual benefit to either contemporaries or posterity, the inference must serve as an incentive to those now laboring in this de- partment. That passion in the guise of fiction often acts like wine upon a warm imagination, causing it, while under the spell, to lose all sense of unreality, and to be irresistibly carried away by the narrative even when reason pronounces it an inferior production, is a proof of the power of this agency as a means of educa- tion. While glancing at this point, we cannot but per- ceive the injustice of identifying an author with his works; for nothing is easier to a writer of imaginative power than to describe' passion, crime, and remorse, — to transform himself temporarily into the hero of his story. What, among visible things, can compare in beauty with the poet's dream ? What more real than the ideal- ity which enables him to tolerate an intolerable present, derive sustenance from a happy past, or revel in the CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 77 prospect of a possible future ! And those exquisite structures which imagination erects in prose or verse, are, to appreciative minds, worth far more than those material ones of stone or marble which exact so large a tribute from human energy. What De Tocqueville says of the American charac- ter would apply to a large class of readers : " Why, amid their great prosperity, are the Americans so rest- less ? I have seen men of enlightened minds and living in independent circumstances, whose countenances yet seemed habitually clouded. Even in their pleas- ures they were grave, almost sad. He who has set his heart exclusively upon worldly goods is always hurried, because he has no time limited for finding, acquiring, or enjoying them. The consciousness of the brevity of life continually weighs upon him, and, independently of the goods already in his possession, he is continually imagining a thousand others which, unless he hasten, death will prevent him from tasting. Regret, fear, and anxiety ensue from this source and throw him into a trepidation which leads him to seek continual change both of place and design." A similar anxiety may be observed in the undis- ciplined reader, who, with the amplest means of grati- fication, is, nevertheless, far from feeling content. The thought of what he wishes to accomplish is so much beyond his capacity that alternate haste and disap- pointment cause him to lose the best fruits of his intellectual passion. Those who are absorbed in the pursuit of art, music, or science, say that society is allowable only when their innate forces are wearied with long-continued application. The same test ap- plied to books would make a new one desirable only 78 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. when all the ideas and sentiments generated by the previous one have been pondered over and assimilated. There are many who tell us, however, that it is not easy to regulate a literary appetite, one that has a keen relish of every thing fresh, piquant, and original ; to acquire the power of self-control without impairing natural susceptibility. To an ardent, sympathetic mind, the most insig- nificant person or the most trivial object is enough to inspire the interest which leads to thought: if there be nothing in the person or thing, the very lack is suggestive. Hence, the temptations accruing from a multitude of books can easily be imagined. Every name mentioned, every event described, opinion ad- vanced, or theory advocated, urges the student on to new researches. And through a certain number of years there must needs be a vast amount of such gratification. But, when the mind is found to be well impregnated, there must be a cessation of the absorbing process and an inauguration of abstinence, the method which more than any other will invigorate the powers of reflec- tion and creation. Whatever diverts thought from the object under consideration must be regarded in the light of indulgence, and unhesitatingly abandoned. An idea conceived should be left calm and undisturbed, and presently the result will come in the shape of augmented strength, clearer views, or more brilliant fancies. Released from external hindrances, the natural char- acter of the mind declares itself, and steps forward into its legitimate place, ready for its functions and responsibilities. CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 79 To a warm, passionate nature with a mind so alive to its own capabilities that every moment of existence brings either keen pleasure or keen pain, expression of some kind becomes a necessity so absolute that life and death may be said to depend upon it. The intensity of suffering endured by a man of poetic temperament compelled to forego all his cher- ished convictions and congenial pursuits for the sake of worldly considerations, — those multifarious triviali- ties which constitute the daily acceptable nourishment of the mass of mankind, but which to the exceptional soul are a hateful incubus, — can be comprehended only by one of like endowment. Can there indeed be any position more absurd and unreasonable, than to as- sume that a soul, quivering with sensibility and con- scious of content only when employing its faculties in the highest realms of meditation, could be patient when thrown amid scenes in which every object be- held or every sound heard is a protest against self- consciousness ? A poet is not a man of the world, and any attempt to fuse two such incompatible ele- ments must inevitably end in failure. The poet loves solitude, dreamy musings, lofty soarings, contemplation of nature, analysis of human actions and motives. Companionship, in his estima- tion, is that soul-alliance which, in real life, occurs at such rare intervals that it is almost synonymous with solitude. Under any other conditions, men and women are to him, not companions, but merely instruments in the great human economy, creatures who alternately ex- cite admiration, contempt, curiosity, and compassion. Willing to sacrifice himself at any moment for them, 8o CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. if thereby he can assist the needy, whether in body or mind, he is prompted to keep aloof from all who are gay and prosperous. When sacrifices will neither propitiate the gods, nor bring peace of mind to the sacrificer, is not the act a manifest waste of vitality ? A man of the world hates solitude, and desires nothing more earnestly than to escape a condition which confronts him with meditation, retrospection, or imagination. For him, life means activity — seeing, hearing, doing, giving, taking — and he involuntarily looks with contempt upon the shiftless visionary who values ideas more than bank-notes, and glories in a lifetime of search for them. To such a man, ex- emption from the world's pursuits and its prizes means an ostracism which he can neither bear himself nor patiently see other men bear. Undoubtedly, death would often be a welcome re- lease to many a mortal writhing under the agony of disappointment, mortification, or remorse. But death will not come for the wishing; and by a merciful dis- pensation, means of escape for passion are offered not only through music, art, and literature, but also through the countless channels of activity which human needs create. Happiness is not inventive, but passive ; and if men's wishes were invariably gratified, degenera- tion of mind and body would speedily ensue. Para- doxical as it sounds, human history demonstrates most clearly that men must be driven to their best conceptions, forced away from their ambitious pro- jects or sweet joys to the work for which their talents fit them. Who that possesses a strong, passionate soul, liable to be inflamed by a word, a look, or a thought, does CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 8 1 not seek a vent in expression and know the relief it yields ? In vain does this passionate soul cry : The world is naught for me ! I despise its prizes ! My art or my work is enough ! Friendship, love, ambi- tion, all these are but illusions, unworthy the rever- ence they exact ! None can escape the conditions of humanity: and in proportion to intellect and sensibility do we feel the penalties attaching to human nature thus endowed and thus exposed. Reason, philosophy, poetry — what grand developments do they not make to heart and mind ! What exhaustless resources for blighted hopes and uncongenial surroundings ! And yet no mortal — if not an absolute hermit — can escape occasional shocks to pride, feeling, or desire, shocks which throw him into utter wretchedness, and make him long for escape by death if there be no other means. How can I live, is his innermost cry, if the nourish- ment my nature most needs be perpetually denied? Why must I endure this unending recurrence of irksome tasks and thankless duties, if what is really pure and true in me be ever misunderstood and repelled ? The sensibility which takes the form of introspection is probably the severest test of patient endurance of existence that can be imagined. Especi- ally is this the case when the heart craves companion- ship and finds only fellow-creatures ; or finds com- panionship only to be falsely judged by those whom it has chosen above all others as worthy of its attach- ment. If introspection be one of those attributes which make the poet, it is undoubtedly also a cause of unspeakable suffering to its unfortunate possessor. For it shows him not only the blemishes and short- 82 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. comings of his own nature, but likewise the ugly light in which they must appear to those few whom he most wishes to please. It shows him those facts which foretell disastrous failure where happiness is most at stake ; seeing which, there comes over his soul that sickening sense of utter unfitness for social life which often results in so-called misanthropy and cold-heartedness. Thus realizing, with a bitterness of spirit which only a like temperament can comprehend, this utter unfit- ness, it is not to be wondered at that solitude event- ually becomes the sole condition in which peace of mind is attained. There, at least, meditation may take the forms of beauty and grace which imagina- tion suggests, without danger of being rudely jostled or cruelly rebuffed; there the mind may gradually attain that serenity which in the world seemed wholly unattainable. Ought not we to shun those ordeals which we know will prove too severe for our warmth of feeling or our desire for approbation ? Expression then is the only hope of escape from passion or mental despair, and it matters little what the particular form be, whether music, art, literature, or mechanical labor. Endowed with power to grasp in a single instant of time what demands years of unceasing toil to depict — even partially — with the pen, the mind cannot but regard written language as tame and spiritless com- pared to the reality within. Earth can never satisfy that which has its origin in eternity; but those who are ever striving after although never reaching their ideal of excellence, may find com- fort in the truth that ideality makes self-content im- CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 83 possible. However crude and worthless our ideas, fancies, and sentiments may seem, they should receive the best embodiment labor can produce. Each human mind is, through endowment and culture, different from every other that has ever existed : consequently, however numerous the veterans and aspirants already in the field of literature, there need be no hesitancy on the part of those impelled to try their strength. Among all who present themselves there are few, even among those truly gifted, who win success and fame; least of all, probably, those who stake their happiness upon those prizes. However unaccountable an impulse may be, it means more than can be seen or touched ; and only when the obstacles which prevent its transformation into deed are valiantly overcome, do we begin to have a glimmering of nature's intention. But, cry our teachers, men are constantly mistaking falsehood for truth, folly for wisdom, injustice for jus- tice, cruelty for kindness! Very true; but, inasmuch as these mistakes are possible to all, each man may well claim the right to trust his own impulse as much as another man's. Only after such an impulse has been followed can the delight of living in the bracing air of mental freedom and viewing the universe with unbandaged eyes be experienced. Usually, the body submits to far more coercion than the mind, and men grow so accustomed to acting the part assigned them by circumstances, that they learn to adjust countenance and manner like the dress, one day for a feast, another for a funeral. But when restraint is brought to bear too persistently upon the mind, it is liable to rebel and take revenge by bring- 84 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. ing forth inanities or stirring up seditions in those provinces of the human organization which are none the less dangerous because obscure. To compose, for instance, when not in the mood, is like laughing when the heart is sad, running when the feet are weary, talking when silence is craved. But to write when moved by that burning impulse which breaks through all forms, and neither calculates, nor ceases until its object is gained, is to know a satisfaction which few other pursuits can yield. Literary records prove that the m ost perfect speci- mens of composition have been produced, not by the most thorough masters of philology, but by those who knew nothing of its laws and intricacies, and simply followed the bent of their own genius. Many cele- brated works of history or of fiction were originally written in desultory fragments or chapters, with no thought of publication. In a sensitive temperament the deliberate intention of writing a book would at once deaden imagination and paralyze the reason. For the acquisition of executive skill, there must, un- doubtedly, be daily fervent application to composition; but as for purpose and plan, these must be left to that inner force which is stronger than either will or inten- tion — inspiration. Every writer, as has often been remarked, must adopt his own way of working— must, in a certain sense, create it. Hence, it matters little when or how a book is begun, if only the desired result be attained. However peculiar the idiosyncrasies of an intellect, they may be made available by indulging and ulti- mately controlling them. That natural force should CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 85 have unrestrained action is the first essential of good writing : facts, thoughts, sentiments, observations, passions, and fancies, all should in some shape find reproduction in language. Originality, creation, and clearness should be the first care, arrangement and detail the second. An excess of plans and experi- ments can end only in irretrievable failure ; and the tendency — generally an attribute of vivid imagination — may best be combated by bearing in mind the im- portant fact that human life, at the longest, is limited to a few years of maturity and vigor. Without the ideality which points out possibilities, and firmness to give them substantial form, intellectual activity becomes a troublesome burden, which anni- hilates present comfort without providing adequate indemnification. Moreover, those qualities which with concentration would enable the mind to master its subject, without that faculty tend only to keep it in a state of chronic chagrin. Literary people are just as liberally endowed with human weaknesses as any other class. Life is short, they argue ; comfort is dear to the body, and pleasure sweet. Why strive to be or to do better than our neighbors ? The majority, therefore, act upon this principle, doing as much as will bring bread or popularity, and striving to amuse rather than to elevate the multitude. Even the minority, who derive motive power from within instead of from without, are continually meet- ing difficulties which mar effort and chill enthusiasm. There come hours when the mind refuses to work, and a writer must learn to exercise a patient tolerance with these leaden moods. What to do with these inferior hours is a question of vital importance; and 8* S6 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. a calm examination of the subject may prevent the alarm or despair which arises from a suspension of writing-power. When the rapport between body and mind has been disturbed, meditation and composition are as impos- sible as if the ability had never existed. But the psy- chological student who knows the recuperative power of the brain learns to endure temporary losses with the philosophy of the traveler who, although greatly embarrassed by detentions on the road, is not thereby deterred from seeking his destination. In many cases, however, were we honest and open, we might account for many of these moods. Can we not tell precisely the state of mind or feeling which will be produced by doing a certain thing? May we not know what it is to be firm in principle, have a thorough appreciation of what is needful for our own equanimity of mind, and yet be so easily led astray by impulse or habit that we lose many valuable days by moods thus generated? The resources of the soul may be well known, and yet, like all other knowledge, prove only a source of vexation, if not put to definite use. All the world may lie at our. feet, and still bring no sense of satisfaction so long as we are conscious of being far below our standard of life. In composing, moods should be as carefully watched and as tenderly dealt with as ability itself: if we neglect them, we pay the penalty of our folly by losing altogether what before offered itself so freely. Nature must be taken as she is, not tied down to any fixed time, rule, or worldly convenience ; and, failing so to take her, we receive the most mortifying rebuffs when, to suit our own pleasure or convenience, we CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 87 act contrary to her expressed wishes. The thoughts which at one hour could be written with fluency and delight, at another refuse to come at the most earnest solicitation. The mind in the first instance was warmed, full, eager for expression, while afterwards, other things having crowded upon and fatigued it, emptiness and coldness only are found there. Even upon trying to recall what before was so vivid, we receive only a dim and unsatisfactory reflection from which we turn away with impatience and disdain. True, there are those who tell us, in a somewhat con- temptuous tone, that the " moods" or frames of mind people talk about are nothing more than results of the physical condition, the unhappy ones, of course, being simply symptoms of indisposition more or less grave, and that each individual then acts according to temperament. One immediately calls in a physician, while another stoutly resists the idea of illness, drag- ging himself through weeks or months of the ordinary routine, tormenting himself meanwhile with vain specu- lations or psychological analysis. While ready enough to acknowledge the obvious fact that much depends upon the condition of the body, and that self-observation, if not tempered by health .and balanced by judgment, becomes a source of unhappiness, we may, nevertheless, question whether moods are indeed wholly dependent upon physical well- or ill-being. The soul is susceptible of indisposition no less than the body, and often suffers acutely while its com- panion is in admirable condition ; there may, too, be a strong, healthy soul encased in a weak, imperfect body, but showing in every hour of existence that it 88 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. can produce work which exacts the world's tribute of respect and admiration. What a difference in souls we meet! Some show so little evidence of their divine origin that they live through their earthly term without struggle or in- quietude, content to perform the duties pointed out to them by others, and to be thus spared the trouble of thinking for themselves. Others, filled with soul-fire caught from Heaven, are consumed with unutterable longings and aspirations. What a rare instrument is this thing we call soul ! of what sweet music is it not capable, of what harsh and discordant sounds! Trem- blingly alive to every outward influence, continually urged to new endeavors, ardent, sensitive, loving, — and yet unstable, — it is capable of producing both intense delight and absolute woe ! How shall we preserve this instrument in all its delicacy and power? How play upon every chord and yet not do it injury? How permit it to be acted upon by every influence of earth, air, and heaven, while still enabling it to retain its pristine strength ? For this, there is but one precaution, one hope, one safeguard ; one source of power inexhaustible to instruct, guide, assuage, and heal ; one support upon which man can rest : we call it conscience. Save in those rare instances where early training has been propitious, the development of literary as- pirants results from a series of struggles. With the first inklings of composition the novice is awakened to a possession heretofore only thought of in relation to other people. The vague discontent which in past years was a source of so much self-reproach and an- noyance to others because interfering with practical CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 89 life, is looked back upon as a foreshadowing of the literary career now opening. With a high resolve at once to redeem past losses, the embryo author begins to put thoughts into words. The desire waxes stronger and stronger with each new attempt, and with thrills of pleasure at the sensations which so enhance the value of life, he fancies that the path is now clear, and that naught remains but to let the stream of thought flow unrestrainedly. Presently, however, a reaction sets in, and the sturdy fact becomes apparent that mere emotion or resolve can never compete with preparation and ex- perience. Ignorant, impatient, undisciplined, he sees month follow month, year follow year, leaving no result save a profound sense of chagrin at the miser- able failure of his ardent wishes : untrained for the practical duties of his new position, and bewildered by the mass of subjects presented to reason and imagination, he is constantly losing time with im- possible projects and futile experiments. Instead of recognizing a multitude of ideas, theories, and im- pulses as indications of vitality, he is depressed by realizing the labor essential for bringing order out of chaos. When reduced sufficiently low by oft-repeated humiliations, a dim consciousness of better things steals over his being ; he finds that aspiration and hope are not crushed, but have simply been taught whereon they may build with security. Old, time- worn lessons upon patience, industry, and persever- ance come to mind with the now added force of conviction, and place before it the choice of self-con- secration or defeat. At this crisis, character steps in to determine whether talents are to be buried or go CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. utilized, and the individual realizes that he need not look beyond himself for the strength that conquers. Strive as he may to shift the responsibility of his career to other shoulders, judgment will justly be pronounced against him if he fail to stamp it with honorable results. An author cannot write what he wills, but only what already exists in his own mind : consequently, he need have no anxiety as to popularity or distinction, but simply as to the zeal with which he is interpreting the language of his soul. "There is no greatness in active life," says Sir James Mackintosh, "without originality; no success in study without decision. Originality can hardly exist without vigour of character, since no man can invent or discover, without the power of resisting the temptations, and overcoming the obstacles which pre- vent intense and continued thought. The discoverer or inventor may, indeed, be most eminently wanting in decision in the general concerns of life, but he must possess it in those pursuits in which he is suc- cessful." The history of the greatest minds, while calculated to kindle whatever of latent fire may exist in our own, teaches how strenuous must be the self- denial and how persistent the industry which produce any worthy fruits ; likewise, how large a portion of even the best cared-for mental estate must, through causes unavoidable, remain for ever undeveloped. Loath as we are to believe in such an apparently cruel statute, many cases prove that the germ of greatness lies in suffering. Adversity in any of its varied forms, and, finally, soul-isolation, yield the rude but indispensable dis- CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 9 I cipline which precedes moral or intellectual force ; and to reason, the ugly fact gradually assumes fair proportions. Who, amid the ease and luxury of a favored social position, appealed to by the allurements of wealth, flattery, and vanity, could find strength to resist such influences and devote himself exclusively to science ? Who, while permitted to linger in the fair fields of love, could voluntarily leave the sunshine and the fragrance of that enchanted region for the purpose of portraying its beauties ? Personal comfort and happiness are so earnestly sought by man, that so long as he finds gratification in his immediate surroundings, whether in nature, art, home, or society, he will rarely be led into abstract research or experiment. Only when the visible and the tangible fail him, is he driven into that labyrinth called self, and enabled to comprehend its mysteries. Here he learns that aspiration is not a pretence, a shadow, a vision to be seen with the mind's eye only and never grasped : but that it is something as sub- stantial as life itself, and to be recognized by the state of the mind in its highest moments. Then, like a gleam from the realms of ideality it flashes and illumines, revealing his ultimate destiny and urging him by every hope of present or future peace to choose the best of human possibilities. To awaken intellectual enthusiasm in the mass would be impos- sible — the mere attempt a grievous waste of mortal strength and divine fire : but to touch the few who are capable of receiving and promulgating wisdom, is the glorious task intrusted to genius. Having its source in an element more impalpable than the atmos- 9 2 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. phere, more swift than light, more enigmatical than growth, its manifestations are naturally regarded by the world with contempt. "Dreamer," "rhapsodist," "fanatic," are the epithets commonly used to designate those who, in obedience to nature's command, are willing to lose social caste rather than lose themselves. Genius is not the product of circumstances, but of that indomitable spirit within the man which impels him to noble thought and action, and renders him impervious to the taunts of ridicule or the sneers of incredulity. It asks no questions, harbors no doubts, yields not an iota to custom, exempts no class, despises no means, solicits no favors, waits not for permission ! It is the fountain-head of reform, philanthropy, science, and philosophy, and in every age decides the destinies of nations. More sure of itself than of any other fact that comes under its cognizance, it renders unqualified obedience to the faintest whisper of in- spiration, and in pursuance of its object yields to no obstacles less than the calls of humanity or physical exhaustion. "'Whoever hesitates to utter that which he thinks the highest truth, lest it should be too much in ad- vance of the time," says Herbert Spencer, " may reassure himself by looking at his acts from an im- personal point of view. Let him duly realize the fact that opinion is the agency through which character adapts external arrangements to itself — that his opin- ion rightly forms part of this agency — is a unit of force, constituting, with such other units, the general power which works out social changes ; and he will CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 93 perceive that he may properly give full utterance to his innermost conviction, leaving it to produce what effect it may. It is not for nothing that he has those sympathies with some principles, and repugnance to others. " He, with all his capacities, and aspirations, and beliefs, is not an accident, but a product of the time. He must remember that while he is a descendant of the past, he is a parent of the future ; and that his thoughts are as children born to him, whom he can- not carelessly let die. He, like every other man, may properly consider himself as one of the myriad agencies through whom works the Unknown Cause ; and when the Unknown Cause produces in him a cer- tain belief, he is thereby authorized to profess and act out that belief. Not as adventitious, therefore, will the wise man regard the faith that is in him. The highest truth he sees, he will fearlessly utter ; know- ing that let what may come of it, he is thus playing his right part in the world — knowing that if he can effect the change he aims at — well ; if not — well also : though not so well." Could any thing be more encouraging to the young author than such sentiments as these ! Upon first meeting them they seem strangely familiar, almost as if he himself had expressed them in some portion of his scribblings : he is the better for hearing these brave words, however, and is encouraged to value the thoughts that come, and to strive to give them ex- pression, even when still undecided as to the ultimate form in which they are to be given to the world. Of all forms of genius none is equal in power to that of the intellect, and he who suspects it in himself may 9 94 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. well withdraw from ordinary avocations and diver- sions: years of struggle, it is true, frequently bear wit- ness to the difficulty of liberating inspiration from worldliness, but this once effected, no barrier can pre- vent the full development and subsequent consecration of the rare gift. Mirabeau tells us that " we know by our own ex- perience that activity and resolution are capable of surmounting almost all difficulties through that very boldness which inspires the attempt ; while the hesi- tation and pusillanimity which cool our ardor at the sight of obstacles, troubles, and dangers, actually create the impossibility dreaded." Where genius really exists, nothing will prevent its manifestation ; but there is a spurious kind which is often held up for our admiration. A man affirms that he could do such and such things, provided he were differently situated, had no business, family, or irksome cares to consume his energy ; a woman desires us to believe she would be a musician, artist, or writer, if her surroundings were more favorable, if she but received encouragement. Must not such childish, irrational ideas excite a smile of half pity, half contempt, in people accustomed to observation and reflection ? Who would not be admired, beloved, eminent, immortalized, if it cost but the wishing? The records of genius,, however, give a far different impression as to the cost of fame : they speak of misunderstanding, alienation, trial ; of the sacrifice of comfort, affection, worldly position; of bitter criti- cism, persecution, and calumny — of these and many other painful consequences which fall to the share of those who give themselves up unreservedly to art, CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 95 literature, science, or any other work demanding abandonment of ease and disregard of the world's opinion. Genius may manifest itself in the form of an idea, an impulse, or an inspiration : he who clings to this manifestation through good and evil repute, spite of difficulty, ridicule, or contempt, endeavoring to the utmost of ability to express it in such form as will be clear to the minds about him — or to those of posterity — is under the influence of the divine afflatus. Genius, we are often told, is dreamy, speculative, ill regulated, improvident, unfitted to cope with the realities of life ; apparently without the helmsman judgment it drifts about helplessly on a sea of doubt, and sighs away its life in vain efforts to reach the main shore of certainty. But, while we admit the truth of such charges in some cases, we must likewise maintain that when genius causes unhappiness to the possessor, this result may generally be traced to a moral or mental flaw, such as intemperance, licen- tiousness, or inordinate ambition. The incompatibility of intellect and virtue has frequently been contested ; but, even granting that breadth of reason causes increased liability to temp- tation, the same may be said of physical strength and beauty, of wealth, and of power. Superiority in any form implies augmented responsibility. Whatever a man of intellect does, bears the impress of force, and makes him either more saintly or more villainous than his inferiors. Without intellect, even conscience itself becomes the miserable tool of ig- norance, custom, or passion. Who can doubt that morality has existed in all ages and among all 9 6 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. nations ? Yet the grossness and the cruelty which men of weak brains and strong passions have prac- ticed in the name of morality testify to the tendencies of human nature when not held in check by reason. The keener the mental perceptions the greater the likelihood of breaking through the outer crust of conventionality and penetrating to the true nature of good and evil. Thought is a strange, irresistible force penetrating every fibre of our being, and to a great extent con- trolling those momentous questions of morality which agitate the world. Can any one doubt that here is the seat of moral principle, that if men are to be made noble, worthy in all respects of their high privileges, their minds must be fitly furnished ? Action is rarely commensurate with thought — whether in goodness or in badness — but the two assimilate closely enough to demonstrate the responsibility entailed upon each mind. That even the grandest mind may have flaws, biog- raphy affords ample proof. Of Coleridge we learn from his daughter that " he had a special intellectual flaw." His memory, according to Archdeacon Hare, " was notoriously irretentive." " On a certain class of subjects," adds his daughter, " it was extraordinarily confused and inaccurate ; matters of fact, as such, laid no hold upon his mind; of all he heard and saw,. he readily caught and well retained the spirit, but the letter escaped him ; he seemed incapable of paying the due regard to it" Montaigne, whose " sublime Essays," as Alfieri designates them, have carried instruction and delight to many generations, tells us of all the things he CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. gy could not do, and of the defects of mind which inter- fered with his plans and subjected him to endless an- noyance. " As to the achievements of intellect," he says, "nothing of my own has ever contented me; and the approbation of others has no value whatever in my eyes. " Although possessing a sensitive and critical mind, I mistrust myself continually, and waver and bend through absolute weakness. There is nothing in my character which satisfies my judgment. My perceptive powers are tolerably clear and well trained; but when I work they become confused. This is plainly seen in my poetry. Although I really love it and am well acquainted with the works of others, yet in applying my own hand to it I am nothing but a child. And wherever else one may play the fool, it cannot be done in poetry. I envy the happiness of those who are gratified by their own work, for to extract pleasure from one's self is such an easy way of obtaining it. " I have always an idea in my mind, a sort of imagery, which presents, as in a dream, a better form than that I have used, but I cannot seize and utilize it. . . . Every thing of mine is coarse and evinces a lack of refinement and beauty. I do not know how to give things the appearance of more value than they possess. My style adds nothing to the subject under consider- ation. 4< Memory — that useful and marvelous instrument without which judgment can scarcely perform its functions — fails me when I most need it. Whatever subject I am to consider must be presented to me piecemeal, for to reply to a question possessing several different heads would be utterly beyond my capacity. 9 8 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. And when I have a speech to make, if of any length, I am reduced to the miserable necessity of learning it by heart, word for word; otherwise I should have neither connection nor self-possession, through the constant fear of memory failing me. But neither does this relieve me of embarrassment, for I require three hours to learn three verses ; moreover, in writings of my own, the very liberty to alter the style, change a word or even the whole subject-matter, renders it the more difficult to retain it in memory. The more I am annoyed the more uncertain it becomes : upon the whole it serves me best by accident and I must solicit it with an air of indifference. If I urge it, it resists, and as soon as it begins to waver my urging only embarrasses it the more ; in short, it serves me when it chooses, not when I choose. . . . " My library, considered a good one for the country, is situated in a wing of my house. If something I want to look for or write, comes into my mind, I am obliged to give it to some one else to keep, for fear it should escape me even while crossing the court- yard. If in conversation I venture to turn ever so little from the point, I lose the thread entirely: con- sequently, my speech is constrained, dry, and reserved. I have so poor a memory for names that it is necessary for me to call my servants by their occupations or their native places. " I might remember that there were three syllables, that the sound was harsh, or that it began or ended with such a letter; if I should live long I should probably forget my own name just as I now do those of others. Messala Corvinus during two years was wholly deprived of memory, and the same is recorded CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 99 of George of Trebizond. I amuse myself trying to imagine what kind of life it would have been for me, and whether without that faculty enough would be left to make life tolerable. Looking at the subject carefully, I fear this defect, if entire, destroys all the functions of the mind. More than once I have for- gotten the watchword I had given or received three hours before, or where I had hidden my purse. . . . " Memory is the receptacle and case of science : mine being so weak, I cannot complain that my knowledge is so scant. I know the names of the arts in general and of what they treat — but nothing beyond. I turn over books, I do not study them ; what I retain of them is no longer to be considered theirs, but simply that which my own judgment has seen fit to profit by, the ideas and fancies with which it has become imbued. The author, the place, words, and other circumstances escape me entirely. In truth, I am so expert in for- getting, that even my own writings and compositions share the same fate as those of others. "In addition to this lack of memory I have other defects, which add greatly to my ignorance. My mind is slow and dull, and the slightest cloud checks its course, so that I have never been able to solve the easiest enigma : in games like chess, checkers, and cards I comprehend only the very first principles. . . . " There is no soul so mean or brutalized that it does not manifest some special faculty; none so ob- tuse that it does not make a sally in some direction. Since it happens that a mind may be impenetrable and sluggish concerning most things, but animated, clear, and excellent in one special branch, it is a sub- ject well worth investigation. IOO CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. "But truly noble minds are universal, receptive, open to every thing, and if not enlightened, are at least teachable. "As to mine, there could not be one more inapt and ignorant with regard to certain common things and which cannot be ignored without shame. I was born and bred in the country, and since inheriting my property have had the management of affairs in my own hands. And yet I do not know how to count either with counters or with figures ; indeed, I do not even know the greater part of our currency. I do not know one grain from another, either in the ground or in the granary, unless the appearance be very marked; nor, in the garden, hardly the difference between cab- bage and salad. I could not tell the names of the most simple household utensils, nor the first principles of agriculture, such as children know; neither do I know aught of mechanics, of buying and selling, of fruits, wines, or meats, or how to train a bird, or physic a horse or a dog ; indeed, to make full con- fession, it must be added that not a month ago I was caught ignorant of the fact that yeast is necessary to make bread and that wine must be fermented. In ancient times, at Athens a man's aptitude for math- ematics was discerned by his ingenious manner of tying up a bundle of fagots. Whereas from me a totally different conclusion might be drawn, for with a whole kitchen at my disposal I might famish. Judging from these samples, other deficiencies may readily be imagined. . . . "If an artist may paint his own portrait, why may not a writer do the same with his pen? Hence I must not omit, however undesirable to make public, CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. IO i one defect extremely inconvenient in business matters — Irresolution. As Petrarch says, 'My heart tells me neither yes nor no.' I never undertake any thing doubtful, and although capable of maintaining an opinion, I cannot choose one. For in human affairs, whichever way I turn, I find ample cause and reason for supporting an idea or plan: consequently, I reserve my doubts and liberty of choosing until urged to a decision; and then, to tell the truth, I generally allow chance to decide, and throw myself upon the mercy of fortune. The slightest inclination or circumstance settles the question. According to Terence, 'When the mind is in doubt, the least weight makes it lean to one side or the other.' "Usually, the uncertainty of my judgment is so equally balanced that I should willingly compromise for the decision of fate or dice. And we must not fail to notice the examples that sacred history, with great consideration for human weakness, has left of this manner of leaving to chance the decision of elections and doubtful matters. " Human reason is a sword both strong and danger- ous : even in the hands of Socrates, its most intimate friend, we see of how many different strokes it is capable. Consequently, I can only follow and permit myself to be carried along with the crowd. I do not trust my own strength sufficiently to command or guide, but am content to find steps cut by others. If essential to run the risk of an uncertain choice, I prefer to let it be according to one who is more sure and tenacious of his opinions than myself." After discussing the subject of judgment, and the confidence of each individual in his own, Montaigne 102 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. continues: " The world always looks straight ahead; I turn my sight within, fix and occupy it there. I have no business with any one save myself, and reflect upon this question incessantly; I aim at self-control, and delight in it. Others go elsewhere if they see fit, always seeking to advance ; I find enough in my- self to explore. This capacity of extracting the truth, such as it is, from this source, and of trusting this verdict, I owe mainly to my organization. The firmest opinions I have are, in general, those generated in me; they are natural, entirely my own. Although a hardy product, they were .at first crude, somewhat un- certain and imperfect ; afterwards I strengthened and established them by the authority of others, especially by the sound example of those among the ancients who proved conformable to my judgment: these gave me confidences more definite possession and enjoyment." After reading this searching self-criticism, it is interesting to know that Emerson places Montaigne's Essays among the " best books ;" that Hazlitt says : " They may be recommended to any one to read who has ever thought at all, or who would learn to think justly upon any subject;" that Montesquieu said of him : "In most authors we see a man who writes : in Montaigne we see a man who thinks." And Sainte- Beuve, after enumerating his attainments and charac- teristics, adds : " In all respects he seems to me an experienced and complete example of nature herself. During civil war he manifests neither passion nor ambition; in several public posts he acquits himself with honor, no sooner laying aside his titles than he again becomes simply a man. fitre homme, voila sa profession ; he has no other aim, and refrains from CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 103 entering into any project too deeply, for fear of be- coming expatriated from that universal and humane profession. Not possessing, as he himself tells us, science enough to examine a child in its first lessons, he nevertheless has a faculty which enables him to measure by two or three questions the exact stature of that child's mind. Thus he lives active and inde- pendent, analyzing every thing, but returning at will into that free natural state of thought, that abstraction as it were, where new strength may be acquired. Voila l'homme avant tout et apres tout." Leigh Hunt says of Charles Lamb, " As was his frame, so was his genius. It was as fit for thought as could be, and equally as unfit for action; and this rendered him melancholy, apprehensive, humorous, and willing to make the best of every thing as it was, both from tenderness of heart and abhorrence of alteration. His understanding was too great to admit an absurdity ; his frame was not strong enough to deliver it from a fear. His sensibility to strong con- trasts was the foundation of his humour, which was that of a wit at once melancholy and willing to be pleased. . . . His humour and his knowledge both, were those of Hamlet, of Moliere, of Carlin, who shook a city with laughter, and, in order to divert his melancholy, was recommended to go and hear himself. Yet he extracted a real pleasure out of his jokes, because good-heartedness retains that privilege when it fails in every thing else. . . . Willing to see society go on as it did, because he despaired of seeing it otherwise, but not at all agreeing in his interior with the common notions of crime and punishment, he ' dumbfounded' a long tirade one evening, by 104 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. taking the pipe out of his mouth, and asking the speaker, ' Whether he meant to say that a thief was not a good man ?' To a person abusing Voltaire, and indiscreetly opposing his character to that of Jesus Christ, he said admirably well (though he by no means over-rated Voltaire, nor wanted reverence in the other quarter), that ' Voltaire was a very good Jesus Christ for the French! He liked to see the church-goers continue to go to church, and wrote a tale in his sister's admirable little book (Mrs. Leices- ter's School) to encourage the rising generation to do so ; but to a conscientious deist he had nothing to object; and if an atheist had found every other door shut against him, he would assuredly not have found his. I believe he would have had the world remain precisely as it was, provided it innovated no farther." Alfieri tells us his ignorance was gigantic, but he was not ashamed of it. He was " well convinced," too, " that to write tragedies the first great requisition is to feel intensely, which cannot be acquired ;" that " thinking in a language is the indispensable prerequi- site for writing it well;" and that his "ill success in rhyming convinced him he ought never to give up reading and learning by heart the best poets, in order to familiarize himself perfectly with poetical forms." Of the preparation essential for composition Alfieri had most stringent ideas, and in his Autobiography gives minute accounts of his studies and the " immense labor" they cost him. Even while pursuing graver studies, he did not abandon the Italian poets, and read and took notes of Dante and Petrarch five times in four years. CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 105 Of Bulwer we are told that " he worked his way to eminence — worked it through failure, through ridi- cule; that his facility was only the resuit of prac- tice and study; that he wrote at first very slowly, and with great difficulty; but that he resolved to master the stubborn instrument of thought, and did master it. That he practised writing as an art ; and re-wrote some of his essays (unpublished) nine or ten times over. That he wrote only about three hours a day, the evenings, when alone, being devoted to read- ing; that eventually he wrote very rapidly, averaging twenty pages a day of novel print." Of Prof. Wilson, the " Christopher North" of "Black- wood" we learn that whatever he had to write, even though a day or two were to keep him close at work, he never interrupted his pen saving to take his night's rest, and a late dinner served to him in his study. Every record of worthy literary work is a fresh trib- ute to the indispensableness of uninterrupted writing. The mind will not perform its functions if compelled to attend to multifarious duties and engagements when about to compose. Often, indeed, hours of medita- tion are necessary before it can be brought down to the subject in hand, but when once there, nothing should be permitted to interfere with its working. Sickness, accident, affliction, or offices of humanity excepted, no call should take the writer away from his task when inspired to composition. Interruption and distraction are fatal to good writing, and neither food, nor sleep, nor pleasure, nor affection, nor re- monstrance should be permitted to break in upon such a mood. Thousands of young writers, gifted but timid, irresolute, and conventional, have by this means 106 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. wasted or lost their best strength. Attempting to live in the world and in conformity with its requirements, while at the same time stirred by literary impulses, they miss their aim in both directions. Either the world or art must be chosen as the governing power — the two can never be compatible. Success in any one sphere demands the whole man, meaning will, strength, energy, perseverance, enthusiasm, and inspiration. All knowledge is universal in its bounties, meant for all human beings, just in proportion to their power of absorption and assimilation ; and so good a thing is it that we can never have too much, nor can we ever give too much to others ; neither can we, under any circumstances, be permitted to waste or to hoard what has been given into our hands, but come what may to us of criticism or enmity as a result of our disposal of the treasure, we are forced by our human kinship to make it as judiciously and fairly as ability permits. However mediocre the talent or feeble the voice, each one of us is bound by that kinship — a vow taken as it were with the first breath of conscious soul-life — to put forth the very best of his vitality in behalf of our race. How best to fulfil this vow, no one being can tell another: to learn that secret must be deemed the holiest of life's many claims. To be convinced that the intellect is chief among realities implies a strong desire to devote the best hours of life to acting upon the conviction, and in sending forth the results in visible shape or in subtile influence with the hope that others, too, may be in- duced to seek so rare a joy, — one of the few which CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 107 yield perpetual freshness. To Literature — as the em- bodiment of all that the intellect cherishes of reason, imagination, wit, sentiment, and morality — there should be a statue erected so perfect in form and feature that the whole world should do homage at the shrine. Symbol of every noble thought and soul-stirring deed, it should receive the reverence of all classes, all ages, all grades of ability. Over how many living human souls has not Litera- ture presided at birth, ever after watching, guarding, and following their steps, and finally gently draw- ing them up into that spiritual atmosphere where thought and sentiment are deemed of infinitely more importance than any possession the world can offer ! There are indeed instances where men do not know the goddess who thus presides over them, and in their ignorance wander hither and thither, trying, tasting, enjoying, suffering, but regardless of the pure vivifying force which awaits their attention. Once enlightened, however, such souls overflow with gratitude and are ready to exclaim : Why, O ethereal Protectress, didst thou not reveal thyself earlier to our perturbed spirits, which during so long a period knew no explanation of the dark enigmas propounded on every side? Nevertheless, we do not dare to question thy inscru- table ways, and are content to believe that although invisible thou wast ever with us, guiding, directing, inspiring ! Why in the past thou didst conceal thy- self from our gaze, remaining in impenetrable disguise, beseems us not to inquire. Thou knewest to what wise ends that bitter discipline should serve, and now what remains save to thank thee, that amid all murmuring, discontent, and rebellion, thou didst ever 108 CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. remain true and faithful ? Since thou hast deigned to draw aside the veil and show thyself in all thy splendor, we bow before thee in love and adoration, and, charged with the spiritual forces beaming from thy dear features, implore thy aid in expressing what thou hast awakened ! Receive the purest and best of our inner life, of that which comes we know not whence and goes we know not whither ! Accept our vows of dedication, cover us with the' mantle of thy love, and permit us to bind ourselves irrevocably to thy service ! Not less solemn, not less self-abnegating shall these vows be than those which under other names and forms sever mortals from all that is perishable and commit them to the service of religion ! With a child- like trust we present what we have and what we are at thine altar, convinced that there is the peace which until now has been vainly sought elsewhere. But, knowing that however sincere and earnest these vows, they are subject to the same temptations which beset all men, we entreat thee to use whatever means thou wilt to make us strong, steadfast, and loyal. Punish, torture, inflict upon us suffering in any shape, rather than permit us to prove unfaithful in thought, word, or deed to these our vows! Could aught of pain or humiliation overbalance the joy and content which fill our being since permitted to view thy transcendent beauty? Here in thy presence we fear nothing, and are conscious of a serenity which no earthly tumult can affect. And then, when our faithfulness shall have been proved, and all gross ties abhorred and severed, may it be our privilege to lead others to thy shrine! May our souls be inflamed, causing eye, heart, and word to be ever on the wing to do service in thy CHIEF AMONG REALITIES. 109 behalf — may they know neither peace, rest, nor indulgence until their best strength has been ex- hausted in the endeavor to augment thy worship- pers and bring them to acknowledge thy wondrous power ! IV. VOICE AND LANGUAGE. Eloquence, like every other art, rests on laws the most exact and determinate. It is the best speech of the best soul. — Emerson. Sa conversation etait un melange de tous les genres d'espi-it; l'en- thousiasme des beaux-arts et la connaissance du monde, la finesse des idees et la profondeur des sentiments, enfin tous les charmes de la viva- cite et de la rapidite s'y faisaient remarquer, sans que pour cela ses pensees fussent jamais incompletes ni ses reflexions legeres. — Mme. de Stael. Where are the circles in which conversation is carried on as the loftiest and richest of the social arts ? — W. R. Alger. A skilled musician need hear only a few tones of an instrument to judge of its capacity; and if through an understanding of its mechanism he be enabled to suggest improvements in adaptation or management, he enhances its value tenfold, and becomes a veritable benefactor to all lovers of the art. In like manner the human voice announces its power to the initiated ear, instantaneously producing not only the extremes of pain or pleasure, but all the interme- diate grades expressed by psychological attraction and repulsion. Whether of a deep-toned strength, a gentle sweetness, a weary monotony, or a distracting shrill- ness, the voice is essentially the vehicle for transmitting a man's inner self to the outer world. In its manifold no VOICE AND LANGUAGE. m vibrations may be found the secrets of the soul; and although these are not to be divined by superficial observers, their presence is made perceptible by the interest awakened or dislike engendered. Here there can be no masking, no decking out by fashion, no veiling by etiquette, no falling back upon ancestry for support; for by a curious magic which defies investigation, the mere tones of a voice reveal the precise calibre of its owner's character. The tes- timony of finely-organized people proves that the ear is frequently more competent to form a rapid and correct judgment of character than either the eye or reason; that it communicates facts wholly reliable, and enables us — without conscious volition — to learn what first excited admiration, curiosity, or suspicion, and much besides that the speaker would perhaps desire us not to know. Just as a human face is crossed and recrossed with lines, wrought all over, as it were, with a life-history, so a voice narrates a straightforward, impartial version of past and present experience, forcing us into belief or doubt even against appearances or preconceived opinion. It tells of a fine- or coarse-grained nature, of a mind well trained and stored with wholesome thoughts and bright fancies, or of one impaired by negligence and low companionship; of a manner cour- teous and considerate towards others, or of one gruff and intolerant; especially does it tell of shallowness or depth of morality, whether the actual affairs of life are regulated by firm principle or flimsy expediency. This faculty of divination by the ear — like many other devices of nature intended for man's happiness but wellnigh lost sight of in the tremendous current H2 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. of worldliness which sweeps away so large a propor- tion of the best things of life — becomes, when recog- nized and fostered, a strong bulwark against the im- portunities of fools and the machinations of enemies. With an adviser so disinterested always at hand, we are enabled to choose our companions, not for what they represent of genealogy, wealth, or position, but for what they are to us individually as man to man or woman to woman. Voices differ so much, it is argued, in physical struc- ture, that men can hardly be called responsible for the effect produced. Positive deficiencies, undoubtedly, call for our broad- est charity, and seldom fail to receive it; but for care- lessness, mumbling, or vulgarity of tone, for the ab- breviating, clipping, and distorting of words, there can be no possible extenuation; and criticism and ridicule are privileged to exert their influence in bringing about amelioration. Why cannot every advocate of pure mother-English do what in him lies to abolish certain existing usages which interfere with the true functions of speech and make it but too frequently an instrument of torture rather than a means of delight? To be fated to listen day after day to voices in- curably affected with nasal intonation or exasperating muttering; to watch lips too lazy to form words properly, indeed barely animated enough to drop the monosyllabic phrases indispensable to personal com- fort; to have the sensibilities torn by harsh, hectoring tones, which either induce dogged silence or goad into irrepressible indignation; to be irritated by those vapid superfluities of the tongue resulting from empty heads VOICE AND LANGUAGE. "3 and conventional hearts — such are a few of the pen- alties entailed upon the unfortunate possessor of an ear for language. In the contemplation of these mise- ries may be found ample space for the critical prowess of those alive to the ever-varying charms of word- music, but doomed to suffer from its antagonisms. To -know, and to speak of what they know, should be the highest aim of rational beings; for however imperfect acquired wisdom may be, and however in- adequate the means of imparting it to others, it may prove a leaven which will raise earnest questioning and fruitful action. That the pointing out of error by no means implies its prompt amendment, is a truism which every child can endorse; so there are many people owning weak ineffective voices and otherwise evincing a marked inaptitude for the mastery of elocution, who deeply regret what seems as troublesome an inheritance as an inferior mind or an unmanageable temper. Never- theless, where cure is impossible, alleviation becomes a boon greatly to be appreciated ; and we can hardly over-estimate the benefits to accrue from bringing all manner of persuasion and remonstrance to bear upon imperfections of voice and language, and aiming at eradication as far as nature and circumstances permit. In times past there have been theorists (perchance even to-day there may be some) who maintained that schools and teachers should be held accountable for the progress of their scholars : that in elocution, for instance, a few years of instruction should suffice to bring forth clear, full-toned voices, and able, impress- ive speakers. 114 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. So unreasonable a theory, it may readily be sup- posed, could stand but slight tests; but on the other side, it cannot be claimed that our present mode of instruction in this particular branch is well suited to the end sought. To those who have not been taught at home to speak well, elocution must indeed appear an art diffi- cult of comprehension and valueless in purpose, at best a mere imitation of another's voice, irksome during the lesson and never thought of afterwards, bearing no more relation to the art itself than a wilful plagiarism does to originality of thought. " Go to some — may we say all — of our colleges and universities," says Dr. James Rush, "and observe how the art of speaking, — is not taught there. See a boy of but fifteen years, sent upon a stage, pale and choking with apprehension; being forced into an attempt to do that, without instruction, which he came purposely to learn ; and furnishing amusement to his class-mates, by a pardonable awkwardness, which should be pun- ished, in the person of his pretending but neglectful preceptor, with little less than scourging. " Then visit a Conservatorio of Music, — observe there the orderly tasks, the masterly discipline, the unwearied superintendence, and the incessant toil to produce accomplishment of voice ; and afterwards do not be surprised that the pulpit, the senate, the bar, and the chair of medical professorship, are filled with such abominable drawlers, mouthers, mumblers, clut- terers, squeakers, chanters, and mongers in monotony; nor that the schools of singing are constantly sending abroad those great instances of vocal wonder who sound along the high places of the world; who are VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 115 bidden to the halls of fashion and wealth; who some- times quell the pride of rank by its momentary sen- sation of envy; and who draw forth the intelligent curiosity, and produce the crowning delight and ap- probation of the Prince and the Sage." Pungent sentences like the above need no comment, and a Conservatorio of Language, such as they suggest, would be hailed with gratitude by all people of true culture. Meanwhile, those who live in the chaotic period between its conception and its existence must needs find what content they may in diligently seek- ing to infuse the minds around them with preparatory ideas. From the people — the great heaving multitude whose first thoughts and most strenuous efforts must be directed to food and clothing — we have no right to expect that interest in the cultivation of language which develops into nobility of construction and purity of accent. But with those favored ones exempted by Fortune from the pressure of labor, its exactions and anxieties, there cannot be too much argument and persistence in urging the claims of language; in demonstrating that even children are capable of being roused to the importance of gaining a correct utterance and agreea- bly-modulated tones; of becoming as expert in detect- ing flaws and improprieties in their mother-tongue as in the dress and manner of their associates. Even if liable to wax aggressive in their criticisms and show a lack of discrimination in launching forth impressions and opinions, the very ardor of these juvenile reformers may help to reach the root of the evil. The precise way in which the voice may be im- Il6 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. proved or a conversational ability cultivated, must be left to the judgment of the individual or his teacher. The need of change once felt, modes of effecting it will not be wanting : the bare fact of inquiry is one direct means of furthering the wished-for object. The mysterious world-moving power called Reform rarely springs from a community, but rather from a single mind which expresses its idea to another and another until finally the whole body of minds about it is impregnated with a like desire for change. Hence, it is not solely upon the intelligence of the teacher, the scholar, or the parent that this subject of language should be engrafted, but upon every member of every household, whatever the race, social grade, or profession. Whether the plant will take root and thrive, bear good fruit, and ultimately become one of the most valued adjuncts of our social life, cannot be foretold. Uncertainty as to results, however, never deters the experimenter from a new attempt, and even if the sur- roundings be adverse, he remembers that the minutest seed of bold endeavor contains the embryo of an ob- ject well defined and full of promise. So-called " natural" people speak as they think, with a valiant disregard of mode and effect, and to a certain extent such naturalness is both pleasing and desirable. In many of these cases, however, the quali- ties that please are chiefly those of the heart or temperament, and with voice- and language-culture those same people would yield infinitely more strength and sweetness than when in their primitive condition. The power of conversation is one which greatly lessens the barriers erected by wealth and prejudice, and lends to social reunions an attraction more universal than VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 117 even personal beauty, music, or art. The conditions most favorable for its development are individual cul- ture and that intellectual intercourse between men and women which society alone renders possible. As well expect a man to become proficient in the art of painting without observing closely how other artists work — at the same time using the brush freely himself — as expect him to acquire ease and facility in expressing his thoughts without frequent personal contact with other minds. The simple forms of talk- ing, such as questions asked and answered, informa- tion given, affection interchanged, counsel sought and offered, may, of course, be acquired without going beyond the domestic threshold. But for minds of natural quickness, eager for expansion and acquisition, something more than the substantial fare of practical life is needed. Rich endowments of intellect and sen- sibility create in us a desire to share them with others, and likewise to seek for ourselves the nutriment which kindred minds alone can give. As Sir James Mackintosh justly remarks: "Any thing may be said if spoken in the tone of society; the highest guests are welcome if they come in the easy undress of the club ; the strongest metaphor appears without violence if it is familiarly expressed ; and we the more easily catch the warmest feeling if we per- ceive that it is intentionally lowered in expression out of condescension to our calmer temper. It is thus that harangues and declamations, the last proof of bad taste and bad manners in conversation, are. avoided, while the fancy and the heart find the means of pour- ing forth all their stores. To meet this despised part of language in a polished dress and producing all the Il8 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. effect of wit and eloquence, is a constant source of agreeable surprise. This is increased when a few bolder and higher words are happily wrought into the texture of this familiar eloquence." Of Mackintosh himself we have countless pane- gyrics relative to his powers of conversation. Sydney Smith says of him : " His conversation was more brilliant than that of any human being I ever had the good fortune to be acquainted with. His memory (vast and prodigious as it was) he so managed as to make it a source of pleasure and instruction, rather than that dreadful engine of colloquial oppression into which it is sometimes erected. He remembered things, words, thoughts, dates, and every thing that was wanted. His language was beautiful, and might have gone from the fireside to the press. . . ." If we consider the number of qualifications requisite to make a brilliant talker, we cannot be surprised that so few are recorded in the history of society. Culture of mind, self-possession, good-temper, flexibility of voice, the power of adapting ability to the exigency of place and occasion, and, above all, that magnetic force which involuntarily compels attention from hearers, — all these are indispensable to produce the effect de- scribed of those who have won distinction in that field. Finally, the practice which results from constant inter- course with people of similar advantages, completes the training which develops this rare accomplishment. Our estimate of brilliancy and eloquence varies according to our personal judgment, culture, or preju- dice. The incessant flow of language, the witty sallies and clever anecdotes of the celebrated talker may seem to us overstrained, unnatural, or tiresome, if our own VOICE AND LANGUAGE. II 9 mood is not in consonance with the topic of the hour, or if there be no rapport between the speaker and our- selves. At times we may feel with De Quincey that " of all the bores whom man in his folly hesitates to hang, and Heaven in its mysterious wisdom suffers to propagate their species, the most insufferable is the teller of ' good stories,' — a nuisance that should be put down by cudgelling, a submersion in horse-ponds, or any mode of abatement, as summarily as men would combine to suffocate a vampire or a mad dog." In short, human judgment upon any subject is so dependent upon the calibre of the individual judge — upon his ideas, sentiments, and temperament — that, with certain rare exceptions, a man's reputation for eloquence cannot compel our individual admiration. If we are to give it, it must come from our own appre- ciation of ability or talent, not because other people give it. Of eloquence, Emerson says : " It is the doctrine of the popular music-masters that whoever can speak can sing. So, probably, every man is eloquent once in his life. Our temperaments differ in capacity of heat, or, we boil at different degrees. One man is brought to the boiling-point by the excitement of conversation in the parlor. The waters, of course, are not very deep. He has a two-inch enthusiasm, a patty-pan ebullition. Another requires the addi- tional caloric of a multitude and a public debate; a third needs an antagonist or a hot indignation; a fourth needs a revolution; and a fifth, nothing less than the grandeur of absolute ideas, the splendors and shades of Heaven and Hell." That our temperaments thus " differ in capacity of 120 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. heat" all will unhesitatingly admit; and, after experi- ence has kneaded us into contentment with such gifts as nature has been pleased to bestow upon us, we shall not waste life in wishing ourselves other than we are. Such contentment, however, does not imply supine willingness to allow our abilities to lie neg- lected and untrained to the end of existence. Having the power of speech, for instance, we know it is meant for something higher than the mere asking and an- swering of questions pertaining to outward comfort, or the setting forth of such opinions and feelings as birth and education have made habitual. If cultured enough to appreciate the full value of language, we shall deem it a simple duty to study the beauties of enunciation, giving to each word its appropriate sound and special meaning; and to modulate our tones so that the subtile play of thought, the delicate tracery of sentiment, and the fervid intensity of pas- sion may find scope for every variety of charm and pov/er. Uttering sounds which no mechanism can either imitate or equal, the human voice sways us by the reason, imagination, or heart of the speaker, spreads before us the beauty of humanity and: the grandeur of physical nature, lifts us above the soul-depressing pettinesses of daily life, and enables us to participate in the priceless treasures of philosophy, poetry, and religion. To learn of what marvels of expression it is capable, we must turn to the orators, actors, and preachers who at different epochs in history have thrilled and electrified the world : and having duly admired, we may with profit study the records which testify to the VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 121 immense labor and indefatigable perseverance which preceded those results. Were it not for the dis- couraging influence of our national materialism upon every form of esthetic growth, the apathy so generally manifest regarding voice-culture and conversational talent would be wholly inexplicable. Subject, how- ever, to that influence — one inseparable from the re- quirements of a new country — apathy is a natural consequence, and must be regarded with that philo- sophic calmness which recognizes the folly of fault- finding or denunciation, and chooses the wiser part of throwing its own quota of strength into the arena where beauty and utility are continually wrestling for supremacy. Whatever our eyes see must be enjoyed or re- flected upon in our own way, not artificially and con- strainedly; and whatever our mind apprehends must be pondered over with as much honesty and independ- ence as if it were called upon to pronounce an opinion which would decide the fate of thousands. " The highest art being based on sensations of pe- culiar minds," says Ruskin, "sensations occurring to them only at particular times, and to a plurality of man- kind perhaps never, and being expressive of thoughts which could only rise out of a mass of the most ex- tended knowledge, and of dispositions modified in a thousand ways by peculiarity of intellect — can only be met and understood by persons having some sort of sympathy with the high and solitary minds which produced it, — sympathy only to be felt by minds in some degree high and solitary themselves. He alone can appreciate the art who could comprehend the conversation of the painter and share in his emotion ii* 122 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. in moments of his most fiery passion and most origi- nal thought." What is true in one branch of esthetics is true in all ; so that no man and no woman need fear too much interest or too much enthusiasm in the subject that moves them. We can be passionate and eloquent only concerning those people, those objects, or those arts which appeal to our deepest sympathies and most elevated thoughts : but when we are thus moved we owe it to ourselves and others to speak and permit our experiences to be enrolled among those of our contemporaries. If voice and language appear to us as competent to interpret soul-life as music or art, and consequently as well worth the consecration of our lives, why not give expression to the conviction as best we may, and show by personal endeavor that we feel the truth we utter? To be eloquent, what more is needed than earnestness, devotion, and passion ? Eye, lip, and hand are but instruments of the life within, and wait passively for the power that is to move them to noble or beautiful action. What our voice shall say to the world, and what shall be its penetrative force and melody, depend infinitely more upon our own treatment of it than upon natural calibre. To glow with an ardent desire for skill wherewith to depict the beauty and grace of language, so that it may appear to all men as one of the choicest gifts of Heaven, is a more effectual aid to our cause than our actual lung- power or the structure of the throat; to make every moment and every opportunity conduce to practical demonstration of our own belief is to be more con- vincing than to set forth volumes of opinion or advice. VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 123 That this art is by us, as a people, deplorably neglected, needs neither assertion nor illustration; for in those places where we have a right to expect at least a fair amount of force and elegance, — the pulpit, the stage, the school, the bar*, society, and the home, — we find, generally, not only weakness and inele- gance, but, what is far worse, utter ignorance and indifference upon the subject. Madame Roland, in those celebrated Memoires called by Sainte-Beuve " delicieux et indispensables," says : ". The charm of the voice is one both rare and powerful in its effect upon the senses ; it depends, too, not only upon the quality of tone, but upon the delicacy of sentiment which varies language and modulates the accent. This beauty of the human voice, a very different thing from its force, is as un- common in orators as in the mass which forms society. I have sought it in our three assemblies nationales, without finding it in any one in perfection. Mirabeau himself, although possessing the imposing magic of a noble elocution, had neither an agreeable tone of voice nor a pleasing pronunciation. 'Where then was- your model ?' might be asked. To which I answer as the artist did when asked where he got that charming look which he gave to all the heads created by his hand. ' Here,' he replied, putting his finger to his forehead : whereas I put mine upon my ear. Although I have seldom frequented the theatre, I believe this merit is equally rare there. ... I believe that the exquisite sensibility of the Greeks made them attach great value to every branch of the art of language; I believe, too, that sans cidottisme causes these graces to be disdained, and induces a gross ferocity as far re- 124 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. moved from the precision of the sensible language of the Spartans as from the eloquence of the agreeable Athenians." De Tocqueville calls language " le premier instru- ment de la pensee," and says that " American authors live more, so to speak, in England than in their own country, since they are continually studying English writers and daily taking them as models. But with the people generally the case is very different, they being more directly subjected to particular causes which act upon the United States. It is not then to written but to spoken language that we must direct our attention if we wish to discover the modifications that the idiom of an aristocratic people may undergo in becoming the language of a democracy. "I have often been assured by enlightened English- men, who in this matter undoubtedly must be more competent judges than myself, that the cultivated classes in the United States differ perceptibly in their language from the same classes in Great Britain. "They complain that not only have the Americans brought into use many new words, which the differ- ence and distance of the countries would suffice to account for, but that these new words are taken directly from the jargon of parties, the mechanical arts, or the language of business. In addition, they say that many old English words are often applied by the Americans in a new sense ; and finally, that they frequently intermingle styles in a singular manner, sometimes placing together words which in the mother-country are used separately. "These remarks, made at different times by people who seemed to me worthy of confidence, led me to VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 12 ^ reflect upon the subject; and my reflections conducted me, by theory, to the same conclusion they had reached by practice. In an aristocracy, language naturally participates in the general repose of things. Few new words are made, because few new events occur; even were new events occurring, there would be an endeavor to depict them with familiar words to which tradition has assigned a meaning. Moreover, the new expressions created would have a savant, in- tellectual, and philosophical character, indicating that they do not spring from a democracy. "When the fall of Constantinople had produced a movement of science and letters towards the west, the French language was suddenly overrun by a multitude of new words all having their root in Greek or Latin. This caused an erudite neology, adapted only to the enlightened classes, and which did not reach the mass till long afterwards, and never really affected its lan- guage. All the nations of Europe presented the same spectacle. Milton alone introduced into the English language more than six hundred words, almost all derived from the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. The perpetual activity which reigns in a democracy tends to renew incessantly the surface of language as well as of affairs. In the midst of this general agitation and competition of minds, a large number of new ideas are formed, while old ones are lost, or remodelled, or subdivided into countless insignificant shades. "Owing to this, words are often introduced which ought not to be used, while others are rejected which ought to be adopted. Apparently, a democracy likes change for its own sake, this being perceptible in lan- guage no less than in politics, so that even when there 126 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. is no necessity for changing words the desire for it is sometimes felt. "The spirit of a democratic nation is manifested not only in the great number of new words adopted, but likewise in the nature of the ideas which those new words represent. In nations, the majority makes the law with reference to language as. well as in all other matters. Now, the majority being occupied more with business than with studies, more with politi- cal and commercial interests than with philosophical speculations or with belles-lettres, most of the words it creates or admits will bear the stamp of its habits ; and they will serve principally to express the needs of industry, the passions of parties, or the details of public administration. On that side then, language will increase without limit, whilst in the direction of metaphysics and theology it will little by little lose ground. "As to the source whence democratic nations derive their new words and their manner of fabricating them, they are not difficult to name. "Men who live in democratic countries rarely know the tongue spoken at Rome or at Athens, and they care little to go back to antiquity to seek the ex- pression they need. If at times they have recourse to learned derivations, it is ordinarily Vanity which prompts the seeking them in dead languages, not erudition which suggests them naturally to the mind. Sometimes, indeed, it happens that the most ignorant people make the most frequent use of them. That desire so peculiarly democratic, to rise above one's sphere, often induces people to try and set off a very homely trade with a Greek or a Latin name; the lower VOICE AND LANGUAGE. \ 2 J the occupation and the farther off from science, the more pompous and erudite the name. Thus we no longer have rope-dancers, but acrobats and funam- bulists. "In default of dead languages, democratic nations are inclined to borrow words from living languages ; for there is a constant intercourse between them, and men of different countries are not averse to imitating one another when they are daily growing more alike. " It is principally, however, in their own language that a democratic people endeavor to make innova- tions. From time to time they take into their vocabu- lary certain obsolete expressions, or they draw from a particular class of citizens a technical term, and intro- duce it in a figurative sense into the common lan- guage: in this way, a multitude of terms once belong- ing to the special phraseology of a party or a profession are forced into general circulation. The ordinary ex- pedient employed for such an innovation consists in giving to an expression already in use an unusual signification ; this is a very simple, quick, and conve- nient method, one for which no science is necessary, and which ignorance renders even more easy. But for language this is a perilous risk : in doubling thus the sense of a word, both the original meaning and the present one become doubtful. "An author begins by slightly turning a familiar expression away from its primitive sense, and, having thus modified it, adapts it as best he may to his sub- ject. Another writer appears who attaches a different meaning; a third adapts it to still another purpose; and there being no common arbiter, no permanent tribunal to fix the sense of the word definitively, it 128 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. remains in an unsettled state. In consequence, writers seldom appear to attach themselves to a single idea, but stand amid a group of ideas, aiming at something, but apparently leaving it to the reader to judge what it is. . . . Harmony and homogeneity are merely secondary beauties of language, for there is a great deal of convention in those things, and under certain conditions we may disregard them ; but there can be no good language without clear meanings." Do not these words express what all reflective minds must feel to be prominent defects in our literature, or in any other subjected to democratic institutions ? But if recognizing defects is the first step towards curing them, we are justified in expecting from those who are thus enlightened the earnest, persuasive, witty, satirical, or passionate words which will spur the indolent and unreflecting to activity. Principle must always underlie action and give it value and power, so that no degree of attention to even the simplest forms of voice- or language-culture can be expected from those who do not feel its need or appreciate its significance. But in each single indi- vidual who realizes what may be called one of our national deficiencies and resolves to lend hearty aid and enthusiasm towards its eradication, we gladly recognize a power which cannot fail to be widely felt. Especially may we reasonably look to woman as one of the most influential means of awaking an interest in this branch of education. To make a computation of the time devoted to music, drawing, and similar accomplishments — for which very often there is not the slightest natural ability — and the no-time devoted to even the rudiments of talking and reading, would VOICE AND LANGUAGE. i2 g be altogether too discouraging. Neither can blame be attached to any one class of people, any family, parent, teacher, school, or college. For the most part, it may be assumed that people do their best in their respective positions, and are not to be censured for their mistakes, follies, ignorance, or vulgarity. There is no reason, however, why change of thought, motive, and mode of life may not in many cases be brought about ; and this is the con- viction of every high-souled being who discerns clearly the capabilities of his fellow-creatures and aims at rendering them assistance. Seeing how girls are, usually, miseducated, forced, with the united energies of mother, nurse, teacher, and fashion, to repress natural abilities and conform to a society-model, we cannot feel surprised at the result, viz., scores of " young ladies" one like the other as regards barren minds and frivolous ambitions, and very few "young women" with well-trained minds and noble aims. The average society-experience fol- lowed by marriage, does not produce any perceptible change in the character of a young woman ; so that, when a mother, her ideas and aims are of precisely the same tendency as before. If not desirous to be thorough in her own acquirements whether of mind or manner, if not eager to advance step by step in the great work of developing her own character, she can do nothing towards the education of her child ; and what she, at home, fails to do, no array of teachers can subsequently accomplish. The child — whether boy or girl — is stamped by the mother's influence so effectually that, in the vast majority of instances, distinction, mediocrity, goodness, baseness, happiness, ISO VOICE AND LANGUAGE. or misery might be traced to that source. Why could not a child in the nursery be taught to speak well — clearly, elegantly, forcibly — as readily as to eat, drink r and play, with due regard to rules prescribed by mother or nurse ? Why could not as much care be exercised and as much money expended in choosing the first and by far the most important teacher of its life-^-the nurse — as in choosing its clothing and toys ? Can a child be too early accustomed to hearing refined, well-modulated voices, carefully-chosen lan- guage, and intelligent conversation? If early impres- sions have the value usually attached to them, it might be supposed that nothing pertaining to training would be deemed of greater importance. But what do we see in what are called the best classes of American society? We see palatial dwellings, costly clothing, and precious gems in abundance, — in brief, all the luxuries and ap- purtenances of wealth, — and yet, the heir of all these privileges consigned, from his first to probably his seventh year, to the almost exclusive care of an ig- norant, superstitious servant-girl ! Did we not know what custom can do for all of us in subverting natural good sense, it would seem incredible that any mother of .average understanding, professedly anxious for the welfare of her child, could deliberately begin with so egregious a mistake, one which eventually will re- bound with painful force upon herself, her child, and all connected with them. Children would be just as prompt to acquire clearness of enunciation and elegance of construction, as slovenly, mumbling utterances and vulgarity of accent and expression. But the condi- tion of obtaining the first valuable possession for them would be to secure the services of a suitable VOICE AND LANGUAGE. I3I attendant during the first seven eventful years, a young woman of refinement and good education, who, in all those hours when the mother could not be with her children, would conscientiously carry out her instruc- tions. The nurse should be required merely to attend to food, clothing, and similar needs, while the gov- erness should be charged with that unintermittent care of the mind, morals, and manners of the child which the mistress of a luxurious home cannot possibly give. Are there not to-day hundreds of young girls, fairly educated and well mannered, holding positions in business-houses or industrial establishments of various kinds, who would gladly accept a position as governess? There would probably be but little diffi- culty in finding the means of remedying this primal and disastrous mistake of our American social life, provided mothers themselves were sufficiently im- pressed with the necessity of procuring them. "To employ language, to speak," says C. C. Felton, "is to set in motion the divinest organism of our being. With what inexpressible skill is the machinery of speech framed together, and adapted part to part! The articulating organs; the life-supporting air; the mind that sends its orders from the brain, where it sits enthroned, along the nerves which set these organs in motion; the impulse borne on the wings of the wind, sweeping through the intervening space, knocking at the porches of the ear, passing along the nerves of sensation, and leaving in the presence of another mind a bodiless thought, which the flying messenger was sent to bear, — how familiar, yet how miraculous, is all this! . . . "Language is at once the evidence and the memo- I3 2 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. rial of the universal brotherhood of man. It binds with its everlasting chain every nation and race and kindred. By articulated speech, thought answers to thought, as face answers to face in a glass, and we know what passes in the mind of our brother. By written speech we record our experiences for the in- struction of those who shall come after us, and make those books which, in the language of Milton, contain 'the life-blood of master-spirits laid up for a life after life.' "Written words are the instruments of communion between all races and all lands, the carrier-birds of human thought from country to country, from age to age, across the dividing and reuniting seas, across the abysms of centuries and millenniums. Language em- bodies the literature of nations, and so becomes the most vivid expression of character. The action, suf- fering, and passion of the human race are best read in its successive literatures. The actual world, as it has been mirrored in the mind of man, and the ideal world of art, built upon the foundation of reality, but rising high above it, stand before us in the histories, phi- losophies, and poetic creations, recorded in the many- voiced languages of men." And why may not the idea in these eloquent and beautiful thoughts be wrought into our daily, hourly life? The children bred amid these daily influences are to be the future men and women of society; and with this thought always paramount, nothing which in the most indirect way affects them can be deemed unimportant. By listening to the careless, inelegant, or painfully crude manner in which most people, even in the highest classes, give expression to their VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 133 thoughts, we can easily comprehend why conversa- tion plays so insignificant a part in our social reunions. Talking there is, — often in superabundance, — but of so rude a kind that susceptible ears and cultured minds eagerly seek to escape from its din. Can we blame a musician for avoiding the harsh and discordant sounds which unskilful players produce from his favorite in- strument? If not, neither can we blame one who de- lights in the music of the voice for voluntarily closing his ears to the disagreeable sounds usually heard. "It seems to be recognized," says Mme. de Stael, "that Paris is the city of the world where the taste and zest for conversation exist in the greatest perfec- tion; and that which is called ' le mal da pays} that indefinable desire for one's country, a sentiment dis- tinct even from the friends left there, may be applied specially to that plaisir de causer which the French find nowhere in the same degree as in their own country. Volney relates that the French emigrants during the revolution wished to establish a colony and cultivate the land; but every now and then they all left their occupations to go, as they said, causer a laville; and this city — New Orleans — was six hun- dred leagues from their homes. Everywhere in France people feel the need of conversation: language is not there, as elsewhere, simply a means of communicating ideas, sentiments, or business, but an instrument which is played upon with pleasure, and which stimulates minds just as music or strong liquor does some other nations. "The charm produced by an animated conversation does not consist altogether in the subject ; neither do the ideas or the information brought forward give 12* • 134 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. it the principal interest; but it arises from a certain manner of acting one upon the other, and rapidly re- ciprocating pleasure; from speaking as quickly as the thought arises, being applauded without effort, and permitting the mind to show itself in every shade by accent, gesture, and look — in short, producing at will those electric flashes which create an equilibrium between the extreme vivacity of some people and the painful apathy of others." De Quincey, too, thinks that "not only the gay temperament of the French people, but the particular qualities of the French language, which (however poor for the higher purposes of passion) is rich be- yond all others for purposes of social intercourse, prompt them to rapid and vivacious exchange of thought." Probably none will dispute either the flexibility and grace of the French language, or the facility and esprit with which the French people adapt it to expression. But is it not due to manner as much as to language that the French so excel in making conversation agreeable and refreshing? Every one who likes to talk throws a certain sprightliness and elasticity into his language, while those who are reticent bring out their words so grudg- ingly that they oppress the hearer with languor and dulness. Whoever is sluggish in thought and feel- ing usually evinces the same characteristic in speech : it would seem, therefore, that the temperament and culture of the individual affect his language to quite as great an extent as his manner. In one of those charming letters of Lady Morgan written before her marriage, she aims the following VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 135 sprightly criticism at the lack of conversational talent in the English: "I have seen the best and the worst of English society; I have dined at the table of a city trader, taken tea with the family of a London merchant, and supped at Devonshire House, all in one day, and I must say, that if there is a people upon earth that understand the science of conversation less than an- other, it is the English. The quickness, the variety, the rapidity of perception and impression, which is indispensable to render conversation delightful, is con- stitutionally denied to them; like all people of slowly- operating mental faculties, and of business pursuits, they depend upon memory more than upon sponta- neous thought. When the power of, and time for, cultivating that retentive faculty is denied, they are then hebetes and tiresome, and when it is granted (as among the higher classes), the omnipotence of ton is so great that every one fears to risk himself. "In Ireland it is quite different; our physique, which renders us ardent, restless, and fond of change, bids defiance to the cultivation of memory; and therefore, though we produce men of genius, we never have boasted of any man of learning — and so we excel in conversation, because of necessity we are obliged to do the honours of the amour pro pre of others; we are obliged to give and take, for thrown upon excitement, we only respond in proportion to the quantity of stimulus received. " In England, conversation is a game of chess — the result of judgment, memory, and deliberation; with us it is a game of battledore, and our ideas, like our shuttlecocks, are thrown lightly one to the other, bounding and rebounding, played more for amuse- 136 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. ment than conquest, and leaving the players equally- animated by the game and careless of its results. There is a term in England applied to persons popular in society, which illustrates what I have said; it is, ' he (or she) is very amusing] that is, they tell stories of a ghost, or an actor, they recite verses, or they play tricks, all of which must exclude conversation, and it is, in my opinion, the very bane of good society. An Englishman will declaim, or he will narrate, or he will be silent ; but it is very difficult to get him to converse, especially if he is supreme bon ton, or labours under the reputation of being a rising man ; but even all this, dull as it is, is better than a man who, struck by some fatal analogy in what he is saying, imme- diately chimes in with the eternal ' that puts, me in mind] and then gives you, not an anecdote, but an absolute history of something his uncle did, or his grandfather said, and then, by some lucky association, goes on with stories which have his own obscure friends for his heroes and heroines, but have neither point, but, humour, nor even moral (usually tagged to the end of old ballads). Oh, save me from this, good heaven, and I will sustain all else beside!" How much of this criticism the English would accept as just, and how much we Americans are willing to apply to ourselves, depends entirely upon individual culture. In every thing pertaining to the esthetics of language, our personal standard of fitness and capability will decide our appreciation or refutation of criticism. A man of limited understanding and coarse tastes would resent a correction of pronunciation or grammatical construction, as a personal affront, and could not justly be censured for his stupidity: whereas a man of in- VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 137 telligence would appreciate and profit by such a cor- rection, even when given by one otherwise his inferior, or given rudely instead of courteously. To make conversation the source of exquisite delight it is in- tended to be, we want neither pedantry, nor philology, nor bigotry; neither do we want imitation, formality, or affectation: but we do want — and this imperatively — clear brains, liberal culture, and refined tastes. We want men and women to be convinced that society is as great a need for their children as food and clothing ; and that the chief charm of that society is the inter- change — in its most extended and elevated sense — of thought, sentiment, and opinion. If cultured ears are to be tortured by gross barbarities, they will not listen to even the wisest utterances, and can hardly be repri- manded for such refusal. Not finding those voices whose action produces the delicious harmony they understand and crave, they are right in avoiding the discordant sounds which not only cause positive pain, but injure the native delicacy of their own organs. What nature means by bestowing senses so acute that they must inevitably suffer from the imperfect satisfac- tion they receive, cannot perhaps be fully understood: but by observing the keen enjoyment derived from such partial gratification as is vouchsafed, we attain to a very clear conception of the possibilities as yet dormant in the human organization. Consequently, he whose eye is capable of both an extended range and of close inspection has no cause for discontent; for if this power of vision augments the number of objects to be received and examined, it yields also a rich harvest of knowledge and experience. In the same manner he whose ear is endowed with acute susceptibility to 1 38 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. tone, modulation, expression, and general harmony, dare not count the pain he endures from rude, un- tutored voices, because of the thorough consciousness of appreciation and enjoyment afforded in other direc- tions by that very susceptibility. The same culture of speech which in private life and in society so enchants the ear, in public life works those miracles of change called conviction, persuasion, awaking, thrilling, swaying, subduing. In Shelley's translation of "The Banquet of Plato," Alcibiades says of Socrates : " I will begin the praise of Socrates by comparing him to a certain statue. Perhaps he will think that this statue is introduced for the sake of ridicule, but I assure you that it is necessary for the illustration of truth. I assert, then, that Socrates is exactly like those Silenuses that sit in the sculptors' shops, and which are carved holding flutes or pipes, but which, when divided in two, are found to con- tain withinside the images of the gods. I assert that Socrates is like the satyr Marsyas. That your form and appearance are like these satyrs', I think that even you will not venture to deny ; and how like you are to them in all other things, now hear. Are you not scornful and petulant ? If you deny this I will bring witnesses. Are you not a piper, and far more won- derful a one than he ? For Marsyas, and whoever now pipes the music that he taught, for that music which is of Heaven, and described as being taught by Marsyas, enchants men through the power of the mouth. For if any musician, be he skilful or not, awakens this music, it alone enables him to retain the minds of men, and from the divinity of its nature makes evident those who are in want of the gods and VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 139 initiation. You differ only from Marsyas in this cir- cumstance, that you effect without instruments, by mere words, all that he can do. For when we hear Pericles, or any other accomplished orator, deliver a discourse, no one, as it were, cares any thing about it. But when any one hears you, or even your words related by another, though ever so rude and unskilful a speaker, be that person a woman, man or child, we are struck and retained, as it were, by the discourse clinging to our mind. If I was not afraid that I am a great deal too drunk, I would confirm to you by an oath the strange effects which I assure you I have suffered from his words, and suffer still ; for when I hear him speak, my heart leaps up far more than the hearts of those who celebrate the Corybantic mys- teries ; my tears are poured out as he talks, a thing I have seen happen to many others besides myself. I have heard Pericles and other excellent orators, and have been pleased with their discourses, but I suffered nothing of this kind ; nor was my soul ever on those occasions disturbed and filled with self-reproach, as if it were slavishly laid prostrate. But this Marsyas here has often affected me in the way I describe, until the life which I lead seemed hardly worth living. Do not deny it, Socrates, for I well know that if even now I chose to listen to you, I could not resist, but should again suffer the same effects. For, my friends, he forces me to confess that while I myself am still in want of many things, I neglect my own necessities, and attend to those of the Athenians. I stop my ears, therefore, as from the Syrens, and flee away as fast as possible, that I may not sit down beside him and grow old in listening to his talk. For this man has reduced 140 VOICE AND LANGUAGE. me to feel the sentiment of shame, which I imagine no one would readily believe was in me; he also in- spires me with remorse and awe. For I feel in his presence my incapacity of refuting what he says, or of refusing to do that which -he directs ; but when I depart from him, the glory which the multitude con- fers overwhelms me. I escape, therefore, and hide myself from him, and when I see him I am over- whelmed with humiliation, because I have neglected to do what I have confessed to him ought to be done ; and often and often have I wished that he were no longer to be seen among men. But if that were to happen, I well know that I should suffer far greater pain ; so that where I can turn, or what I can do with this man, I know not. All this have I and many others suffered from the pipings of this satyr. And observe, how like he is to what I said, and what a wonderful power he possesses. Know that there is not one of you who is aware of the real nature of Socrates; but since I have begun, I will make him plain to you. You observe how passionately Socrates affects the intimacy of those who are beautiful, and how ignorant he professes himself to be ; appearances in themselves excessively Silenic. This, my friends, is the external form with which, like one of the sculp- tured Sileni, he has clothed himself; for if you open him, you will find within admirable temperance and wisdom. For he cares not for mere beauty, but de- spises more than any one can imagine all external possessions, whether it be beauty, or wealth, or glory, or any other thing for which the multitude felicitates the possessor. He esteems these things and us who honour them, as nothing, and lives among men, making VOICE AND LANGUAGE. 141 all the objects of their admiration the playthings of his irony. But I know not if any one of you have ever seen the divine images which are within, when he has been opened and is serious. I have seen them, and they are so supremely beautiful, so golden, so divine, and wonderful, that every thing which Socrates commands surely ought to be obeyed, even like the voice of a God." And does not humanity gladly obey such a voice? Can any thing, save mental or moral obtuseness, resist the eloquence which comes direct from a soul charged with incorruptible honor and glowing with the fervor of conviction ? The ablest and noblest minds of every age unite in doing willing homage to illustrious masters of speech, and in recording upon the tablets of history the inspiring truth that the divine gift of eloquence is not incompatible with lustrous purity of character. 13 V. WHO ARE WICKED? The character of Christ is the exposition of my religion, my Chris- tianity. It is my Confession of Faith. — W. H. Furness. La morale est un epanouissement de verites. Contempler mene a agir. L'absolu doit etre pratique. II faut que 1' ideal soit respirable, potable et mangeable a 1' esprit humain. — Victor Hugo. Sir Charles Morgan, writing to Miss Owenson (after- wards Lady Morgan), says: "The physical sciences all consist in facts and reasoning on facts, totally uncon- nected zvith morals, and, as Chamfort says, ' Le monde physique parait l'ouvrage d'un etre parfait et bon, mais le monde moral parait etre le produit des caprices d'un diable devenu fou.' The mind, then, perpetually ab- stracted from the contemplation of this influence, stimu- lated by brilliant discoveries, and absorbed in the con- sideration of beautiful, well-arranged and constant laws, is enlarged to pleasurable emotion, at the same time that it rejoices in the consciousness of its increased powers over the natural world. Those pursuits, on the con- trary, which have been supposed the most to influence happiness and to tame the tiger in our nature, — the moral and metaphysical sciences, belles-lettres, and the 142 WHO ARE WICKED? I43 fine arts, — are, in my opinion, of much more doubtful efficacy. Though their influence, when opposed to the passions, is really as nothing (indeed, they too often but co-operate with them in corrupting the heart), yet they cast a sort of splendour about vice by the refinement they create; and render man, if not a better animal, yet certainly a less horrible animal. As to the question whether humanity is bettered by the multiplying wants, and thereby drawing tighter the social bonds and making us more dependent on each other, on police and on government, we cannot decide, the advantages and disadvantages of each state are so little comparable ; most probably, what is lost on the side of liberty is gained in security and the petty enjoyments which by their repetition become important, so that, on the whole, one age is nearly on a par with another in this respect. As for the influence of these pursuits on the cidtivator of them, there can, in my opinion, be hardly a dispute ; he is to all intents and purposes a victim immolated for the public for which he labours. In morality, the mind always bent upon a gloomy and shaded system of things, is either tortured in making stubborn fact bend to graduate with religions prejudices ; or, if forced to abandon these, lost in seas of endless speculation; consciously feeling actually existing evil y and perfectly skeptical to future good. These sciences, too, gener- ally are connected with a cultivated imagination, the greatest curse in itself to its unfortunate possessor. Imagination, always at variance with reason and truth, delights in exaggeration and dwells most con- stantly on what affects the passions. Its food, its occupation, is pain ; then, again, how constant is that I 4 4 WH0 ARE KICKED? sickly squeamishness of taste which finds nothing to admire, nothing to approve ; that sees the paucity of our conceptions and the endless repetition of them. In point of fact, I have rarely seen poets, painters, or musicians (I mean composers), happy men." With such a conception of morality and imagina- tion it is no wonder Sir Charles thinks physics better worth studying than ethics or esthetics: but although his views present many interesting suggestions and from one side are true, they cannot be admitted as sound and trustworthy doctrines. Nature is never partial or undecided, and is always ready to demon- strate the principles she inculcates in mankind : con- sequently, there can be no hesitation in affirming that the moral sciences — no less than the physical — "all consist in facts and reasoning on facts." Who can doubt that habits contracted or passions indulged bring forth results positive and unchange- able, the same amid every variety of condition and circumstance, the same in every generation? Nothing in physical science is more certain than the conse- quences of good or bad conduct; and however forcible Chamfort's illustration of the contrast between the two worlds — the physical and the ethical — it must be utterly repudiated as a belief. That the physical sciences are more easily comprehended than the ethical will not be disputed, the things of which the senses take cognizance being always more prompt to take root than those which may be revolved in the mind only. i To become proficient in the anatomy of the body would require far less breadth of intellect than to be- come a metaphysician ; on the other hand, owing to WHO ARE WICKED? 145 the close similarity of nature's laws, a student of ethics would have but little difficulty in mastering the prin- ciples of physics, although the facts and details would undoubtedly demand long and assiduous application. A mind habituated to analysis in one direction quickly acquires the facility of using it in others, a knowledge of general principles qualifying it to pre- dict results with unerring certainty. To specify causes for a given course of conduct would lead to tiresome discussion: but, just as in the physical sciences we find certain established facts upon which to erect sys- tems, so in ethics and esthetics the acquisition of one truth explains many others, enabling the mind thus trained to see its subject as distinctly as if it were solid rock, and to believe its deductions as reliable as those from light or sound. In a world where ideas upon morality differ so widely, it is often difficult to arrive at just conclusions concerning our own principles or actions; each being, however, is so deeply interested in the question that he cannot refrain from making the attempt. For the special code of morals of the country in which we chance to live, we are no more responsible than for the features of the landscape, or the archi- tecture of the buildings. We find certain established laws, customs, and opinions, all claiming morality as a basis ; we see that by obeying these laws and con- forming to these customs we gain respect, and that by a contrary course we forfeit it. Hence, to live easily and comfortably we must conform to what we find existing, whether in morality, government, or society. As soon as we refuse to acknowledge the commonly accepted standard and prefer to abide by 13* • I4 6 WHO ARE WICKED? that discovered in our own minds, we must prepare for opposition, contumely, and isolation. Before acting, then, upon our own ideas and impulses, regardless of public opinion, loss of reputation, and consequences, we must count the cost and balance it carefully with our firmness and courage. No being who reflects can deem it strange that people generally should be so perplexed as to the nature of right and wrong. Even if of enlightened minds, forced to believe that nature and conscience are higher authorities than the world's opinion, they must, nevertheless, be fully alive to the immense disadvantage of living at variance with their fellow- beings. By glancing, however, at man's most striking char- acteristics and needs we are enabled to gain some light upon this obscure but momentous subject. The granting that he is pre-eminently social in taste and feeling assumes that there must be communities formed, laws framed, and obedience enforced, all these being essential to the formation of society: but even after we are pledged to this statement, there are so many obstacles and modifications apparent to reason that we are restless and ill at ease instead of calm in the acquiescence. If, however, we find the acquisition of other branches of knowledge attended with fatigue and discomfort, and seem to ourselves more and more ignorant the farther we go, it should hardly appear strange that morality cannot be fully comprehended after a few years of average assiduity. Supposing that from the beginning of conscious thought we find ourselves out of harmony with things visible and ac- WHO ARE WICKED? H7 cepted by others, see our most dearly-cherished sen- timents frowned upon, and hear our highest convic- tions denounced as heretical ; and yet, while striving to repress our natural self, feel ourselves growing downward instead of upward, — what must be the de- duction? Surely we cannot doubt that the life thus led is abnormal, unreal, and unwise, and that wickedness rather than goodness would be the probable out- growth. The doing of that which involves the sacri- fice of our best thoughts and noblest feelings, is unquestionably immoral and reprehensible, far more so than the mere refraining from certain acts which would be punishable by social statutes. When the pessimist assures us that all human beings are inclined to be wicked, and asks, " How many 'good' people, if assured that no ill conse- quences — loss of name, of position, or of respect — would follow infringements upon the moral code of their country, would be found adhering to virtue for its own sake?" — when he avers, furthermore, that there is but little difference between the saint who, when his personal safety is assured, has a keen appre- ciation of forbidden fruit, and the sinner who boldly avows his tastes and boldly gratifies them, — what can we reply? While unable to refute the assertion that a very large proportion of mankind seem strongly inclined towards wickedness rather than goodness, it must be stoutly maintained that the moral system upon which civilization rests depends mainly upon the distinction between sin of thought and sin of deed. In the one case, the wrong that presents itself is 1 48 WHO ARE WICKED? repulsed, and the victor is encouraged, strengthened, elevated ; that day and all other days are the better for his resistance; he himself and all who come under his influence are thereby benefited. . Whereas, in the sin of deed, the perpetrator becomes so enervated or so hardened as to be rendered unfit even for his ordinary work. Not only is its direct effect disastrous, but the future consequences are incalculable and wide-spread. Upon the individual himself the effect may be to injure irremediably a moral nature heretofore sound; and if of a suscepti- ble temperament, the stain incurred may lead him to insanity or self-destruction. While thought may justly be considered the fore- runner of deed, the distance between them must not be forgotten. The conception of evil brings painful regrets and increased watchfulness. The commission of evil not only inflicts suffering upon others, but causes also a personal remorse, which poisons existence. Of the fact that many people are born with weak minds and evil propensities, our own senses furnish daily painful proof. Hereditary traits produce a realization of the mys- tery of being more intense, probably, than any other we are called upon to consider. " Man," says Emer- son, " is physically as well as metaphysically a thing of shreds and patches, borrowed unequally from good and bad ancestors, and a misfit from the start." Undisputed as it is that habits of body and mind, no less than form or feature, are transmitted from generation to generation, it by no means permits the deduction that wrong-doing is thereby justified. Temptation is never given beyond the strength of WHO ARE WICKED? 149 the tempted, and he who succumbs must endure the penalty of his folly. Inherited tastes or qualities must, undoubtedly, strongly influence us, but they remain, nevertheless, subordinate to reason. With this intact, there can be no false standard of honor, no labor lost, no character-failure ; and however insignificant an in- dividual's career may appear to the world, he himself knows it to be the embodiment of his mind's best conception. To what degree the intellect influences morality, is a question upon which the world's teachers hold such conflicting opinions that no course is left open to the individual learner save to listen — after all manner of external counsel has been sought — to his own judgment. Without intellect man is nothing; with it he may become the noblest of all created things. "All our moral feelings," says Ruskin, "are so in- terwoven with our intellectual powers, that we cannot affect the one without in some degree addressing the other ; and in all high ideas of beauty it is more than probable that much of the pleasure depends on delicate and untraceable perceptions of fitness, propriety, and relation, which are purely intellectual, and through which we arrive at our noblest ideas of what is com- monly and rightly called ' intellectual beauty.' Ideas of beauty are among the noblest which can be pre- sented to the human mind, invariably exalting and purifying it according to their degree. And it would appear that we are intended by the Deity to be con- stantly under their influence, because there is not one single object in nature which is not capable of conveying them, and which to the rightly-perceiving mind does not present an incalculably greater number of beautiful than of deformed parts." 150 WHO ARE WICKED? From this it would appear that for a noble concep- tion of religion the idea of beauty is indispensable. Are we not indeed worshipping in the very truest sense when the mind is exalted by the contemplation of a beautiful object? Whether that object be sun, moon, star, mountain, lake, or cataract, or human form and features, matters little; the one important fact being, the effect upon our mind. And this same worship is produced in a much more intense degree by intellectual and moral beauties. Are there not many instances on record where people have bowed in reverence and love before the poet, artist, or patriot whom they have never seen ? And what is this but the highest form of moral worship, one which shows more forcibly perhaps than any other fact in nature the capability of man for a noble destiny? To appreciate physical beauty requires certain per- ceptive qualities of mind far above the ordinary vulgar construction expressed by the word sensual. Our senses are not given us to be despised and ill treated, but for wise and beneficent purposes ; and we cannot live a full and perfect life without giving them due gratification and culture. But to appreciate moral beauty demands qualities of a grade so much higher that the majority can scarcely comprehend their nature, and vainly try to conceal their inefficiency by ridiculing or professing to undervalue such qualities. To try to explain to a dull mind why we admire a certain book or picture or heroic trait of character, would be wholly useless: the capability requisite for the appreciation wanting, neither patience nor energy can supply the deficiency. A fine moral sense enables us to detect both beauties WHO ARE WICKED 151 and defects with a quickness which seems no less surprising to ourselves than to others : by trusting it implicitly we are drawn into relations of closest in- timacy with those of like character, — whether living or dead, known personally or not, — relations which no earthly vicissitude can change; or, we are warned not to yield our confidence to those whose difference of moral sense establishes a barrier which neither law nor religion can overcome. Amid the follies consequent upon human perversity, the intellect may, it is true, become disordered and unreliable; but, in its normal condition, reason enables us to distinguish truth from falsehood, conviction from tradition, and often proves that much-vaunted virtue is less an evidence of intrinsic worth of char- acter, than of customs peculiar to an age or people. Moreover, reason finds no resting-place in statutes framed by fallible men, at best recognizing them as simply a means of inspiring the alternate fear and protection required by conflicting human interests. In estimating the gifts bestowed upon man, reason should have the highest valuation. Does not thought precede action? A project, whether good or bad, must be generated in the brain, and receive there the credentials which enable it to flourish in word, act, or influence. Each possibility that presents itself there should be hailed as a new creation, a sign of greater than has gone before, a foretaste of reality. It im- ports little in which direction such a possibility tends, whether philanthropic, utilitarian, or esthetic. Its advent is the great fact to be welcomed with warmth and gratitude. To a great extent, therefore, intellect is to be held 152 WHO ARE WICKED? responsible for violations of conscience. In an age of boasted enlightenment it is not enough to say, "such a man is immoral:" humanity bids us discover what makes him so, by what inherent or acquired weakness he has become thus deformed. Does this belief lead to the inference that there is no absolute evil in the world ? Undoubtedly : and this inference is drawn from the fact that out of the worst calamities or crimes, good is eventually deduced. Without despotism we should have no conception of liberty or patriotism. From intemperance come the sternest lessons and the noblest examples of sobriety. Luxury surfeits men with things evanescent, and drives them into reflection and simplicity of living. Crime reveals the tendencies of human nature, making us realize, as nothing else could, the necessity of restraining appetites and passions. War teaches na- tions to respect each other's rights, and demonstrates the existence of extraordinary virtues in individuals previously considered worthless members of a com- munity. Probably all men are conscious of possessing better qualities than they show, and even the worst vaguely feel themselves unhappy in their lawlessness. The demon is only the god perverted, and is far more dreaded than need be. Through ignorance as to the cause of their immo- rality, vast numbers of men and women are debarred from lives of happy utility and compelled to undergo intense suffering. Investigation proves that corrup- tion of any kind has its origin in slight causes, such as are essentially human, and which neither religion nor legislation can eradicate : consequently, when the mind WHO ARE WICKED? 153 is well balanced there is less liability to moral trans- gression. No scheme has ever been devised by which good- ness may be raised from badness, or a desire for knowl- edge kindled in minds deadened by generations of sloth and stupidity. To learn, then, of what excesses men and women are capable when unrestrained by education, church, or society, awakens a profound sympathy for those who through some inscrutable dispensation have been deprived of those protective influences. Examined through an ethical lens, human beings are more alike than is generally supposed. In the convict and in the law-abiding citizen are found similar passions and capabilities; hence, criminals of intelligence should receive much severer punishment than those steeped in ignorance. Does it not frequently happen that men are wicked because their affections or energies are not legitimately employed? Surely such cases deserve the most careful treatment humanity can suggest, one which aims less at the chaining or destroying of the criminal than at preventing his misdeeds and reform- ing his character. Single acts of passion or depravity should not be deemed sufficient cause for removing the transgressor from every good influence and thrust- ing him into the society of those so much worse than himself that they scoff at his initiatory crime because of its tameness and puerility. 11 1 might have committed crime, for it has been in my heart a hundred times," is a confession which mul- titudes of respectable men and women could make were it not for the stern prohibition of spiritual pride. Moreover, in the fact that thousands of crimes escape *4 1 154 WHO ARE WICKED? the hands of the law, may be seen proof that people may be sinners and yet continue to live in their usual places*and perform their usual duties. That it is natural to feel indignant at the commis- sion of crimes which destroy life, or plunge families into desolation, and to desire swift punishment for the criminals, every one will admit ; but indignation and desire for vengeance need at all times the control of reason, and by contemplating the struggles it costs even the most intellectual and the most conscientious to keep their principles intact, we learn to look with sentiments of profound commiseration upon those who are forced to engage in the same conflict without equal means of defence. Morally speaking, no man can fairly judge another. Each might truly say; In my own conduct what to others may appear a trivial fault, may to my own con- science be as positive a violation of right as a crime in another ; and what in another is execrated as a crime in the ordinary sense, may be less a result of depravity than of ignorance or passion. The relative nature of " goodness " and of " badness' r has among thinkers long been an acknowledged fact, although among thoughtless people there is a strange willingness to accept a fashion analogous to that reg- ulating costume or manner. Hence, just as we see many oddly-shaped and useless garments brought into vogue, so, many extraordinary opinions grow into religious beliefs, and saints and sinners are portioned off with startling promptitude according to the bigotry of sect or the prejudice of class. Certain actions, harmless for some people, for others differently situated may be positively wrong. WHO ARE WICKED? 155 How then, it might be asked, can there be a just discrimination between this vexed question of right and wrong? To which the reply might be: Begin- ning with the individual, his organization and circum- stances decide unequivocally for him what may or may not be touched. What for one man is a simply con- vivial evening, for another is an orgie; or he may be absolutely faithful in ordinary duties while within he is conscious of a moral flaw which destroys his peace. To state the chief obstructions to sound morality would rightly claim a volume, but in desultory chap- ters there can appear only shadows of thought and feeling. In answer to the question, " Who are wicked?" might be answered: Self-indulgent people — those who yield to the thought, habit, or impulse which impairs usefulness, fosters selfishness, and pre- pares the way for greater degeneration. A character thus undermined is utterly incapable of resisting even casual temptation, and may be expected to take any downward step whatsoever. Save in exceptional cases where by the law of in- heritance a being is cruelly stamped at birth, moral degeneration announces its approach by unmistakable warnings, which permit ample time for resistance. The first indication, it is true, may be so slight, so little different from the ordinary state, as hardly to be noticed. No noise, no angry remonstrance, no posi- tive hindrance, testifies to the presence of the enemy. But sensitive souls are speedily aware of the least change in thought or feeling, and know from the first symptoms what others know only after the malady has assumed a marked character. On the other hand, people of susceptibility and re- 56 WHO ARE WICKED? fmement are much more liable to be tempted by self- indulgence than those who are coarse and dull. Imagi- nation, especially, is a gift accompanied by countless dangers, unless reason be strong enough to curb its flights: its power of beautifying even common objects increases the number and persistency of temptations, and it is ever fertile in suggesting ingenious ways of escaping their consequences. It cannot be doubted, however, that an imaginative mind has a far clearer perception of personal defects and transgressions than a prosaic one. To the imagi- native man, dominated by passion, or — what is no less tyrannical — habit, there come moments of revelation in which his egregious folly is made so manifest that the pleasurable emotion or sensation for which con- science has been violated, loses its vitality. Distinctly, as in a vision, he beholds the dread spirit which in an evil hour was admitted into the citadel of his nature ; realizes the deplorable state to w T hich it has reduced him, feels how certainly it will prove his ruin, and yet knows himself morally unable to overcome the cause of his despair. With what deep humiliation he recog- nizes in his daily conduct a thousand-times-repeated excess, or avows the bitter truth that the life which might have been honorable and happy has through one pitiful weakness been. completely wrecked ! Like a dead weight upon the soul, such a consciousness first oppresses and then tortures through the ever- present truth that relief from any outward source is impossible. After excessive strain the innate moral force becomes exhausted, and virtue may be seen and admired when the power to attain it is forever gone: moreover, the knowledge of its original vigor serves WHO ARE WICKED? 157 only to augment the poignancy of regret. Dreading temptation, and yet conscious of verging towards it, aware that both reason and feeling have lost their in- stinctive horror of evil, it is not strange that life should become replete with discontent and misery. Like a sick man longing to do the things for which he has no strength, so one morally disabled realizes his inability to cope with those situations and contin- gencies which once were so easy of control. Complex as human nature is, there is, nevertheless, in every soul a unity so simple that the faintest degree of intelligence suffices for its comprehension. This unity is Conscience. Given as a special means of guidance and protection, when duly cared for it be- comes infallible, the connecting link between man and infinity. To preserve it intact, the highest moments of intellectual activity should be devoted to its interests. When granted full development it acquires that sub- limity of mien before which cowardice, frivolity, and vice stand abashed ; that intensity of action which forces admiration even from the bitterest of enemies. The most pitiable of sinners is he who has conscience and will unevenly balanced, the latter not strong enough to control imagination and appetite, the former quick to feel isolation and suffer the consequences. Such a man passes what by courtesy he calls his life in alternate sinning and repenting: too weak to do the good he sees, too timid to enjoy the bad he takes, too conscientious to be satisfied with his indefinite position, he drifts along incapable of giving assistance or pleasure to others, and a hopeless burden to him- self. Balzac says of one of his characters in " Illu- sions Perdues :" " Lucien had repented so many times 14* i 5 8 WHO ARE WICKED? during the past eighteen months, that his repentance, however violent, came to have no greater value than that of a scene admirably acted, and acted moreover in good faith." Repentance may thus become a mere emotion, a barren wish, a periodical outburst of regret and desire without the slightest beneficial result. In the world such a character excites more contempt than pity, but the clear perception of weakness or sin stirs a reflective mind to investigation: perceiving that men are what they are through such a multiplicity of causes, he cannot look with contempt upon any form of humanity. One who devotes the same honesty and fearlessness to the study of ethics as to that of other sciences, is not astonished that wickedness is so rife, at times in- deed is even inclined to think that men individually are not accountable for their follies and inconsistencies. As regards the actual amount of intellect or con- science given them by nature, they are not; but we cannot forget that temptation comes to them in pro- portion to their calibre: consequently, with these as with more gifted men it is not ignorance but self- indulgence which is at the root of evil-doing. "The fate which oppresses us," says O. B. Froth- ingham, "is the sluggishness of our spirit. By en- largement and cultivation of our activity we change ourselves into Fate. Every thing seems to stream in upon us because we do not stream out. We are nega- tive because we choose to be so; the more positive we become, the more negative will the world around us be, until at last there is no more negative and we are all in all." The revelation made to the soul in the highest hour of destiny is the one to be accepted as WHO ARE WICKED? 1 59 the arbiter of destiny, and until the actual life be in unison with that revelation, peace of mind will be an impossibility. Many people complain that they have no time to investigate this problem called morality; or, that dwelling much upon the difficult questions com- prised in the terms goodness, badness, virtue, and vice plunges them into a kind of despair. And yet, without such investigation how can any being live and act justly ? To assert that the soul's organization must be studied before good is to result from human lives, would be as idle as to affirm that there can be no health without medical science, no music without instruction, no love of nature without art. The sound condition of an organ, as every one knows, is proved by forgetfulness of its existence: in the same manner there are many fresh young souls who live beautiful lives unconsciously. But, enchanting as is the aspect of youthful innocence, this phase cannot last; and maturity brings an array of facts and enigmas so startling that their study becomes an imperative need. In the moral as well as in the material world, his- tory is made by disturbances, conflicts, experiences, all that turmoil which brings the secret springs of action to light and urges men to contemplation, analysis, and action. Were mortals immaculate, they could hardly comprehend the beauty of holiness. But if, as explorers of morality announce, they are continually encountering fresh perplexities and deeper mysteries, may there not be risk in permitting the mind to dwell upon the subtle questions of cause and effect which these explorations are sure to awaken ? To those who study nature merely to find justifica- 160 WHO ARE WICKED? tion for the indulgence of personal foibles, undoubt- edly there would be risk; but those who amid all their researches keep in view a noble aim, learn that life is many-sided, offering exhaustless opportunities for thought, action, increase of knowledge, and per- fection of character. Precisely then, as every new discovery in physical science, from the lowest form of vegetable life to the remotest nebula, enriches the mind and enhances its reverence for creation, so the study of ethics augments the resources of the soul and facilitates emancipation from materialism. In the words of Emerson, " we need not fear that we can lose any thing by the progress of the soul. The soul can be trusted to the end." Investigation is never wasted, and however meagre the immediate result, it turns the mind from ignoble pursuits and brings it within the jurisdiction of pro- gress. We must be grateful for glimpses of Truth, even when unable to seize and hold her. Knowledge, how- ever imperfect or partially acted upon, brings a vivid sense of satisfaction ; for, if we cannot at this moment be what we wish, we may dwell with delight up'on the idea of future excellence. A timid, self-distrustful character contemplating men and things, is prone to regard himself as so utterly insignificant that he almost wonders at his own desire for progress. Times innumerable he is tempted to exclaim : Why this unrest? Of what avail this striving after the impossible, this hunger for perfection? If the goal I aim at cannot, even after every imaginable sacrifice, be reached, why am I not justified in drinking the cup of pleasure which each day presents? WHO ARE WICKED? 161 By the power of reflection, however, he discerns sundry weighty reasons why he should not yield to this natural impulse. One life helps or hinders all other lives; one wrong act begins with ourselves but ends we know not where. Wishing to learn the worth of personality, our own past will show us what lessons of wisdom or folly were acquired from human companionship or written thoughts. Those who have safely passed through many painful experiences can look back and gather in many facts and principles whereby they may benefit those who are to follow in the same track. For, while human lives, externally, are widely different, the inner discipline is in all men very similar. The novice in moral science cannot help a feeling of surprise, almost a suspicion of unfairness, in observ- ing that some people, by no means the most deserving ones, escape severe trials and pass through life smoothly and pleasantly; that in these unequal dis- tributions of fortune the good are often far less gen- erously treated than the wicked; sometimes indeed when witnessing the struggles of men of science or art to keep the intellect out of the vortex of worldly cares, it seems as if nature intended that the great ones of the earth should never be in a state of physical or mental comfort. But upon reaching a higher grade of thought, the student finds that he dare not rest content with a superficial judgment of nature: the main point being, not whether we possess or can do a certain number of things, but whether we have a true appreciation of life itself. What if a man have a thorough appreciation of this 162 WHO ARE WICKED? boon and yet through lack of actual comforts be rendered unfit to pursue high aims? again asks the novice. That such cases exist, cannot be denied, replies the student, but at the same time it must not be forgotten that men for the most part crave infinitely more than positive needs; if not for themselves it is for family or appearances that they strive to attain a material con- dition wholly incompatible with a scientific or intel- lectual career. Justly considered, how few of the world's goods are essential to the man or woman who is absorbed in a noble work! Viewed in the abstract, comfort and luxury might be called the two bitterest opponents of human pro- gress. Who would voluntarily choose a lonely, isolated life ? Yet from enforced isolation have come some of the divinest strains of poetry and some of the strong- est deductions of reason that the world has ever heard. Who would accept sorrow as the price of fame ? Yet from sorrow have sprung deeds that immortalized the doer. Who, were there any chance of escape, or even were he assured of a nobler character-development than could be obtained by any other discipline, would submit to uncongenial companionship ? Yet through companionship that chafed the soul wellnigh to frenzy men have discovered in themselves abilities before wholly unsuspected, and which otherwise would have lain for ever dormant. Happily for the race, the petty evasions of the individual count but little in the great system of progress, and worthless plans are ruthlessly sacrificed by fate for the unfolding of some higher de- WHO ARE WICKED? 1 63 sign. If it be deemed that such a view of life lessens responsibility, and tends to that fatalism which regards even despotism and crime as indispensable conditions of existence, it must at the same time be remembered that there is a wide difference between the fatalism of ignorance and the acquiescence of enlightenment. The first has no aim beyond a material existence, and is content because unaware of better things ; the second is that submission to the inevitable which proceeds not from fear or inertia, but from a firm persuasion that in the end good will ensue. What is righteousness ? what is wickedness ? are questions upon which the moral sentiment of each country, community, and sect gives forth very definite opinions, while individuals judge according to per- sonal reason and feeling. Righteousness seems to be an embodiment of those spiritual attributes which we call self-control and aspiration. These, of course, can- not be produced at will, but result spontaneously from training and experience, both in the individual himself and in his progenitors. Where a sound spirituality exists, it would be as impossible to cease searching after perfection as it would be to rest content in sloth and ignorance. Whatever tends to weaken, distract, or dissipate natural energy is instinctively avoided, and all the faculties are made to concentrate in a noble aim. In such a nature the mere suggestion of evil within, causes as great a shock as the commis- sion of it by another; every outward ill is regarded as trivial compared to moral discrepancies ; and the heaviest calamity can be calmly endured if the con- science is acquitted of treachery. Righteousness is personified by the mind that can think the most, the 164 WHO ARE WICKED? heart that can feel the most, the sympathy that can embrace the most; by the soul that can endure the most, whether of misfortune, vilification, or scorn, and yet love all mankind with a strong and inalienable devotion. Wickedness seems less a product of society than of an individual wanton will and demoralized heart; and the general custom of denouncing those who minister to or abet such wantonness and demoralization has a tendency to divert attention from the primal cause of ruin. When a man acknowledges himself weak in self-government, we may be sure the process of degen- eration has long been going on. One compliance with the demands of unlawful gain or pleasure makes the way easy for another; and through familiarity and repetition, the act once deemed impossible is deliber- ately or recklessly committed. Probably the most hardened criminal can recall the hour when a slight exertion of the will would have restrained the appetite or the passion which eventually destroyed him. The fact that man may — morally — stumble and fall as well as run or leap, admits of neither wonder nor contempt, but must be weighed with serious interest, and regarded as a proof of the humanity which con- nects the lowliest with the most exalted. Character cannot become either ennobled or vitiated by a sudden stroke : for both conditions adequate causes exist, and for each is predestined peace or misery. The soul, like the body, is quick to recuperate after injury, and wondrously tenacious of life; but its stam- ina once exhausted, ho device of religion, no personal wish or effort, can prevent collapse. WHO ARE WICKED? 1 65 All the faculties of the mind, as well as all human experience, clearly demonstrate that the states of being called weal and woe are less dispensations from Heaven than unavoidable effects from natural causes. Glancing, for instance, at that phase of morality expressed by the word retribution: nothing is more certain, not even death, and like that, the shape it assumes is always different from the one expected. People indulge in their pet foibles, with occasional com- punctions, it may be, but with a feeling of certainty that they know the consequences and are prepared for them. But lo, when retribution comes it inflicts a punishment never conceived of and which touches the tenderest sensibilities. The most cherished plans are subverted, the most vigorous affections paralyzed, the sweetest pleasures cut off, — and there is no appeal. Folly was indulged in, supreme laws were violated, high prerogatives were sacrificed, a temporary peace was obtained at the price of a pitiful compromise: and when for such conduct the just penalty is inflicted, neither supplication nor promise will ameliorate the suffering. Retribution is a fixed law, which neither force nor weakness can change, and which cripples, chastises, and humiliates precisely in proportion to transgression. " See with what tremendous severity even frailties are scourged," says O. B. Frothingham. " Faults which are not mischievous enough to be crimes, nor wilful enough to be sins, bring on their possessor immediate and grave penalties : batteries of cannon discharged against mosquitoes — swords of cherubim drawn against gnats! It seems sometimes as if Nature acted on the old theory that every sin, being a sin against an in- *5 1 66 WHO ARE WICKED? finite Being, was infinite and merited an infinite doom. He is a brave man who in the face of obvious con- sequences dares to cherish even a foible. Indolence is an enticing and pardonable weakness, but it entails failure and backwardness ; it dooms its devotee to a place in the rear of improvement, and consigns him to the limbo of the hangers-on ; it impairs at once the impulse, the desire, and the power to excel ; defeats ambition, squanders faculty, destroys self-respect, and subjects one to weariness and monotony of existence — perhaps to ridicule. " Procrastination is deemed a venial fault; but it is reckoned with as a heinous crime; for in the accumu- lation of trouble it brings, in the mortifying sense of imbecility, in the perpetual missing of opportunity, in gradual heedlessness of duty, in the blame, the dislike, the anger, of those whom it subjects to inconvenience, and possibly to distress, and, ultimately, in the deep and hopeless regret which overwhelms the mind, in view of arrears of obligation that can never be brought up, a penalty is imposed, sufficient, one would think, to make every man a minute man." However eloquently ignorance or passion may be urged in extenuation of sin, however keen and sincere the contrition that follows, retribution never swerves from its appointed task. But how, cries Humanity, can I do battle with the host of unruly thoughts and impulses which are ever contending for the mastery of my being ? To which Nature replies: That part of man called spirit is so active that it must of necessity find employ- ment, and if good be not put in its way will spend its energy upon evil. WHO ARE WICKED? 1 67 People have been known to confess themselves so weary of the sameness of life that they were ready to welcome even wrong-doing as a relief. Morbid as this state is, the liability to fall into it exists in a multitude of human beings, the causes of such abnormal craving lying in faculties perverted by ignorance or injudicious training. The minutest speck of evil allowed to remain upon the soul after the light of knowledge has been turned upon it, may so increase as to blight an entire life and bring down upon it execration instead of blessing. Observation teaches likewise that the noblest type of soul created is capable of moral resistance up to a given point only; that crossed, he is no more to be trusted than one of inferior mould. But what most men would call wickedness, the character-student would call humanity; and inasmuch as folly and weakness, no less than wisdom and strength, are attributes of the human condition, all men whether great or small must share both its perils and bounties. Youth, it is true, cannot conceive of nobleness and meanness in the same person: if he notice a man evincing a taste for something low and coarse, he rashly pronounces him altogether of that calibre; if another manifest re- finement in one act or pursuit, he straightway imagines he must be so under every circumstance. Human history assures us, however, that man is equally susceptible to good and bad influences, hence — in a moral sense — never safe. Here and there, undoubtedly, one may be found who, even amid the worst surroundings, remains staunch; but such a case must always be regarded as too rare to serve as a precedent or a principle. 1 68 WHO ARE WICKED? Assuming, then, that none are infallible, the confi- dence we are in the habit of placing in others, or in ourselves, because of worthy antecedents or present honorable conduct, is liable at any time to be rudely shaken. Not an agreeable reflection to those who deem themselves far removed from the habits, sins, and vices of the people around them : but the only point of consequence is, how much truth does it con- tain ? Does not the study of human nature teach that badness is simply perverted goodness, the turn- ing into wrong channels the stream of activity which elsewhere would produce growth and beauty? In general, " naughty" or mischievous children are far more interesting than good, sedate ones, and become favorites with their elders no less than with their play- mates. It is not the naughtiness which attracts, but the force of character, the cleverness, the vitality, which if unperverted or fitly guided would expend itself with the same intensity in an opposite direction. The very qualities which, well regulated, produce a noble development of character, when perverted or misdirected yield misery and degradation. There seems no reason why children, no less than men and women, should not be taught that true religion means living from hour to hour doing the right thing and avoiding that known to be wrong ; that it matters not what our belief, education, social position, tastes, pleasures, aims, or aspirations are — at least none of these will help us — if we are not hourly living con- scientious lives. Each of these hours we often treat so lightly, brings with it positive advantages which it behooves us to employ for the highest possible good; opportunities which may affect our whole future, which WHO ARE WICKED f i6g we are bound to use if we would know inward peace and harmony. If I had known that, a man exclaims, how dif- ferently I should have acted! Weak, pitiful regret! Far better if he say to himself: You are not to know what is enveloped in the future, but simply to bring your noblest conception of duty into activity now. Whatever you do, think, or say, put the best of your- self into it, striving incessantly to realize that at any instant your present privileges may be cut off. No wonder that a feeling of dread comes over sensi- tive minds in their better moments, a shrinking as if on the verge of a precipice, as the thought of their actual life is contrasted with what might be ! Deep, clear, earnest thought alone can save men from sinking into a miserable material state of existence, one destructive alike to themselves and to their fellow-creatures ! All praise, all gratitude then to the thinkers of any age or country, who make us see what we are and what we may be, the wide gulf between the actual and the possible! Hour to hour! Let this be a motto, a principle, a guide, a means of rousing our dormant faculties and infusing a new vital experience into this apparently monotonous earthly routine. All this coming and going, working and playing, eating and drinking, thinking and talking, all this heterogeneous mass making what is called the " daily life" of men and women, what avails it unless a definite object be recognized beneath the routine? And what avails even this object, if its inspiring thought be not one which will sustain the soul even when all earthly ambitions have failed? To attempt to study the different religions of the 15* ' • i; WHO ARE WICKED? world for purposes of personal enlightenment relative to our choice of one which might answer the needs of the soul, would be a project resulting in an irretriev- able waste of time and irremediable mental confusion. If life mean any thing real and earnest for us we shall thankfully take the religion — as ordinarily understood — of our age and country, just as we take its govern- ment, customs, and enlightenment. Not that we are passively to accept good or bad doctrines, but to apply reason to the consideration of whatever we are taught, and labor unceasingly to deduce from it such truth as will harmonize with the absolute law of conscience as found within each individual soul. "Nous avons un devoir," says Victor Hugo: "tra- vail.ler a Fame humaine, defendre le mystere contre le miracle, adorer l'incomprehensible et rejeter l'absurde, n'admettre, en fait d'inexplicable, que le necessaire, assainir la croyance, oter les superstitions de dessus la religion." Alluding to the knowledge of human nature Jesus invariably manifested, Dr. Furness says : " Thus, his heart beating full and strong with the tenderest human sensibilities, this wonderful young man pursued his lofty way alone with God, with no present aid or past precedent, through the deep mystery of being. Was there ever any thing sublimer than his self-possession? He neither sought to evade the inevitable, nor was he driven to precipitate it. Did one ever before or since bear himself on the brink of so black an abyss with so serene a mind ? There is not observable in him the slightest exaggeration or incoherency. Mankind ad- vances only to find every new age illustrating the truth of his words, and rendering his greatness the WHO ARE WICKED? 17 1 more wonderful. He was the model for all the world, and for all time, of wisdom simple and profound, and of an unprecedented consideration for others. He was always present, and more than equal to every occasion that arose. He said what the moment offered him the opportunity of saying, and that so admirably that nothing was left unsaid, and yet so simply and natu- rally, that what he said seems now a matter of course. Nothing could occur to him, however suddenly and adversely, that he did not so turn it to his service, that Nature and Providence appear to have been in collu- sion with him, plotting to aggrandize him. He over- looked nothing. He turned every thing to his account, the wild flowers and the birds of the air, every thing down to the small grain of mustard-seed, and to homely domestic employments, the making of bread, he made serve his great purposes. In such familiar communion, by the way, as he was with inanimate nature, can it be supposed that he was insensible to human sympathy? . . . "But, after all, the manner of doing a thing always has a very large, if not the largest, share in deter- mining its effect. The greatest act may be spoiled by the way in which it is done, a*nd the homeliest office of kindness may be discharged with a grace that shall hint of Heaven. It is not in the form or in the word, but in the spirit that lies the power. And the great personal power of Jesus cannot, I conceive, be fully accounted for without bringing distinctly into view what it seldom occurs to us to think of, as it is scarcely once alluded to in the Gospels, and if it were alluded to, was not a thing that admitted of being readily described : his personal presence, in a word, \J2 WHO ARE WICKED? his manner. All that we read in the records in regard to it is, that his teaching was marked by a singular air of authority. No, this was not a thing to be described. It was felt too deeply. It penetrated to that depth in the hearts of men whence no words come, whither no words reach. It was the strong humanity expressed in the whole air of him, and unobstructed by any thought of himself, that drew the crowd around him, or at least fixed them in the attitude of breathless attention. Many a heart, I doubt not, was made to thrill and glow by the intonations of his voice attuned to a divine sincerity, or by the passing expression of his countenance beaming with the truth, which is the presence and power of the Highest. In fine, it was his manner that rendered perfect the expression of his humanity, and gave men assurance of his thorough sincerity. And the peculiar charm of his humanity is, that it bloomed out in the fulness of beauty, not in the sunlight of joy, but under the deep gloom of an early, lonely, and cruel death ever present to him as the one special thing which he was bound to suffer. . . . "Notwithstanding the deadly hatred of men, he loved them with a love stronger than death, and put faith in them as no other ever has done. The outcast he treated with a brother's tenderness, identifying himself with the meanest of his fellow-men, and in the most emphatic manner teaching that sympathy withheld from the least is dishonor cast upon the greatest. " Strikingly as his entire possession of himself and his freedom from all extremes stand out in contrast with his perfect knowledge of his fate, yet upon re- WHO ARE WICKED? 173 flection it is evident that it was because of this fore- knowledge, because he had renounced all solicitude about himself, that he was so self-possessed, so con- siderate, and so wise. Being relieved by his self-re- nunciation from all selfish anxieties, his whole great and generous nature, having God and truth and humanity for its aims, rejoiced in its unfettered liberty." VI. GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. Armado. What great men have been in love ? Moth. Hercules, master. Armado. Most sweet Hercules ! — More authority, dear boy, name more; and sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and car- riage. — Shakspeare. La Famille s'appuie sur 1' Amour, et la Societe sur la Famille. Done PAmour precede tout. — Michelet. Love never fails to master what he finds, But works a different way in different minds, The fool enlightens, and the wise he blinds. — Dryden. Who can put the intangible into form, seize the subtile mysteries of the soul, and give them name, date, and origin ? None : and yet the poet comes so much nearer than any other towards expressing the sentiments and pas- sions common to all, that we instinctively turn to him in hours of deep emotion and in epochs of unwonted experiences. We know that he penetrates where others cannot go, and that the God-given power within him divines the enigmas which to others seem wholly incomprehensible. But even when we have listened to all he has to tell us we are not satisfied, but rest- less under the ever-present consciousness that there i74 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 175 is more, far more in the human soul than even he can reveal. Like the rosy hue on the Alps at sunset, love trans- figures the humblest object into a vision of beauty, and carries the mind into regions whence all the com- mon ills of life appear insignificant and endurable. Even when the actual image is removed from sight, and we stand amid the shadows of evening wondering whether that glimpse of heaven will ever return, a strange peace steals over the heart, and we again take up the thread of material existence with a spirit both enlightened and refreshed. What has been enjoyed in that communion with nature can be spoken to no human ear, but the remembrance lingers within long after ordinary avocations have been renewed, and im- parts to them a vitality before unknown. Strange, irresistible power, emanating we know not whence, working we know not how, but bringing such tender messages of hope and consolation that men are ready to sacrifice all other earthly things for its sake ! None so high, none so low as to escape this universal sovereignty : and even were it possible, who would wish to escape what brings such rare delight ! Lives there a man so callous, or a woman so disheartened, who does not gladly listen either to " some shallow story of deep love," or to a "deep story of a deeper love"? Ever new, ever diversified, ever attractive, it alternately kindles the imagination, touches the sensi- bilities, and arouses the sympathies of the listener. Knowing neither time, age, space, nor any of the obstacles which ordinarily deter men from their de- sired ends, love, like a gentle visitant from an invisible sphere, comes down into the abodes of men to soothe, 176 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. heal, and rejoice, tarrying longest with those who best appreciate its ministrations. True, having once touched the earth, it becomes subject to those con- ditions of change entailed upon humanity at creation ; but who would murmur at a dispensation which reason assures us is just ? Blessed, thrice-blessed decree that the supreme delights of earth should be so brief and evanescent ! Were all our days full of absorbing bliss, the minds needed for thinking and the hands for work- ing would be found wanting. Where then would be those great achievements in art, literature, science, and philanthropy, which now reflect so much honor upon human genius ? Chiefly from hours clouded with care and embittered with suffering come those mag- nificent proofs of art or moral courage which first hold generations spell-bound with admiration, and then spur them on to the development of their own treasures and capacities. While passing through the ordeal of hope, fear, and uncertainty, the extremes of rapture and de- spondency which pertain to this passion, surely no mortal would be strong enough to concentrate his energies upon prosaic labor. Inexplicable art thou, O Amor ! We cannot trust thee wholly, and yet are forced to acknowledge thee all-potent in moving hearts hither and thither at thy lawless will and roving fancy ! So arbitrarily are thy delights and torments dispensed, that those who at one period most eagerly seek thy grace, at another strive most earnestly to elude thy presence. How utterly incapacitated for the ordinary work of life are thy votaries ! How completely absorbed in the one object all the faculties of their being! Even under GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 177 the happiest auspices what doubt, apprehension, and jealousy dost thou not engender! Mischievous god! Well symbolized by an innocent little child whose blindness makes him the more harmless, he first attracts and then tyrannizes, so deftly, that even the proudest is finally compelled to submit to his yoke. Guileless enough is his sweet countenance, but his wiles and cunning are unfathomable. Delighting in surprise and strategy, in all manner of sly device, he is never more buoyant than when his victim is entan- gled beyond hope of escape ! This accomplished, he enters upon a series of pranks unequalled in ingenuity by any other experience, and baffling the prudence, intention, and will of the sufferer. Amenable to no rule, he pursues his warfare defiant of opinion or remonstrance, and only by unremitting vigilance, stringent discipline, and barriers of every conceivable contrivance are his assaults resisted. All this men know, and, nevertheless, to the impassioned, poetic soul love is the idea best worth living for, fight- ing for, dying for — that only which indemnifies for the ceaseless toil and harassment inalienable from exist- ence. With it — the possession full and undisputed of a heart beating in unison with his own — he can brave a host of misfortunes and still proclaim life an incal- culable privilege. With that heart, that other self wait- ing for him, the wearisome tasks that press so heavily upon the unloved, are cheerfully performed. Out- wardly like other workers, within he is sustained by the thought of the precious reward that is to be his when those tasks are over. What among all earth's blessings can compare with love such as noble men and gentle women interpret it? Ethereal and yet mun- 16 i;8 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES, dane ; soaring ever into regions of romance and yet longing for a pressure of the hand, a glance of the eye, a sealing of the lip; suffering acutely from separation and enabled to bear its suspense only through hopeful anticipations of the future ; filled with joy when re- united and made conscious that one such hour com- pensates for all past anxiety — such are the fluctuations to which this passion is subject. And how marvellous the changes it brings forth ! The eye becomes illu- mined, the voice invested with unwonted eloquence, the manner radiates the elixir of content, the universe discloses new wonders, the air is fraught with balmy fragrance, ordinary sounds are full of rare music, the mind acquires a penetrative force before unknown — in brief, the entire being is metamorphosed. Like all other emotions, love is tinged with the char- acter of the individual under its influence. Whether stern, exacting, and self-asserting, ardent, impetuous, and changeable, or tender, generous, and self-sacri- ficing, every manifestation corresponds to a special trait of disposition. High mental culture united to sound morality produces conduct incomprehensible to inferior natures, but which meets with quick response from those similarly endowed : whereas a narrow un- derstanding and lax principles are wholly incapable of a love which will survive the vicissitudes incident to time and circumstances. Knowing how a man thinks and lives, we may know how he will love: seeing in what manner a woman passes her time, we can readily foresee the kind of man upon w 7 hom she will fix her affections. Notwithstand- ing the acknowledged arbitrary nature of this passion, we are conscious of a strong inner current of feeling GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 179 which under circumstances of free choice will decide as to the mental and moral grade of the object of our affections. A woman of deep sensibility and refine- ment is rarely seen bestowing her love upon a man of low tastes, one inferior to herself in the essentials of mind and heart: neither would a man of strong conscientiousness and earnest aims be likely to be- come enchained by a worldly, frivolous woman. Love in its loftiest phases can be known only by men and women of character, those who have learned the best meaning of life. Love is an " illusion," men say. Granted : but is it more so than pride, hope, hate, cruelty, or any one of the multiform feelings, passions, and sentiments inci- dent to human nature ? To what part indeed may the term "substance" be fitly applied? Those who have devoted the best years of youth and ability to the ac- quisition of an art or a science are sometimes heard expressing doubt as to the wisdom of their course; and in a still less degree does the pursuit of wealth or other material benefits awaken a sense of substance with regard to the object held. The cynic who con- temptuously designates love an "illusion," a danger- ous phantasy which leads men astray, is no nearer a solution of the problem and no more exempt from its influence than the youth who firmly believes that nothing can ever cool the ardor of a first passion. But the illusory attributes of our highest joys need not depress us. Is the delight caused by a gorgeous sunset marred by the knowledge that those brilliant- hued clouds will presently vanish and leave but the vivid remembrance of beauty? Or, the thrill produced by certain strains of music lessened by the conviction 180 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. that they can never be reproduced with precisely the same skill and under the same circumstances? Or, are we deterred from seeking the charms of friendship by the consciousness that accident or death may cause the anguish of separation? On the contrary: we are so constituted that we gaze, listen, seek, and enjoy, knowing well that this state must soon cease, but feeling nevertheless that we would not willingly change aught or barter our beautiful dreams for sober facts. Of what avail that the stony materialist should scoff at the boon that all humanity hopes for and prays for? — denounce a passion which, when disastrous to happiness, is so only in proportion to corrupt moral principle? Better, it would seem, to place implicit confidence in the leading of the heart, and believe that to some natures sentiment is as essential to life as facts are to others. Where activity of imagination vies with a desire for present human sympathy, inconsist- encies in conduct often occur which are regarded with scorn by all save the student of heart-history who knows that fierce hunger may drive men and women into those anomalous situations where, eventually, neither heart nor conscience finds repose; and that, however loudly the moralist may cry the note of warn- ing, it will be unheeded by all who have not learned endurance and self-control. Imagination is likewise accountable for much of the fickleness ascribed to love. People generally love in proportion to their own conception of the object rather than according to its actual worth: hence their enthusiasm cools when familiarity shows the inequal- ity of conception and reality, and they are led to GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 181 search for new forms of beauty or goodness. A posi- tive change of sentiment often takes place before they acknowledge it even to themselves. A single mean action or cruel speech may annul the admiration of years, and the ideal once overthrown can never be reinstated. The very handling of so delicate a plant as affection must necessarily impair its bloom. Fickleness is by some considered involuntary, a condition which circumstances, not character, pro- duce : but when analyzed it seems to be a natural sequence of lack of judgment or firmness. A hasty friendship, for instance, is formed with one who is in- ferior in general character. Presently the true state of affairs is perceived, and he who withdraws misplaced affection or confidence is pronounced " fickle." Neither can a soul that is not true to itself be constant even where its dearest interests are concerned. In vain does a man argue that his actions affect himself only, and that moral lawlessness need not diminish his love for family or friends. He may indeed love with fervor, intend to give loyalty, devotion, tenderness, all that a heart powerfully drawn towards another can suggest, — may be ready to bow down before a dear idol and lose himself in the intensity of emotion, and yet, if false to the principle of self-control, will fail most ignominiously in preserving this love intact. If it seem appalling to realize that constancy in love is so rare a possibility, it is tranquillizing to cling to the certainty that a regulating of the general conduct conformably to morality is in every man's power. If naught occur to lessen respect, an old love never dies. Separation or imperative duties may keep it out of sight, or persistent exercise of conscience and 16* 1 82 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. will may suppress any manifestation, but the sentiment itself is ineradicable. Neither does the reminiscence of a former attachment necessarily prevent the spring- ing up of a new one. Save in rare cases where through some peculiar calamity the heart receives a shock which irreparably blights its faculties, nature impera- tively demands a filling up of the places made vacant by inconstancy, separation, or death. Those who are most generous in giving forth ten- derness are the most earnest in seeking it. Narrow indeed must be the heart which can harbor only one strong affection in a lifetime! While all na- tures are susceptible to the master-passion, only the most highly organized are competent to ascend its heights and sound its depths. Among these we rarely behold the catastrophe of two people originally congenial and united by sacred bonds voluntarily separating. Changes occur, various incidents test principles, many hours of care and possibly of mis- apprehension are endured: but where each heart rests upon its own truest impulses and strives to make every thing outward bend to its loftiest ideal, love can never decline. Each partner, knowing his own liability to error of judgment or temper, the danger of even generosity itself waxing ungenerous under aggravation, looks with leniency upon the short- comings of the other, and when tempted to criticise, lingers upon virtues rather than upon faults. Love regarded not solely as a passion, but as a sentiment destined to warm and gladden human lives, at once loses its wayward characteristics and becomes subject to control. To every woman and to every man it comes in a GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 183 different form, but to the high-toned there can hardly be a doubt as to the kind which may be accepted and merged into actual life. According to such decision is the dominion of the potential god beneficent or de- stroying. In much that pertains to his worship woman may be considered its Heaven-appointed priestess, and with her chiefly rests the charge of keeping the altar pure and beautiful. " Man himself," says Friedrich Spielhagen, " must ever remain to man not only the most interesting but indeed the only comprehensible object of all visible creation. For one human soul that could fully sympathize with our own, joyfully would we throw to the winds all the worthless trifles with which, while the other supreme good was want- ing, we sought to lessen the monotony of life. And if this be true of man, it is doubly, triply true of woman. For her earth contains but one ecstasy, — to love : but one happiness, — to be loved." " Women more than all are the element and kingdom of illusion," says Emerson. " Being fascinated, they fascinate. They see through Claude Lorraines." Exquisitely susceptible as her nature is to this pas- sion, it possesses likewise an intuitive power which with a rapidity swifter than lightning reveals the faint- est indications of danger, warns and arms in the same instant. Endowed with sensibilities finer and passions weaker than those of man, she is accountable to a far greater extent than he for infractions of conscience and law. Even when of a deeply-impassioned tem- perament, ready to endorse what Rousseau says of his own inflammable heart: "Penetrated with a strong desire to love, but ever denied permission to satisfy that desire, I saw myself at the gates of old age and 1 84 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. death before I had begun to live. It seemed to me that Destiny owed me something she never paid, — else why was I created with faculties so capable of yielding joy only to be left to the end without op- portunities of employing them ?" — even then, woman, although saddened and perchance weary of life, may, through soundness of conscience, be enabled to live her life with honorable zeal and faithfulness. Coquetry — which Brillat-Savarin would have us believe " est nee en France, qui n'a de nom qu'en Frangais, et dont l'elite des nations vient chaque jour prendre des lecons dans la capitale de l'univers" — is not, according to other people, a special attribute of one nation, but of woman everywhere. Allied to, and yet far less exact- ing and tormenting than love, it seems to be a natural desire for admiration and sympathy, ingeniously trans- fused from heart into manner. While ardently craving and dearly appreciating the object it seeks, it never- theless holds courtesy and gallantry from the other sex as absolutely valueless unless a due admixture of warm personal feeling vivify those offerings. Neither does it in its natural state use its weapons upon every candidate presented, but only when the reputation of the enemy or its own caprice prompts an encounter. Occasionally, it may be, pride or ennui induces a woman to accept homage which otherwise would be unhesitatingly refused; but in that case coquetry is like a child playing a game not really liked and con- sequently evincing none of its wonted grace and vi- vacity. When feeling or fancy is the mainspring of action, coquetry strives earnestly to inspire interest in the object selected, and delights in turning over his mental and moral manuscripts while displaying GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 185 whatever of grace, wit, and beauty she herself pos- sesses. When vanity or pride forms the stimulus of this pur- suit, innocent trifling may degenerate into a passion similar in intensity to gaming, and lead to conse- quences equally disastrous : but with truth and honor as principles, coquetry refuses to take undue advantage of her opponent, and never stoops to treachery. In woman's defence it may be said that coquetry often proves a safety-valve for a passionate susceptibility which otherwise would sear and consume her being. To the term coquetry various shades of meaning may be attached, the literal one "deceit or trifling in love" causing just abhorrence, while the figurative one generally adopted in society implies simply an agree- able interchange of wit, sentiment, and badinage be- tween men and women of similar calibre. When each understands the game, and regards it merely as a pleas- ing relief to the general dulness of a miscellaneous company, no harm can result from it save through the invidious or malicious remarks of observers. In society — where natural feelings are liable to be stigmatized as " heresies" — dogmatic judgment is fre- quently given upon those entanglements of passion which deviate from ordinary cases. Who can fairly say which is the dividing line between "love" and " infatuation" ? And yet each individual presumes to decide the momentous question — for his neighbor — according to his own prejudices, while wholly igno- rant, probably, of the complications which special con- ditions have produced. Usually the term " infatuation" is one of reproach, implying a yielding to feelings less justifiable than those of an orthodox attachment, and 1 86 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. is employed when disparity of years, inferiority of rank, or other apparent cause, calls forth the criticism or interference of beholders. For, even for the delicate mysteries of the heart it has been found convenient to have a fixed opinion, by which people are generally willing to abide so long as it saves them the trouble of reflecting and does not clash too violently with their own desires. If then any imprudent man ven- ture to give the affections play without consulting that opinion, the world cries out testily, " Infatuation ! Complete infatuation !" But until all the intricacies of psychological science have been explored, countless simple facts will remain inexplicable, and to the un- philosophical mind unpardonably " strange." In one case of so-called infatuation, a man may ex- claim with Dryden : " My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love in public ; and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad." In another, a woman may sacrifice all the advantages of her station at the imperious command of a passion for which she herself probably could give no clearer explanation than the people who coldly censure her conduct. What is " infatuation," " madness," " folly," in the eyes of the multitude, may for the individual be the sanest act and yield the supremest happiness of life. Do people choose those with whom possibly they are compelled to pass the greater part of life ? And if they have not thus chosen, are they to be censured for not finding in those companions the satisfaction GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 187 mind and heart seek? To be compassionated indeed is he who is forbidden to look beyond the contracted sphere of kinship for the soul-entrancing experiences to be found in a congenial nature ! People related by blood or marriage may live under the same roof a life- time, work for, sympathize with, and so far as nature permits, entertain a warm attachment for one another, and yet, as regards companionship, stand at an im- measurable distance. Restless, aspiring, progressive as man is, he cannot find the completeness he seeks in any one condition of life, and even in the most perfect marriage — one where intellect and heart seem to have met their counterparts — there come hours when other friend- ships are needed to break the monotony of daily routine and refresh the domestic atmosphere with new thoughts and kindly offices. Upon marriage in the abstract — a subject on which volumes innumer- able have been and to the end of time will continue to be written, but whose brightest and darkest episodes will never be portrayed — there need be no discussion. Every nation, rude or civilized, takes the institution into its own hands, dealing with its complex difficul- ties in accordance with the best enlightenment of the age. Among individuals of average education, one regards it as a possible event, an important phase between the beginning and the end — nothing more: while another claims for .it an exaggerated responsibility, that upon which all else depends and by which the happiness of an entire life may be made or marred. To those, however, who take more extended views of life, marriage, even under the most favorable con- ^8 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. ditions, is by no means the safe harbor imagination pictures it. "We are not very much to blame for our bad marriages," says Emerson. " We live amid hal- lucinations; and this especial trap is laid to trip up our feet with, and all are tripped up first or last." The marriage ceremony, however solemn or im- posing, is not potent enough to change the character of either participant. Consequently, unless the moral nature have had a prior discipline which enables pas- sion to be kept in subjection to law — practice to theory — individual desires to the good of the family — ideality to reality — the intimate companionship re- sulting from marriage very naturally leads to indiffer- ence, contempt, or cruelty on the one side, and dejec- tion, hatred, or viciousness on the other. The brief space in which each partner sees perfection in the other is quickly lived through, and daily interests and occupations make heavy demands upon strength and patience. Even when character, not passion, has been the basis of selection, when all things, so far as prudence could see, were combined to make a union desirable, there are risks and perils which no degree of human caution can foresee. Sooner or later Reality must escape from the glamour of the arch-enchantress Ideality, and the latter in resenting her loss gives vent to disappointment through irritability, tyranny, or injustice. " I cannot," writes Horace Walpole, " much felici- tate any body that marries for love. It is bad enough to marry; but to marry when one loves, ten times worse. It is so charming at first, that the decay of inclination renders it infinitely more disagreeable afterwards." But, knowing as we do that the word GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 189 " love" is capable of numerous interpretations, we cannot take such an affirmation as wholly explanatory of even a Walpole's convictions. Indifference, cold- ness, or unhappiness in the married state can, when facts are known, always be accounted for. Many men and women enter that state with sentiments of the utmost indifference towards each other; for, although at one period they may be truly " in love," yet a month later — possibly long before marriage — they may be not in the least so. In any such case, there would be a rupture of the engagement were it not for a false conception of honor, which forbids frankness, or for fear of appearing ridiculous in the eyes of the world. But in the love which finds its origin in a thorough assimilation of two congenial natures, indifference and coldness would not arise, unless a moral deterioration were to take place in one of the parties. One of the best guarantees of matrimonial comfort would be a mutual understanding as to the certainty of change in sentiment, change not necessarily imply- ing decrease of affection. When a man says he could have loved a woman, but could not have married her, what does it imply? Which would a woman accept as the greater com- pliment? Are not those qualities which in the un- married woman prove most attractive and lovable the most undesirable in the wife ? Very frequently this seems to be the case. Who that is acquainted with the intricate machinery of a modern household does not know that method, economy, punctuality, and practical ability are essential for its competent man- agement ? And yet in the young unmarried woman those very qualities detract from beauty and grace, and 17 190 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. consequently are rarely sought for. Many instances might be cited where the same traits that before mar- riage added most to the interest and fascination of a woman, afterwards proved most unsuitable for the practical duties which that state necessitates. When a man loves a woman is it not for the finer part of herself, her graces of person, heart, and mind, an indescribable something which for the time being elevates her above all her kind ? What her position, means, or family may be does not concern him ; neither does he pause to think whether she be a good housekeeper, whether she have accomplishments, or whether she would in all respects be fitted to preside over and grace his establishment. He loves her for what she is, is happy in her society and miserable out of it. Whatever of poetry there is in his nature finds expression in his sentiment towards her, and whatever of poetry there may be in her, he discovers and re- veres. All the finer portions of both beings are called forth by mutual affection, and materialism sinks out of sight. But in seeking a " wife," how different are a man's aims ! Education, social position, financial advantages, all must come in for a share of consider- ation; and whatever may be said of the "love"-mar- riages of America, observation teaches that convenience — in various disguises, it is true, but still the same un- derneath — is quite as influential here as in aristocratic countries. As marriage exists to-day, then, but very few high-toned natures can find in it the happiness they seek, from the simple fact of its demanding such a delicate combination of the material and the spirit- ual as under popular systems of education and modes of life is rarely attainable. GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. igi Dumas speaks of Roger de Beauvoir as "a man the least fitted in the world to be a husband, wedding a woman the least fitted in the world to be a wife." How many people of this kind do we not meet! — peo- ple admirable in many respects, kind, generous, witty, brilliant, self-sacrificing, noble, devoted, and yet — per- haps for these very reasons — destined to be unhappy in married life. Those of mediocre abilities are, as a rule, the most fortunate in matrimony. Untroubled with new ideas, tormenting doubts, visions of the imagi- nation, or wild speculations, they live on from day to day in the usual routine, never dreaming of change as being either desirable or practicable. Although we are pained at the sight — not an unusual one — of a man who in his own home is irritable, exacting, and bitter, while elsewhere he is considerate, affectionate, and charitable, we need not cry out with righteous indignation at this " inconsistency" or " hypocrisy." Were the causes of such conduct open to unprejudiced investigation, probably our judgment would be greatly modified. A noble-hearted, generous, intelligent man can never know domestic peace if he be mated with a weak, worldly, ignorant woman. Nor can a gentle, refined, and cultivated woman know any happiness in marriage if her companion be coarse, selfish, and dom- ineering. The finest nature in the world may be ruined by daily contact and conflict, silent or expressed, with an uncongenial companion. Lord Jeffrey, writing to his brother from Edinburgh, says of " Mary" that " she is domesticating with her husband, child, and cat. Examples of this kind really give me a horror of matrimony ; at least they persuade me more and more of the necessity there is for com- IQ2 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. pleting one's stores of information and sources of reflection and entertainment before entering into it. There is no possibility of improvement afterward ; that is, if one really is to live a matrimonial life." Although this bears the mark of youth, and we are not at all surprised to hear of the writer subsequently contracting two marriages, yet the suggestion relative to superfluity of domesticity for active minds is de- serving of attention. The few but illustrious examples of supreme hap- piness in married life seem to keep hope green and fresh in all human hearts. Does not each heart say to itself: There have been happy marriages, and ad- mitting that they are exceptions, why may not mine be one? Lady Morgan when in France — 1829-30 — speaks with great enthusiasm of the Count de Segur, a man eminent as writer, diplomatist, and philosopher. Upon showing the portrait of his wife, deceased the year previous, he remarked : " It is all that remains of fifty years of the most perfect friendship of which I know any example. Not only was there not a single disagreement between us upon general subjects of literature, politics, or private affairs, but," he added with emphasis, "pas le moindre nuage domestique, pas meme une difference d'opinion dans les details du menage. The loss of such a friend, such a companion, such a secretary, is not to be estimated — would not be endurable if there was much of life left to indulge in vain regrets. What comfort and support she was to me under my great calamities ! When you were in France she was my amanuensis, and wrote the whole of my ' Universal History' under my dictation, for I was then almost blind." M. Jules Cloquet, the biographer of GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 93 La Fayette, and one of his most valued friends, tells us that La Fayette had sincerely admired Mme. de Segur's character, and often spoke of her and her hus- band in terms that evinced warm appreciation of their virtues. Of the love and devotion existing between the un- fortunate Lord William and Lady Rachel Russell numerous eulogies have been written. According to Burnet, we learn that : " On the Tuesday before Lord Russell's execution, after dinner, when his lady was gone, he expressed great joy in the magnanimity of spirit he saw in her, and said the parting with her was the greatest thing he had to do, for he said she would be hardly able to bear it ; the concern about preserving him filled her mind so now, that it in some measure supported her; but when that would be over, he feared the quickness of her spirits would work all within her. On Thursday, while my Lady was gone to try to gain a respite till Monday, he said he wished she would give over beating every bush, and running so about for his preservation ; but when he considered that it would be some mitigation of her sorrow, that we left nothing undone that could have given any probable hopes, he acquiesced : and, indeed, I never saw his heart so near failing him as when he spake of her; sometimes I saw a tear in his eye, and he would turn about, and presently change the discourse. On Fri- day, at ten o'clock at night, my Lady left him ; he kissed her four or five times, and she kept her sorrow so within herself that she gave him no disturbance by their parting. "The evening before his death he suffered his chil- dren, who were young, and some of his friends, to take 17* • 194 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. leave of him ; in which he maintained his constancy of temper, though he was a very fond parent. He parted with his Lady at the same time with a com- posed silence; and she had such command of herself, that when she was gone he said the bitterness of death was past (for he loved and esteemed her beyond ex- pression). He ran out into a long discourse concern- ing her — how great a blessing she had been to him, and said — ' What a misery it would have been to him if she had not had that magnanimity of spirit, joined to her tenderness, as never to have desired him to do a base thing for the saving of his life.' He said — ' There was a signal providence of God in giving him such a wife, where there was birth, fortune, great un- derstanding, great religion, and great kindness to him ; but her carriage in his extremity was beyond all. He was glad that she and his children were to lose nothing by his death ; and it was a great comfort to him that he left his children in such a mother's hands, and that she had promised him to take care of herself for their sakes ;' which I heard her do. As to Lady Russell, she bore the shock with the same magnitude which she had shown at his trial. When in open court, at- tending at her Lord's side, she took notes, and made observations on all that past, in his behalf; when pros- trate at the King's feet, and pleading with his Majesty in remembrance of her dead father's services to save her husband, she was an object of the most lively compassion ; but now, (when without a sigh or tear she took her last' farewell of him), of the highest admiration. " He was a most tenderly affectionate husband, and perfectly happy in the mutual love of his most excel- GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 195 lent Lady. She was a most faithful guardian of his fame. Her Ladyship also, in the same affectionate regard to her Lord's memory, after the revolution, made use of her interest in favour of his chaplain, Mr. Samuel Johnson (who calls Lord Russell the greatest Englishman we had) ; and was very instrumental in procuring him the pension, and other bounties which he received from that government. As she had prom- ised her Lord to take care of her own life for the sake of his children, she was religiously mindful to perform that promise, and continued his widow to the end of her life, surviving him above forty years ; for she lived to 29th September, 1723, in her eighty-seventh year. In the paper delivered to the sheriffs just before his execution, occur these words in reference to his domes- tic life : ' Since my sentence I have had few thoughts but preparatory ones for death ; yet the importunity of my friends, and particularly the best and dearest wife in the world, prevailed with me to sign petitions, and make an address for my life, to which I was ever averse ; for (I thank God) though in all respects I have lived the happiest and contentedest man in the world, (for now very near fourteen years), yet I am so willing to leave all, that it was not without difficulty that I did any thing for the saving of my life that was beg- ging; but I was willing to let my friends see what power they had over me, and that I was not obstinate nor sullen, but would do any thing that an honest man could do for their satisfaction, which was the only motive that swayed or had any weight with me.' " Lady Russell, alluding to her husband, in a letter to Dr. Fitzwilliam, says : " You that knew us both, and how we lived, must allow I have just cause to bewail 196 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. my loss. I know it is common with others to lose a friend ; but to have lived with such a one, it may be questioned how few can glory in the like happiness, so consequently lament the like loss. . . . Yet secretly my heart mourns, too sadly I fear, and cannot be com- forted, because I have not the dear companion and sharer of all my joys and sorrows. . . . 'Twas an inesti- mable treasure I did lose, and with whom I had lived in the highest pitch of this world's felicity. . . . The stroke was of the fiercest, sure; but had I not then a reasonable ground to hope that what I loved as I did my own soul, was raised from a prison to a throne ? Was I not enabled to shut up my own sorrows, that I increased not his sufferings by seeing mine? How were my sinking spirits supported by the early compassions of excellent and wise Christians, without ceasing, ad- monishing me of my duty, instructing, reproving, comforting me ! You know, Doctor, that I was not destitute, and I must acknowledge that many others like yourself, with devout zeal, and great charity, con- tributed to the gathering together my scattered spirits, and then subjecting them by reason to such a submis- sion as I could obtain under so astonishing a calamity ; and further, he (God) has spared me hitherto the chil- dren of so excellent a friend, giving them hopefull understandings, and yet very tractable and sweet dispo- sitions ; spared my life in usefulness I trust to them ; and being I am to linger in a world I can no more delight in, has given me a freedom from bodily pain to a degree I almost never knew. ... I had made him my idol, though I did not know it; loved man too much and God too little ; yet my constant prayer was not to do so ; but not enough fervent I doubt. I GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 197 will turn the object of my love all I can upon his loved children, and if I may be directed and blessed in their education, what is it I have to ask in relation to this perishing world for myself?" With the extraordinary harmony and beauty in the domestic life of La Fayette every one is well acquainted. General Holstein, the same who under the fictitious name of Peter Feldmann assisted in the liberation of La Fayette from the prison of Olm utz, and knew the family intimately, says of Mme. de la Fayette: "How shall I delineate the character of that virtu- ous and admirable woman, how express the profound veneration with which my heart is filled, how depict those qualifications, that rare and heroic self-devotion, the model of all that is great, and noble, and exalted, which adorned and characterized the too short life of this extraordinary female, whose claim to all the praise we can bestow is enforced by the recollection of how well she deserved the name of Madame de la Fayette! We defy the ablest writer to do justice to the merits of this distinguished woman. He may convey some idea of her noble character, but can never make his portrait of her virtues faithful and complete." Separated from her husband, and confined with her two young daughters in the prisons of Paris, expect- ing every day those charges against her which meant a decree of death, and hearing constantly of friends and relatives who had fallen by the guillotine, Mme. de la Fayette nevertheless preserved her composure and dignity. In General Holstein's words: "She has often acknowledged to me since that, when the an- guish and agony of body and mind had almost de- 198 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. prived her of her senses, she had still resolution enough to suppress her tears, and repair to some corner of her miserable prison, and there offer up a prayer to Heaven, without being perceived by her children, who were fellow-prisoners in the same apartment." Of La Fayette himself M. Cloquet says: " He owed every thing to his good natural disposition, to the purity of his feelings, and to the development of his exalted intelligence ; he never acted a part, inasmuch as he always displayed himself in public as he ap- peared in the bosom of his family, his private life having been really the counterpart of his political career. . . . "La Fayette had a high regard for the domestic virtues which he considered the basis of society and the only certain and pure source of public prosperity. He always spoke with respect and tenderness of both his parents, whom he lost almost in his infancy. In his children, he cherished the memory of their mother, (Mademoiselle de Noailles) whom he had loved most tenderly, and whose name he never men- tioned but with visible emotion." In a letter of La Fayette's, written after his wife's death, to his friend Masclet, he says: "I willingly admit, that under great misfortunes I have felt myself superior to the situation in which my friends had the kindness to sympathize; but at present I have neither the power nor the wish to struggle against the calamity which has befallen me, or rather to surmount the deep affliction which I shall carry with me to the grave. It will be mingled with the sweetest recollections of the thirty-four years during which I GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 199 was bound by the tenderest ties that perhaps ever existed, and with the thought of her last moments in which she heaped upon me such proofs of her incom- parable affection. I cannot describe the happiness which, in the midst of so many vicissitudes and trou- bles, I have constantly derived from the tender, noble, and generous devotion with which she brightened my existence." Of Lagrange, the home of La Fayette's last years, M. Cloquet says: "At Lagrange, the visitor breathed a purer air, and tasted the charms of retirement with- out the weariness of solitude; all in that peaceful retreat inspired a happy calm, and a feeling of affec- tion for the human species, which there appeared under the most favorable colors. . . . There every one ap- peared as he really was, and saw only in the distance, and characterized in their real insignificance, the scenes of the great world ; the personages of which think themselves obliged to act a part, and consent to be deceived, in order that they in their turn may deceive others. . . . "The general scrupulously avoided incommoding the liberty of his guests, to whom every mode of amusement was afforded. You were allowed without constraint to indulge your taste for study, for drawing, or for conversation ; — you were at liberty to gather from La Fayette himself all the information that you might require for your instruction — for he was a living record of many a memorable epoch — a book whose pages were ever open to such as were worthy to consult them ; and he possessed in perfection the tact of dis- covering whether the questions addressed to him were dictated by genuine interest or frivolous curiosity." 200 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. Among authors and eminent scholars we find like- wise sufficient testimony to prove that intellectual tastes of a high order are not, as is commonly sup- posed, incompatible with happiness in domestic life. Indeed, such testimony proves that a man of reason and imagination, when mated to a woman of congenial tastes tempered by true feminine gentleness and ten- derness, is capable of both enjoying and giving forth a degree of happiness which minds of a lower grade cannot even comprehend. Of Shelley his wife tells us that " his own defini- tion of Love reveals the secrets of the most impas- sioned and yet the purest and softest heart that ever yearned for sympathy, and was ready to give its own, in lavish measure, in return." Again: "To me death appears to be the gate of life; but my hopes of a hereafter would be pale and drooping, did I not ex- pect to find that most perfect and beloved specimen of hurnanity on the other shore; and my belief is that spiritual improvement in this life prepares the way to a higher existence." Again with reference to this subject Mrs. Shelley says of her husband : " In a journal I find these feel- ings recorded with regard to a danger we incurred together at sea. ' I had time,' wrote Shelley, ' in that moment, to reflect and even to reason on death; it was rather a thing of discomfort and disappointment than terror to me. We should never be separated ; but in death we might not know and feel our union as now.' For myself," continues the devoted wife, " no religious doctrine, nor philosophical precept, can shake the faith that a mind so original, so delicately and beautifully moulded, as Shelley's, so endowed GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 OI with wondrous powers and eagle-eyed genius — so good, so pure, would never be shattered and dispersed by the Creator ; but that the qualities and conscious- ness that formed him, are not only indestructible in themselves, but in the form under which they were united here, and that to become worthy of him is to assure the bliss of a reunion." Alluding to letters addressed to herself during their brief separations in Italy, Mrs. Shelley calls them ''precious relics of love, kindness, gentleness, and wisdom. I have but one fault to find with them, or with Shelley, in my union with him. His inexpress- ible tenderness of disposition made him delight in giving pleasure, and, urged by this feeling, he praised too much. ... I do not conceal that I am far from satisfied with the tone in which the criticisms on Shelley are written. Some among these writers praise the poetry with enthusiasm, and even discrimi- nation; but none understand the man. If it be alleged in praise of Goethe that he was an artist as well as a poet; that his principles of composition, his theories of wisdom and virtue, and the ends of existence, rested on a noble and secure basis; not less does that praise belong to Shelley. His Defence of Poetry is alone sufficient to prove that his views were, in every respect, congruous and complete ; his faith in good firm, his respect for his fellow-creatures unimpaired by the wrongs he suffered. Every word of his letters displays that modesty, that forbearance, and mingled meekness and resolution that, in my mind, form the perfection of man. ' Gentle, brave, and generous,' he describes the Poet, in Alastor; such he was himself, beyond any man I have ever known. To these admir- 18 202 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. able qualities were added his genius; his keen insight into human motive — as his theory of morals, which, based on a knowledge of his kind, was perspicuous, subtle, comprehensive, and just; the pure and lofty enthusiasm with which he regarded the improvement of his own species. He had but one defect — which was his leaving his life incomplete by an early death. " O that the serener hopes of maturity, the happier contentment of mid-life, had descended on his dear head, to calm the turbulence of youthful impetuosity — that he had lived to see his country advance to- wards freedom, and to enrich the world with his own virtues and genius in their completion of experience and power! When I think that such things might have been, and of my own share in such good and happiness ; the pang occasioned by his loss can never pass away — and I gain resignation by believing that he was spared much suffering, and that he has passed into a sphere of being better adapted to his inex- pressible tenderness, his generous sympathies, and his richly-gifted mind. That, free from the physical pain to which he was a martyr, and unshackled by the fleshly bars and imperfect senses which hedged him in on earth, he enjoys beauty, and good, and love there, where those to whom he was united on earth by various ties of affection, sympathy, and admiration, may hope to join him." Of Douglas Jerrold, the ardent friend of humanity no less than the wit and man of letters, we are told that "he was a most tender husband and father;" and of his wife that she "sweetened his life from his open- ing manhood to his death," that " her life indeed closed with his." GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 203 With Dr. Johnson's singular marriage every one is familiar. Notwithstanding his remark to Boswell that "it is commonly a weak man who marries for love," he seems to have been inspired with more than an ordinary passion for Mrs. Porter, the lady of his choice; and although she was almost double his age, is said to have proved a most affectionate and indul- gent husband to the last moments of her life. " Her death," Boswell says, " affected him with the deepest distress. Why Sir John Hawkins should unwar- rantably take upon him even to suppose that Johnson's fondness for her was dissembled (meaning simulated or assumed), and to assert, that if it was not the case, 1 it was a lesson he had learned by rote,' I cannot conceive, unless it proceeded from a want of similar feelings in his own breast. To argue from her being much older than Johnson, or any other circumstances, that he could not really love her, is absurd, for love is not a subject of reasoning, but of feeling, and there- fore there are no common principles upon which one can persuade another concerning it. Every man feels for himself, and knows how he is affected by particu- lar qualities in the person he admires, the impressions of which are too minute and delicate to be substanti- ated in language. . . . That his love for his wife was of the most ardent kind, and, during the long period of fifty years, was unimpaired by the lapse of time, is evident from various passages in the series of his " Prayers and Meditations," as well as from other me- morials. Many other instances might be enumerated in proof of the entire compatibility of a high degree of mental culture with home-life of the purest kind. 204 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. And although it must be acknowledged that such instances are the exception, not the rule, in social life, they serve to show that the fact might be reversed if harmony of character ever came to be the main point discussed in marriage-contracts. Does not a sensitive person often feel vexed at his own quickness in dis- cerning indifference, contempt, or hatred in a married pair? To see them exchange cold looks, hear their jarring words, know that they have no thoughts, feel- ings, and interests in common, and yet that they are straining every nerve to preserve an appearance of affection before the world, — all this is calculated to lower our opinion of human nature, while awaking deep sympathy for the victims of error. In vain shall moralists preach resignation and cheerfulness under domestic tribulation when the cause of it is found in dissimilarity of character! The craving for sympathy that exists within every human soul is not intended to be in vain — a means of discipline merely — but a source of pure happiness, and becomes so whenever the mind is strong enough and the heart warm enough to act naturally. Now and then occurs an instance in which records of domestic felicity seem to be founded upon comrade- ship rather than upon actual congeniality of natures. Of M. and Mme. Roland, those names immortalized by heroic conduct in the French Revolution, ample proofs exist that their love of liberty and high-souled enthusiasm in its behalf proved a bond of union at once noble and enduring. This, however, is some- thing quite different from that unity of tastes and feelings which alone can produce true wedded happi- ness. When told, then, that spite of the disparity in GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 205 years, M. Roland being twenty-two years the senior, his wife's " love for him, founded on his philosophic spirit and antique virtues, was so ardent and so faith- ful that she has often been called ' the Heloise of the eighteenth century;'" that "their principles, their souls, their hopes, their toils and sufferings, were alike and inseparable;" that " she entered with sym- pathy into all that engaged and interested him," we cannot but recall Mme. Roland's own words in those celebrated Memoires, written during her five months' imprisonment preceding her execution, and "which all the world still reads." Of their first interview, in which M. Roland pre- sents himself as bearer of a letter from their mutual friend, Sophie Cannet, Mme. Roland says : " I saw before me a man over forty, tall in stature, careless in attitude, with that kind of stiffness arising from studious habits ; his manner was easy and unpretend- ing, and, without evincing familiarity with society, combined the politeness of a well-bred man with the gravity of a philosopher." Although his features were "plus respectables que seduisans," yet when he conversed or was moved by an agreeable thought, a smile full of meaning and an animated expression gave his countenance quite a different aspect. Mme. Roland, although so young, seems to have had unusually grave thoughts upon marriage, for, while deliberating as to acceptance or rejection of her austere and somewhat cold lover, she says: "I reasoned that if marriage was as I thought it a serious bond, an association in which woman, ordinarily, takes the responsibility of two individuals, was it not better to exert my faculties and my courage 18* 206 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. in this honorable task than in the isolated position I then occupied ?" Not the sentiments of a young and ardent woman anticipating a union with the man her heart had chosen ! Can any woman whose ruling passion is not love, be compared to the immortal Heloise of the twelfth century, to her who could write to Abelard after long years of separation and suffering: "God knows I never loved you for any thing except yourself! It was you, you only, regardless of your position, whom I loved. . . . For my heart was not my own but yours, and to-day more than ever, if it is not with you it is nowhere, since it cannot exist without you." " I became the wife of a truly worthy man," con- tinues Madame Roland, "whose love for me con- tinued to increase the longer he knew me. Married in all the seriousness of reason, I found nothing that changed my convictions, and devoted myself to him with all the enthusiasm of my nature. I always looked upon my husband as one of the most estimable men in the world, to whom I might well feel proud to belong. I often felt, however, that there was a want of parity between us, that the ascendant of a domi- neering character in addition to the twenty years' difference in age afforded him one superfluous advan- tage. When living in retirement I sometimes passed tedious hours; when we went into society I received the homage of men some of whom might have awak- ened in me too warm a sympathy. I plunged, there- fore, energetically into work with my husband, a step which brought its own inconvenience, for it habituated him to consider me as indispensable even for a mo- GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 0J ment. The first year of my marriage was passed entirely in Paris, where Roland had been called by the intendans du commerce, who desired to make new laws for manufactures, laws which Roland opposed bitterly, according to the principles of liberty which he applied to every thing. He published a description of some of the arts, for the Academy, and likewise his manuscripts upon Italy; in this work he appointed me his copyist and proof-corrector, and I fulfilled the task with a humility which cannot be recalled with- out smiling, and which seemed indeed irreconcilable with a mind trained like mine. But what I did came direct from my heart, and I respected my husband so entirely that I easily supposed he knew better than I did. " Besides this, I feared so much to see a cloud on his face and he was so tenacious of his opinions, that it was long before I acquired courage to contradict him. I pursued at that time a course of natural his- tory and a course of botany, the laborious and only recreation amid my occupations of secretary and housekeeper; for, living in furnished apartments, our home not being in Paris, and noticing that my hus- band's delicate health required special cooking, I took care to prepare the dishes that suited him my- self. We spent four years at Amiens, and I became mother and nurse without ceasing to share the work of my husband, who had taken upon himself a con- siderable part of the ' Nouvelle Encyclopedic' We left our studies only to take walks out of the town : I made an hcrbicr of the plants of Picardy, and the study of aquatic botany gave rise to ' L'Art du Tour- bier,' the latter being one of M. Roland's books. 208 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. " The frequent illnesses of my husband caused me great anxiety, but my attentions were not in vain, and this was an additional tie between us ; he cher- ished me for my devotion, and I became attached to him through the good I did him. ... In our early married life Roland did not wish me to hold much intercourse with my dear friends (Sophie and Henri- ette Cannet), to which I submitted. Only when time had inspired him with confidence enough to remove all inquietude as to my affection, did I venture to visit them oftener. It was an unwise plan : marriage is solemn and uniform, and if you deprive a sensitive woman of the pleasure of friendship with her own sex, you diminish a necessary nourishment and expose her to other risks. How many illustrations of this truth might be given !" In 1784 they moved into the district of Lyons and settled at Villefranche, in the paternal mansion of M. Roland, where his mother, "de l'age du siecle," and his oldest brother, a canon and counsellor, lived. " I could give numerous pictures of the manners of a little town and their influence ; of domestic trials ; of my complicated life with a woman exacting respect by her age, but terrible in temper ; and between two brothers, the youngest of whom was an enthusiast for independence, while the eldest was domineering by habit and prejudice." In a letter, dated 1785, from this uncongenial home, she writes : " I am now a housekeeper in good earnest ;" and after giving various and sufficiently onerous de- tails, she adds : " the order and peace in every thing which surrounds me, in the objects confided to me, among the persons I care for, the interests of my child GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 209 always to be looked at amid my various anxieties, such are my duties and pleasures. This kind of life would be very tedious if my husband were not a man of much merit, whom I greatly love ; but with this gift it is a delightful life, in which tender friendship and happy confidence mark every instant and give to every thing a high value. "It is the kind of life most favorable for the practice of virtue, and the support of all the inclinations and tastes which insure social and individual happiness in this state of society." These words, if compared with the previous account of the Roland menage, sound like the forced bright- ness of a spirited woman determined to make the best of her lot, and evince that same undaunted courage which, in history, has won for her the title, " bravest of all Frenchwomen." But in the same letter follow sentiments calculated to call forth surprise from those who have always regarded Mme. Roland as an apostle of honesty and liberty. " My brother-in-law," (the same described before as domineering by habit and prejudice), "whose character is extremely gentle and sensitive, is also very religious. I leave him the satis- faction of thinking that his dogmas appear to me as evident as they do to him, and outwardly I act as be- seems a mother of a family living in the country and expected to be an example to every body. As I was extremely devout in my youthful days I know the Scriptures, and even my divine service, as well as my philosophy, and I willingly make use of the first-named erudition, which edifies him highly. The truth, the inclinations of my heart, and a facility of bending to what is good for others without tarnishing or offend- 2io GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. ing uprightness, enables me to be whatever I ought to be, naturally and without the least labor. Keep in petto this effusion of confidence, and in replying touch upon it as vaguely as seems suitable." At a later day, when her patriotism and devotion had hurled her into a prison from which a cruel death was alone to release her, we are told by Riouffe that " something more than is usually found in the looks of women painted itself in those large black eyes full of expression and sweetness. She spoke to me often at the grate ; we were all attentive round her, in a sort of admiration and astonishment. She expressed herself with a purity, with a harmony and prosody that made her language like music of which the ear could never have enough. Her con- versation was serious, not cold ; coming from the mouth of a beautiful woman, it was frank and coura- geous as that of a great man. And yet her maid said : ' Before you she collects her strength; but in her own room she will sit three hours, sometimes, leaning on the window and weeping.' " Of what use, it may be asked, to allude to instances of complete happiness in married life, or to those in which want of congeniality is perceptible? To the first may be answered, in the words of Sainte-Beuve, that " those who believe that a soul is an entire world, and that an eminent character can never be too closely studied," find not only great pleasure in dwelling upon beautiful exhibitions of human character as de- veloped in domestic life, but likewise great encourage- ment towards personal nobility of conduct and varied culture. We can never know too well those men and women whose lives have proved a lesson to all man- GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 1 1 kind, and the more frequently their traits are held up to view the greater the chances of their inspiring imitation. What has happened once in human history- may happen again, and in regaling our minds with pictures of congeniality in marriage, we learn to believe that they are not merely the creations of a poet's brain, but truths founded on fact. To the second question we may say that very great benefit may be rendered to society by glancing at those dark scenes of wretched disharmony in wedded life, and learning from them that generally the causes lie in an utter absence of similar tastes and aims ; an absence which but for worldly considerations might have been perceived at the outset. But marriage, — under nature so simple an ordinance, under civilization one beset with so many difficulties, — however strongly desired, is not possible for all men or all women. Many live up to middle age, many others through a lifetime, either without meeting the one to whom, under society's stern censorship, they would wish to be united, or without being permitted by fate to possess the one chosen. Marriage then is not a state into which men or women may enter at will ; and the more extended the esthetic culture of individuals, the more numerous the doubts and com- plications which interfere with its attainment. Con- sequently, by that law of compensation which nature universally observes, those people so constituted that they cannot exist without attaching their affections to some particular object, are enabled to find in other directions the companionship they crave. That friendship of a high order is possible between men and women, has been demonstrated by many illus- 212 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. trious examples; but for such an intercourse of senti- ment and thought there must be strong healthy souls, capable, of inhaling and living in the pure bracing air of morality. This must be its corner-stone if it is not to sink into a weak sentimentalism or rise into a perilous passion. The austere social laws of England and America doubtless do much towards preserving intact the purity of home-life ; for it needs no argument save daily observation to prove that even educated and conscientious people cannot dispense with barriers of all kinds against the encroachments of temptation. Nevertheless, that very austerity may become a source of social rebellion if it be not judiciously tempered by grace, beauty, and w T it. These last prevent conversation from degenerating into a mere mechanism of words, manner from harden- ing into a formal interchange of civilities, and prepare the way for those gracious expressions and courteous acts which lead to ease, confidence, and friendship. Friendship ! what a wide range of thought is sug- gested by the mere mention of the word ! What visions of pure joy and deep sorrow, genuine help and absolute hindrance, painful doubt and calm spiritual repose, rise before us, as we recall the men and women who have known the meaning of that word ! Turning from the ordinary manifestations of the sen- timent as permitted between those of the same sex or between those related by blood, we pass to that phase somewhat vaguely called " Platonic Love." Whether this may or may not be acknowledged as a substitute for the love synonymous with marriage must, under existing modes of civilization, ever remain an open GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 213 question. Among moralists and thinkers its advocates and opponents seem equally divided ; while among people generally there is an unequivocal dislike to a doctrine whose tenets seem so full of risk. That such risk exists, its most earnest advocate would not gain- say; but while acknowledging this, he would probably add that man's moral nature encounters similar risks everywhere, — in society, in solitude, in the church, in philanthropy, in love, and not least, in the home. Not, he might continue, that all men or all women are fitted for Platonic Love ; but with equal certainty it may be affirmed that neither are all fitted for any other position which judgment or feeling might urge them to seek or accept. But, however striking the unfitness of the majority for the posts they fill, there can be no waiting for perfection, and even with in- competency as the rule and suitability as the ex- ception, the work and the pleasure of the world must continue. " One does not refuse to exercise his mind for fear it will lead to insanity, but he takes care to exercise it healthily. The degree of danger in these (Platonic) connections will always depend on the characters of the parties. Friendship can be carried without adul- teration or peril to a degree proportioned to the nobleness and consecration of-fehe parties. There is a select class of men and women of the loftiest genius and character, the native haunt of whose souls is in the purest regions of nature and experience, who are made for friendship ; and who, destitute of this, are deprived of their truest and fullest happiness." So speaks Mr. W. R.Alger, in his charming book, "The Friendships of Women ;" and rarely indeed do we 19 ' 214 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. find this difficult subject treated with such profound thought and such rare delicacy of sentiment. That it is a deep joy to be loved, to feel that mind answers to mind, heart to heart, and that neither time, distance, age, nor events can change the tender relationship, every man will confess. To woman not only does love bring that same deep joy, but in addition the firm conviction that life offers nothing else that can fill its place. She longs to feel that another's whole being is wrapped in hers, and that in every thought and act he rejoices in the bonds that hold him captive. She asks not whether he has loved before, whether it will continue, whether he could eventually love another; no jealousy of the past or of the future can impair present bliss. Why should she claim to be the first who has stirred a strong man's heart, or dream that she will be the last to impress it? Human nature teaches her other facts and principles which cannot be ignored even when under the influ- ence of passion. What is passion as applied to love ? Is it not that unseen force which makes us think, feel, and desire in defiance of reason, custom, position, and prospects ? The woman tempted by that force, may see the consequences as clearly as the neighbor who would not lose an instant's time in defaming her name if she got but the smallest shred of indiscretion upon which to hang her suspicions : the man driven by that same hurricane of sentiment into a position his very soul abhors, needs no moralist to tell him the penalties of his transgression. Both parties see the devastation produced, while powerless to hold in check the evil spirit they have evoked. Passion once in the GREA TER THAN S CEPTRES. 2 1 5 ascendency, knows no bounds and boldly oversteps the highest walls of prudence, conscience, and law. History tells us many a thrilling tale of lawless pas- sion which has immortalized names that otherwise would have been buried in oblivion. Did those misguided men and women pay too high a price for their niche in the world's temple of fame? Did their suffering and remorse overshadow the recollection of stolen joys ? Or, were they enabled to bear the sting of shame and the brand of opprobrium by remember- ing that the lapse of years would palliate their offence by investing it with the many-colored mantle of romance? Nothing in human history strikes the student more forcibly than this curiously unequal distribution of the distinguishing badge called fame. Terrible crimes or infamous deeds are never forgotten, and for the mass of mankind the perpetrators possess an enduring and inexplicable fascination : while tens of thousands among the divinely patient and obscurely virtuous are — save through some fortuitous event — wholly ignored. Passion is not always sudden and unexpected in its assaults. The still, wordless joy which steals over our being, enhancing life tenfold and causing all out- ward nature to assume new and brilliant hues, must have had a beginning. When painfully happy are we not quick to trace this rare condition to its source and discover whether it is based on reality or whether it is only a trick of fancy? — -to inquire whether the ground we tread on is safe, or so treacherous that we may suddenly feel it slipping from beneath our feet ? In an undisciplined or irresolute character there may be protracted hesitation before taking a compromising 2 1 6 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. step, but there can be no fear or no need of secrecy unless there be doubts as to the position. In the dark moments of moral temptation the difficulty is, usually, not that we cannot escape, but that we do not wish to. In woman, passion seldom gains the mastery if the calibre of her mind permits reason to have a voice. Remember, it urges, how much is at stake ! What tongues would whisper, what fingers point, what lips curl in derision, were the veil lifted which protects thy heart from the gaze of men ! Thou wouldst sink utterly under the disgrace heaped upon thee were the barrier of secrecy removed ! And yet how slight a thing might betray that which would bring ruin upon so many ! A look, a word, a hint, any one of the numberless accidents which the most jealous care cannot guard against, would suffice to level to the ground that fair temple of self-respect which hereto- fore has made thy life so peaceful ! Tear away all these films of sophistry and sentiment which blind thee to the real dangers in thy path, and judge thyself as thou wouldst judge another! Woman is so constituted that she cannot be happy in a false position, banished by her own act from the companionship of her equals, and consumed by regret or remorse. Well for her, then, if she regulate her life by those flashes of reason unalloyed by passion, which even amid temptation are occasionally vouchsafed ! Removed from the blinding effects of adulation and the delicious balm of sympathy which love pours at her feet, she realizes that poison may never be taken as food with impunity. However sweet, it must re- main untasted if she is to remain blameless in her own eyes, untarnished in those of others. GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 217 In vain will she smooth over with subtle argument the plain verdict of sincerity, and persuade herself that her case is an exception; that what would be impru- dent or reprehensible in another is for her allowable within certain bounds ; that her isolated position or her intense craving for love gives her the right to take what under other circumstances she would regard as forbidden. In vain will she ask: Can this which has such a beneficial effect upon my being, come from an evil source? Must I leave untouched this divine food, and wander forth in darkness and soul-hunger, tormented by that insatiable craving which withers my sensibilities and renders me incapable of tranquil- lity or aspiration ? The answer is ever the same : Yes ! The dearest, the purest, the best of all human joys must ruthlessly be given up whenever it cannot be had with the sanction of conscience and those social laws which all men agree to acknowledge. Under any conditions the game of sentiment is a dangerous one for woman to play; but when doubts arise in her own mind as to its issue, when she begins to suspect what makes hours of converse with one of the other sex so exquisitely sweet and painfully short, it is madness to continue. This possibly she may know, while she shrinks from dispelling the brilliant illusion which adds so great a zest to life. Moments come when her soul, in abrupt and searching tones, calls her to account. What means that inexpressible melancholy at the thought of separation, that intense longing for reunion, that desire to express in verse or prose somewhat of the inward tumult, that sense of peace and rest when with, and unrest and weariness when absent from, the loved one ? 19* 21 8 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. The master-passion is always one and the same : its acceptance or refusal must depend upon that innate sense of right combined with custom and law, which our age and country compel us to recognize as best for all. One of the most painful results of an un- natural position in affairs of sentiment is the cloudi- ness it spreads over the moral perceptions. If they flow and ebb, rise and fall, leaving us at times tranquil, composed and happy, and at other times strongly agi- tated, we may safely surmise that mischief is brewing. Intimacy between a man and a woman may have risen so gradually to a strong affection that its true nature is not realized until submitted to the test of the presence of others. Have not many instances been known in which this test alone has revealed what sophistry before had cunningly concealed? In such an hour the chilliness of soul which seizes a true woman must be taken as a symptom of wrong, and in vain will be her endeavors to warm it with coverings of reason, self-justification, and expediency: what be- fore had been so easy to adjust and explain, is now awry, unsuitable, indefensible. Even when the danger feared is simply a clashing with conventionality, the risks and consequences of social ostracism are never to be lightly esteemed by woman. The old conflict between what is and what might or ought to be — through which so many be- wildered human souls have passed, and in which many others have succumbed — will never be ended. What is in itself blameless, may by the world be taken for something widely different, and so long as we ourselves belong to this " world," we are liable to judge our fellow-creatures precisely in the same man- GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 219 ner. A woman may be earnest, true, aspiring, and conscientious, and yet, through an ardent desire for love, find herself walking upon a slippery path and in imminent peril. Victims of intemperance, of passion, of any of those dread violations of law or morality by which homes are made desolate and hearts broken, have been heard to declare, that at a certain stage of their downward course they would have welcomed any shock, calam- ity, or personal suffering which might check their fall. So to a woman may come an hour in which doubts and forebodings so thicken around her as to make her realize that a storm may burst over her at any moment. And if over her, over how many others? Human affairs become sometimes so strangely complicated that people may honestly wish to be true and honorable in conduct, and yet find it impossible to disentangle themselves from the net their own weakness has woven around them. Power of moral vision, of will, or of judgment, may become enervated and useless through yielding to misguided fancy or tyrannical habit. Upon strength of thought and senti- ment depends our strength of action when confronted with danger, that possibly upon which hang the des- tinies of all most dear to us on earth. In the hour of peril the rallying-cry of conscience for woman as well as man will always be, This boon of life, what art thou doing with it? Is not Life greater than Love ? The common belief that, in love, man is selfish and woman self-sacrificing, is not to be accepted without many modifications. Where moral worth is equal, men evince quite as much power of abnegation as 220 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. women, and even more capability of endurance, because their active duties in the world facilitate the creation of new thoughts and feelings. Supposing a case where love is based upon similarity of character, and where the attachment is so profound that no change can be contemplated without anguish ; yet if circum- stances make a separation needful, the man will con- duct himself as nobly and honorably as the woman. True love is so fearful of paining the object of its de- votion that no self-denial, no renunciation is deemed too great. Tremblingly and sorrowfully a man may assert that if he and his wishes stand between his loved one and her duty, in any way marring the har- mony existing between herself and those to whom other ties bind her, he is ready to give up what is dearer to him than life itself: and this even when he knows that his entire happiness is centred in that other self to whom fate had conducted him. All love-letters, confessions, observations, and expe- riences prove that in what concerns this passion, man and woman should be judged with equal leniency or severity, and always with due consideration for tem- perament, education, circumstance, and country. Could any thing be imagined more tender, fervent, and im- passioned than those famous "Lettres du Donjon de Vincennes" of Mirabeau? "That cowardly Ovid," he exclaims, "who has dared to make un art d'aimer, rendered homage to Augustus, his tyrant and persecutor: indeed, although all his writings are filled with the subject of love, they bear the imprint only of mind. Very few of his verses speak to the heart; for a man without courage is a cold lover." Whereas of Tibullus he says, " Ce deli- GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 2I cieux Tibulle qu'il faut lire, relire, savoir par cceur, et relire encore." Again writes Mirabeau, this "passion- ate pilgrim" who "had an ugly face on a handsome ground:" "Abandoned by fortune, persecuted by fate, separated from the one I adore, the mere thought that I have inspired a sincere passion is a source of consola- tion and delight. It is an enjoyment which neither riches, birth, intellect, gratified ambition, nor all other pleasures combined ever could give. Ce plaisir du cceur est vraiment unique, parce qu'il a sa cause dans lui-meme. He who has not been loved by the woman he loves does not know the meaning of happiness. Every other passion of the soul may have some inter- ested motive. I am served for what I give — flattered through artifice — a man calls me his friend because he hopes I shall be worth more to him than I cost him : but love is granted to myself, and can be neither feigned nor counterfeited." What force of intellect, what fiery sensibilities speak from these eloquent pages ! Strong feelings and strong expressions meet the eye and touch the heart at every turn, but there is no cant, no doubt, no wavering. Who upon listening to the outpouring of such a pas- sionate soul, and having his sympathies awakened for the unhappy lovers, does not shrink from contem- plating the abrupt and disastrous denouement! If we have been interested in the story we are saddened by learning that after all those protestations of devoted love and enduring constancy, Mirabeau and Sophie should subsequently meet only for mutual recrimina- tion and a final parting. Does it shake faith in the permanency of affection to hear of such an issue to what was once so firm and sincere? All men, it is true, 222 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. are not morally — or immorally — like Mirabeau : but neither can all men love like Mirabeau, and his ex- cessive susceptibility to the most tyrannical of human passions compels us to judge his conduct accordingly. Can a man of cold temperament conceive of the fierceness with which passion rages in those whose " strongest oaths are straw to the fire i' the blood" ? In the " Memoirs of Lady Morgan" we find sundry racy letters proving that the courtship of that lady and her future husband — then simply Dr. Morgan — was of the stormiest kind, more than once threatening to end disastrously, and preserved intact only by the strong affection and noble character of the lover. In a letter to a friend communicating her engagement, Miss Owenson says of her lover: " To give you any idea of the passion I have most unwittingly inspired would be vain ; but if I had spirits I could amuse you not a little. Tell Livy to repeat to you some of his eloquent nonsense which I wrote to her. Barring his wild, unfounded love for me, the creature is perfection. The most manly, I had almost said daring, tone of mind, united to more goodness of heart and disposition than I ever met with in a human being. Even with this circle, where all is acquirement and accomplishment, it is confessed that his versatility of talent is unrivalled. There is scarcely any art or science he has not cultivated with success ; and the resources of his mind and memory are exhaustless. His manners are too English to be popular with the Irish ; and though he is reckoned a handsome man, it is not that style of thing which, if I were to choose for beauty, I should select — it is too indicative of goodness ; a little diablerie would make me wild in GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. ?■? love with him. . . . He is just thirty, has a moderate property, independent of his profession ; is a member and a fellow of twenty colleges and societies, and is a Cambridge man. This is a full-length picture drawn for your private inspection." To another friend she says : " He is sometimes so daring in risking his bold and singular opinions, that while it raises him in my es- teem, it makes me tremble for his worldly interests, so seldom promoted by this sovereign independence of principle and spirit, which throws rank and influence at such an incalculable distance. He is, with all this deep philosophy of character, a most accomplished gentleman. He speaks and writes several languages, and is a scientific musician, a devoted naturalist, and has studied every branch of natural history with suc- cess. With these resources of mind, I never saw a wretch so thrown upon the heart for his happiness, or so governed by ardent and unruly passion, of which his most romantic engouement for me is a proof. I have refused and denied him over and over again, because if it is not in worldly circumstances a very good match for me, it is still worse for him. I am still putting it off from day to day, but fear I am too far committed to recede with honour." In the interval preceding their marriage, while Miss Owenson is in Dublin immersed in a round of gayeties and coquetries, playing heartily her role of a woman at once young, impetuous, brilliant, admired, flattered, and not over-much in love with her absent lover, he writes as follows : "Your reasonings are all very fine and conclusive; but, alas, I parted with reason to a certain little co- 224 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. quette, and I can attend to and feel no language but that of the heart. Still, however, I must insist upon my distinction, that while I am ready to give up every thing to your lovely amiable family feelings, I can ill brook your associating any unpleasant idea with that of returning to me. " If I know my heart, neither solitude, sickness, nor slavery would be unpalatable, if it gave me back to Glorvina. ... I have but one object in life, and it is you ; and so little can I bear the idea of your prefer- ring any thing to me, that I have been angry with Olivia when she has had too much of your attention. Indeed, indeed it is because I love, that I cannot sup- pose it possible any feeling of disgust, or ennui, can associate itself with your return to me, and, I would fain hope, happiness. " If you knew me you would not combat my feel- ings by your affected stoicism ; you would flatter my vanity with the idea of the separation being as painful to you as to me; you would soothe me with tender- ness, and not shock me with badinage. . . . There is but one commission about which I am anxious, and that is to love me as I do you, exclusively ; to prefer me to every other good ; to think of me, speak of me, write to me, and to look forward to our union as the completion of every wish, for so do I by you. Do this, and though you grow as ' ugly' as Sycorax, you will never lose in me the fondest, most doating, affec- tionate of husbands. " Glorvina, I was born for tenderness ; my business in life is to love. Cultivate, then, the latent feelings of the heart; learn to distrust the imagination, and to de- spise and quit the world, before the world leaves you." GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 2 2$ Again he writes : " Review your own conduct to me, and think how very unnecessarily you have tor- tured with repeated promises, all evaded; while each letter has been a direct contradiction of the last. It is not the lapse of time I so much regret; and in what- ever way our loves may terminate, / beg you to carry that in your remembrance. The same effort of self- denial, which gave you one month, would have given you three, had you asked it seriously and firmly. It is the eternal fiddling upon nerves untuned by love (perhaps too romantic) for you, that I cannot bear the repeated frustration of hope. " The evident preference you give to general society over mine, — your very dread of this place, — the insta- bility of your affections as depicted in your letters, are all sources of agony greater than I can endure, and it must have an end. . . . The love I require is no ordi- nary affection. The woman who marries me must be identified with me. I must have a large bank of tenderness to draw upon. I must have frequent pro- fession, and frequent demonstration of it. Woman's love is all in all to me; it stands in place of honours and riches, and, what is yet more, in place of tran- quillity of mind and ease; without it there is a void in existence that deprives me of all control of myself, and leads me to headlong dissipation as a refuge from reflection." " Ich weiss dass Sie mich lieben, ich spurs daran dass ich Sie so Lieb habe," writes Goethe to Frau von Stein. Not always prudent for a lover to judge thus of a woman's heart by his own, but natural enough in one of imaginative temperament. Throughout this series of letters and notes we find incessant vivid 226 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. flashes of the master-passion, relieved by those inter- vals of calm delight which the poet's entire nature experienced in the warm and steadfast friendship of this refined and cultured woman. " Boundless love and confidence have become a habit with me," he writes, " and since your departure not a word from my true inner self has passed my lips. A thousand thoughts ebb and flow within, and my soul is like incessant, eternal fireworks. . . . " Yesterday and day before yesterday I fulfilled my duties. But what is duty unless animated by the presence of love? . . . " My love is like the morning- and evening-star, which sets after the sun and rises again before it, or rather like a constellation, which never sets, but weaves over our heads a perpetual living wreath. "I pray that the gods may never obscure these rays which illumine my path of life. . . . " I cannot say, scarcely even acknowledge to myself, what a transformation your love has wrought within my soul. It is a condition which, old as I am, I do not understand. Who indeed can thoroughly com- prehend love ? . . . "The sky is overcast, but I will not grumble, for when with you every thing around me is bright. In the stillness of the morning I offered homage to woman, and to you in particular. Your sex cannot possibly neglect what it loves, and its favor is always active and beneficent. May the repose and peace of mind which you have restored to me be experienced by you, and may whatever good arises from that state to myself or others be also yours. Believe me, I am quite a changed man, and with the return of my GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 227 natural benevolence I feel again the joy of living". You have given back to me that enjoyment in well- doing which I had wholly lost. Even then I did it only from instinct, and failed to get the true flavor from it. Adieu! Would that this could always con- tinue, whether face to face or upon paper. How I shrink from the thought of parting from you ! " I thank the gods for having bestowed upon me the power to embody in lyrical song what is ever stir- ring within my soul. ... In order to show myself worthy of your love and the happy hours you grant me, I shall devote the day to industry and order. I see before me a day filled up with work and an even- ing with pleasure, if you will permit me to come at sunset and say how truly I love and honor you. . . . " Your love makes me feel as if I were no longer living in tents and huts, but had received a gift of a well-built house in which I can live and die and store away all my goods. . . . O thou best one ! I have all my life cherished an ideal wish as to how I desired to be loved, but sought in vain for its fulfilment amid the illusions of fancy; and now that the world is daily becoming clearer to me I find it at last in you, and feel that it can never be lost. . . . " Lebe wohl, liebes Leben. If you only write that you have slept well, it strengthens me anew for the whole day. Heaven preserve you! Since your love has given me such rest and serenity, every thing in the world seems clear and precious. When among people I whisper your name to myself, and consent to live away from you only for your sake. . . . " Who can portray love ? The simplest and yet most whimsical thing in that whimsical combination 228 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. called mankind. Like a child at one time managed by a miserable toy and at another not to be tempted by the richest treasures ; or like a constellation whose path we think to calculate like that of the sun, but which often deceives the observer more absolutely than a comet or an ignis fatuus." The great German philosopher Fichte, writing to his betrothed Johanna Rahn, says: "I hasten, first of all, to answer your question, — Whether my friend- ship for you has arisen from want of intimacy with others of your sex ? To this I can answer very de- cidedly : I have known various kinds of women and have stood towards them in various relations ; have passed through, if not the different degrees, yet prob- ably the different kinds of sensations which your sex inspires ; but towards no one have I ever experienced what I now experience towards you. Such an entire confidence, wholly without suspicion in your ingenu- ousness, without a wish on my part to appear to you other than I am ; such an attachment in which sex has not the slightest perceptible influence — 'farther than this it is not permitted to mortal to know his heart; — such a true esteem for a woman's intellect and submission to her decisions, I have never before known. Judge then yourself whether it is through lack of intercourse with other women, that you make an impression which no other ever before made, and which teaches me an altogether new mode of feeling." Again : " I have lived a great deal since then, having been in that sphere of downright, inexorable, multi- farious work, where I feel at home. Could I but have filled the intervals of these occupations with your dear presence, have thought and felt aloud with your noble GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 229 and congenial soul, upon those subjects which for the most part had to be repressed, these days would have been enviable." In March, 1791, writing- from Leipsic in reference to the approaching termination of their long courtship, he says : " Is it true, or is it a sweet dream that I am really soon about to possess the purest happiness of my life, to claim as my own the noblest of souls, the one chosen from all others and presented to me by the Creator? That my joy and my peace will be the supreme objects of her wishes, cares, and devotions? Would that I could impart to these words that ardor and intensity which at this very moment agitate my breast and threaten to rend it ! "Take me, dearest of women, with all my faults! Indeed, it is a source of comfort to me to think that I can give myself wholly to one who accepts these faults as part of myself; that she has wisdom and courage enough to love me spite of these faults, and to help me eradicate them, so that eventually I may be purified and appear with her before Him who created us for each other. Never have I realized these faults more keenly than upon receiving your last letter, which reminded me of all the puerilities and weak discouragement which filled my last letter. What little cause, indeed, I have for self-satisfaction ! Hitherto people have praised me for firmness of char- acter, and perhaps I have been vain enough to believe it. Must it not have been circumstances that won me that opinion, since now I find that instead of govern- ing myself I have permitted my soul to be colored by objects around me ? With immense expectations to 20* 230 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. which I had no right whatever, I left Zurich, and shortly saw my hopes shattered. From despair more than from taste I threw myself into the philosophy of Kant, and found a repose which probably was due to my good health and the tendency of my imagination. I was so mistaken that I thought the sublime ideas I drilled into my memory came from my own conscious- ness rather than from any outward source. Circum- stances led me to another and less congenial occupa- tion, and lo ! it needed only the changed mode of life, the winter weather which never suits me, an indisposi- tion, and the distractions of a little journey, to disturb the peace so firmly implanted by the great philosopher and throw me into a miserable ill-humor ! Shall I always be driven hither and thither like a wave of the sea ? Take me to yourself, you dear stronger soul, and fix firmly this instability! "And yet, while accusing myself thus, how rejoiced I am to pour out my heart to one who knows herself and me too well to misunderstand me ! One of my sentiments may be safely exempted from instability, for never even in thought have I swerved in the least from you ; and it is a touching proof of your noble- ness of mind that amid all your tender anxiety for me you never once alluded to it." In the letters of Abelard and Heloise, which have lived through so many centuries, what a striking con- trast between the warmth and tenderness on her side and the cruel coldness on his ! "How sweet a pleasure," writes Heloise, "to re- ceive a letter from an absent friend ! If the portraits of our friends afford a pleasing deception to our eyes, and assuage the regrets of separation by a phantom of GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 23 1 consolation, how much greater joy should we not re- ceive from letters which bring us so true an impres- sion of the absent one! " Heaven be praised, this means is still yours : nothing forbids it, no difficulty prevents it; let me entreat you then not to let the delay proceed from your negligence!" What a series of passionate reproaches she pours forth to her ungrateful husband and unchristian brother in Christ! In speaking of his neglect towards her and her sister nuns, she says : " O my master, can nothing — neither Christian charity, nor my love for you, nor the example of the holy fathers — move you in our favor? In my wavering faith and the wretched sadness of my heart you have abandoned me; your voice has not rejoiced my ear, neither have your letters consoled my solitude. Has not the sacra- ment of marriage united us to each other? In losing you, I lost every thing; in thinking of you, the great- ness of my loss is effaced in the incomparable grief which I feel in the manner of my loss. The more poignant my anguish, the more it craves a fitting con- solation. And it is not from any one else, but from you alone that I expect it; from the source of my misfortunes should flow also the healing balm. In obeying you and entering this cloister, did I not sacrifice myself? "Neither riches nor power constitute a man's supe- riority, one being the result of fortune, the other of merit. Let the woman who more willingly marries a rich man than a poor one, and who seeks in a husband rank rather than himself, remember that she sells her- self. Assuredly she who has been led to marriage 232 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. by such a calculation may look for the value of her bargain and not for grateful tenderness. She was attracted by fortune, not by the personal attributes of her husband, and possibly may regret her inability to sell herself to a richer purchaser. . . . "Since your presence is denied me, your words might express your thoughts, at least bring before me the charm of your countenance. You are not defi- cient in language, and how shall I have confidence in your promise if I am forced to accuse you of avarice in words ? You know well that it was not devotion but simply an order from your lips which plunged my youth into the severe discipline of a convent. And is not my sacrifice wholly wasted if you take no account of it? "And dare I think that God will accept this sacrifice when I have done nothing through love of him ? . . . In the name of Him to whom you are consecrated, I beseech you to grant me your presence in the only manner in which it is possible, that is by the precious consolation of a letter. Thus strengthened, I can at least apply myself with augmented fervor to my re- ligious duties. Formerly when you desired to lead me into worldly pleasures, you plied me incessantly with letters. Every day your sonnets celebrated your Heloise; every public place, every house, resounded with my name. Cannot that eloquence which once incited me to earthly joys now lend itself to the holy office of leading me towards heaven ? Once more, remember your duties and bear in mind my request. I finish this long letter by a short ending : Adieu. You are my all in all." To these most just reproaches from the noblest and GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 233 tenderest of women, Abelard replies in the following cold and unsatisfactory words : " If you have heard no word of exhortation or of consolation from me since we gave up the world for religion, do not impute it to my negligence: the con- fidence inspired by your wisdom is the sole cause. " I did not think such assistance necessary for one whom Heaven has enriched with all the gifts of grace, and who by the superiority of her language and ex- ample is herself capable of recalling those who are led astray, to sustain those who waver, to re-animate those who become lukewarm. You have long been accus- tomed to fulfil this mission, indeed, ever since you were a prioress, subordinate to an abbess. If you now watch over your young girls with the same zeal you then manifested for your sisters, it is not strange that my exhortations and precepts should appear to me en- tirely superfluous. Nevertheless, if you in your humil- ity think otherwise, and in matters pertaining to God desire to be directed by my instructions, tell me upon what subject I shall write, so that I may enlighten you as God may give me power. . . . " Should the Lord deliver me into the hands 6f my persecutors and I should fall under their assaults, or if, far from you, some other accident should terminate my life, I entreat you to have my body transferred to your cemetery. The sight of my grave will be a daily reminder to our sisters in Christ to pour out more frequently their supplications to Heaven for me. . . . Finally, what I beg of you above all else is to convey that affectionate solicitude awakened in you by the perils of my body to the welfare of my soul. By thus according me the special and particular aid of your 234 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. prayers, you can testify to me when dead how much you cherished me when living." To which homily from the brilliant scholar and once eloquent lover, Helo'ise very naturally replies : " We expected consolation, and find only redoubled grief: the hand which should assuage our tears has caused them to flow more abundantly. Who among us could withhold her tears upon reading that passage of your letter: 'If the Lord should deliver me into the hands of my persecutors,' etc. . . . " O most dear one, how could your mind conceive such thoughts ? How could your lips express them ? May the Lord never so forget his poor servants as to make them survive your loss ! — never compel us to endure a life far less endurable than any kind of death! Have pity upon us, O master, and spare us, I entreat you, such words as those. Do not augment our grief already so profound, and take from us the little vitality we still retain. Each day brings its own sorrow, and the fatal instant of which you speak, one steeped in bitterness, would cause anguish enough to those doomed to endure it. ' Of what use,' says Seneca, 'to anticipate evil, to lose life before death !' " Dearly-loved one ! If some accident, you say, should cut short your days, you beg us to have your remains brought to our cemetery, so that our prayers incessantly called forth by your memory should in- sure you a richer treasure in heaven. Alas ! can you then think us capable of forgetting you ? When our souls are overwhelmed and plunged into a chaos of grief, when by a single blow we are deprived of both reason and language, when despair appeals almost to God, and takes the form of rage rather than of resig- GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 235 nation, is that a time we could give to prayers? To weep — this would be the only thing left for us un- happy ones — praying would be out of our power. We should be more anxious to follow you than to order your burial. In losing you we should lose our true life, and if that sustenance were taken how could we continue to live ? The bare idea of your death is death for us. ... Have pity upon your sisters ! I ask it of you on my knees — have pity at least for her who is yours entirely. "Expunge those words which pierce our souls like swords of death and cause us greater agony than death itself. A heart broken by grief cannot be calm, and a soul invested with troubles is but ill fitted for heavenly ardor. ... If I lose you, is not hope utterly dead to me ? Why should I prolong a pilgrimage which I endure only through you ? And yet what can you henceforth be to me? To know that you are living is my only consolation ; I am dead to any other pleasure. Your presence might sometimes restore me to myself, but this is refused me. " Oh, unhappiest of unhappy women ! Most wretched among the wretched! Your love had elevated me above all my sex, and now hurled from my throne I have expiated all by the magnitude of my fall. " The greater the elevation the more terrible the downfall ! Among women of noble and powerful houses is there one whose fortune, I will not say exceeded, but equalled mine? Is there one who has fallen from such a height into such an abyss? "In you what glory awaited me! Through you likewise what a frightful catastrophe befell me ! Both in favor and disgrace Fortune pushed every thing to 236 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. extremes, lavishing upon me good and evil without stint. In order to make me the most miserable of women she first made me the happiest, so that in viewing the whole extent of my loss I might mingle lamentation with grief, and the bitterness of regret with the sweetness of lost joys." In response to the anguish and devoted affection of Helo'ise, Abelard sends several pages of explanation concerning certain scriptural points, and then says : " Why do you reproach me with having caused you to share my anxieties, since your entreaties forced me to speak of them ? Would it be well for you to be in a state of joy while I am enduring this cruel punish- ment existence has entailed upon me? Would you wish to share with me only hours of happiness, not those of misery? Do you wish to rejoice with those who rejoice and not to weep with those who weep? The distinctive characteristic of false and true friends is that the former associate with us only in our pros- perity, the latter in our adversity. Cease, I beg of you, such reproaches, and repress those complaints which are so utterly at variance with the true spirit of charity. If you think I have not been considerate enough for your feelings, remember that in the immi- nent perils which surround me and make death possi- ble at any instant, it is my duty to provide for the salvation of my soul while there is yet time. "If you love me truly you will not grudge me this precaution. If indeed you had any trust in divine compassion towards me, you would fervently pray for the day that will deliver me from all those afflictions which you well know are unbearable. Of what awaits me in the next life I know nothing ; but of what I GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 237 shall be delivered in this one there can be no doubt. Death is always a boon if it terminates a wretched life, and those who sympathize honestly with the mis- fortunes of others must desire that they shall be fin- ished even at the cost of personal affection. An event that is happy for our friends may be fatal to our ten- derest affections. Thus a mother who sees her son tortured by sickness, without hope of cure, must wish that even death should put an end to such suffering; and one who loves his friend must prefer that he should be happy even at a distance, rather than to have him at his side and know him to be the victim of ills which cannot be remedied. Now I am mis- erable, and even in this condition am denied your presence : henceforth, indeed, I am so entirely beyond every possible arrangement which could promise you any joy that I really cannot understand why you should prefer for me a life of such crucifixion to a death of deliverance. If you desire that my misery should be prolonged for your own satisfaction, are you not my enemy rather than friend ? And should this suspicion alarm you, let it remind you to repress your murmurs." If we may judge a man by his own words, Abe- lard, the celebrated scholar and still more celebrated lover, would have stood upon much better terms with posterity if he had not written that famous " Letter to a Friend," wherein he says so much that for the sake of romance no less than for the sake of Helo'ise we could wish unsaid. After portraying the prin- cipal events of his career as student, philosopher, and teacher, he says : " Prosperity, however, always inflates fools, and 238 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. security in worldly matters enervates the vigor of the soul and easily breaks its springs by the illusory at- tractions of the flesh. Regarding myself as the sole philosopher in the world, and fearing no obstacle to my advancement, I began to give a loose rein to my passions, I who had heretofore lived in the strictest continence. The farther I advanced in philosophy and theological science, the farther I was removed, by the impurity of my life, from philosophers and saints. . . . I was wholly consumed by the fever of pride and luxury, when the divine grace interposed to cure me of these two ills, — first of luxury, and then of pride." Following these words comes an extraordinary confession regarding his first acquaintance with and subsequent designs upon the object of his passion : " There was a young girl in Paris named Helo'ise. She was the niece of a canon named Fulbert, who, in his tenderness for her, had neglected nothing that could render her education complete and brilliant. Her beauty was of no common order, and the extent of her acquirements made her superior to all her sex. This quality, so rare in women, was all the more remarkable in a person so very young. Her fame indeed had spread all over the kingdom. Seeing her, then, adorned with all those charms which ordinarily allure lovers, I conceived the project of drawing her into a liaison, an undertaking which seemed to pre- sent but few difficulties. My name had become so renowned, my graces of youth and perfection of form gave me so unquestioned a superiority over other men, that I might without hesitation have offered my homage to any woman in the land ; and this without fear of refusal, for whichever one I chose would have GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 239 deemed herself but too much honored by my love. This conviction led me to suppose that the young girl would easily be persuaded to yield to my wishes : moreover, the resources of her mind and her zeal for study lent greater probability to my hopes. Even when separated, I reasoned, we could be together by means of letters, and the pen being bolder than the tongue, a delightful intercourse might thus be per- petuated. My heart being thus completely enamored of this young girl, I sought an opportunity of knowing her, of familiarizing her with me, and thus leading her the more readily to the desired end. For this purpose I induced some of Fulbert's friends to interest them- selves in my behalf, and finally they succeeded in gaining his consent to take me in his house to board at a price fixed by himself. I gave as a pretext that the annoyances of household affairs interfered with my studies and necessitated too much expense. Ful- bert was very avaricious, and remarkably anxious to facilitate the mental culture of his niece. In min- istering to these two passions, my own purpose was accomplished." Surely no man ever had the hardihood to conceive a more infamous project; and the recording it in such cold-blooded language brands the author so deeply that no lapse of time can appease the indignation his villainy arouses. Neither do the incidents of his subsequent life evince any proof of that nobility of soul which, when passion has subsided, views with horror and remorse the havoc thus caused. The biographies of poets open a curious page in 240 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. testimony of the power of imagination upon that pas- sion which so often makes its victim exclaim : " Love bade me swear, and love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting love, if thou hast sinn'd, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it." Of Burns we are told that he was constantly under the spell of some fair enchantress, and that the mani- festations often nearly equalled in intensity those of the celebrated Sappho. Also, that when young his love was rarely bestowed upon one higher in rank than himself, but that even when others failed to see any special attractions his ever -fertile imagination readily endowed her with abundant charms and graces. He himself tells us that he never should have turned poet save for the influence of love which brought rhyme and song spontaneously from his heart. " Far beyond all other impulses of my heart," he writes, " was un penchant a V adorable moitie du genre humain. My heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other. . . . Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song, do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- nation ? Tout au contraire, I put myself on a regimen of admiring a fine woman." To Miss Chalmers he confesses : " My worst enemy is moi-meme. I lie so miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, light-armed, well- mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, whim, caprice, and passion; and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wisdom, prudence, and forethought GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 24 1 move so very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of perpetual warfare, and alas ! frequent defeat." To another friend, Miss Alexander, he says: "Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of way- ward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety than the sober sons of judgment and prudence." To his celebrated " Clarinda " he writes : " I do not know if you have a just idea of my character, but I wish you to see me as I am. I am, as most people of my trade are, a strange Will-o'-Wisp being; the victim, too frequently, of much imprudence and many follies. My great constituent elements are pride and passion. The first I have endeavored to humanize into integrity and honor; the last makes me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm in love, religion, or friendship — either of them, or all together, as I hap- pen to be inspired. " 'Tis true, I never saw you but once ; but how much acquaintance did I form with you in that once! Do not think I flatter you or have a design upon you, Clarinda: I have too much pride for the one, and too little cold contrivance for the other ; but of all God's creatures I ever could approach in the beaten way of my acquaintance, you struck me with the deepest, the strongest, the most permanent impression. I say the most permanent, because I know myself well and how far I can promise either in my prepossessions or powers. ... " Shall we not meet in a state, some yet unknown state of being, where the lavish hand of plenty shall minister to the highest wish of benevolence, and 242 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. where the chill north wind of prudence shall never blow over the flowery fields of enjoyment? . . . " What a strange, mysterious faculty is that thing called imagination ! We have no ideas almost at all of another world; but I have often amused myself with visionary schemes of what happiness might be enjoyed by small alterations — alterations that we can fully enter into, in this present state of existence. For instance, suppose you and I just as we are at present, the same reasoning powers, sentiments, and even desires ; the same fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking observation in our minds — and ima- gine our bodies free from pain, and the necessary sup- plies for the wants of nature at all times and easily within our reach; imagine further that we were set free from the laws of gravitation which bind us to this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without incon- venience, through all the yet unconjectured bounds of emotion — what a life of bliss should we lead in our mutual pursuit of virtue and knowledge, and our mutual enjoyment of friendship and love! . . . " I have been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who, for native genius, poignant wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity of soul, and the sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose per- sonal charms have few, very, very few parallels among her sex ; why, or how she should fall to the blessed lot of a poor harum-scarum poet whom Fortune had kept for her particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever she was in ill-humor. " One time I conjectured, that as Fortune is the most capricious jade ever known, she may have. taken, not a fit of remorse, but a paroxysm of whim, to raise GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 243 the poor devil out of the mire where he had so often and so conveniently served her as a stepping-stone, and given him the most glorious boon she ever had in her gift, merely for the maggot's sake to see how his fool head and fool heart will bear it. At other times I was vain enough to think that Nature, who has a great deal to say with Fortune, had given the coquettish goddess some such hint as, ' Here is a paragon of female excellence, whose equal, in all my former compositions, I never was lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing so again; you have cast her rather in the shades of life ; there is a certain poet of my making; among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this master-piece of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind which no woman, of any age, ever more deserved, and which few rhymesters of this age are better able to confer.' " Like many other poets, Burns was perpetually in love with Love, and whoever most resembled the ideal within his own mind became the actual idol of the hour. In such cases, words of glowing admiration or elo- quent persuasion may be uttered, and endearments interchanged, while the object remains simply a representative of Love, liable to be displaced at any moment by superior beauty, charm of manner, or caprice. Does not the prosaic mind hear with a smile of incredulity that Dante was only nine years old and Beatrice eight when they first met? — that the impression then made was so deep that thence- forth his mind was filled with her beauty and grace, although he himself tells us that the sentiment in- spired was of so spiritual a. nature that " Amore" 244 GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. never ruled him wholly without reason ? And this passion continued to glow throughout Dante's whole career, one filled to the brim with the vicissitudes incident to political strife, domestic unhappiness, reli- gious persecution, and literary enthusiasm. Nothing could render him inconstant to the beautiful woman his imagination had chosen for its sovereign, and amid the bitterest trials her image and her virtues proved the unceasing inspiration of his genius. Of the nature of Petrarch's passion for Laura vari- ous and contradictory accounts have been handed down, from all of which, however, one deduction may be safely accepted. Had Fate permitted him to woo and win in conventional mode the being Love had clothed in such transcendent beauty, his imagination would have lacked the stimulant which evoked those immortal sonnets, and romance would have lost an episode which has been fondly cherished throughout centuries of outward change and progress. The poet himself confesses the impossibility of explaining the effects of the passion that swayed him, and in ardent language portrays the extravagant vagaries of his heart and the supreme happiness his mind found in dwelling upon the perfections of the woman he had idealized. If the most brilliant scholars and world-renowned poets are thus bewildered by this deepest of life's many enigmas, how much greater must be the con- fusion in ordinary minds ! One fact, however, all re- cords demonstrate with unquestionable proof: love as a sentiment or a passion attains the highest perfec- tion when possession of the loved object is denied, GREA TER THAN SCEPTRES. 245 intellectual conception and susceptibility of feeling investing it with those brilliant tints which when confronted with reality inevitably fade. Imagination cannot always be on the wing, but its flights are always higher and more sustained when earthly joys are withheld. In Spielhagen's " Problematische Naturen," Olden- burg writes to Oswald : " If I am not deceived, the longing for the ' Blaue Blume' has thrown you into a deadly sickness which some fine day will prove fatal if that longing is not gratified. You remember, doubtless, the ' Blaue Blume' in Novalis' 'Erzahlung' ? The 'Blaue Blume'! Do you know what that is? It is the flower which no human eye has yet beheld, but whose fragrance fills the whole world. All beings are not finely enough organized to perceive this fragrance, but the nightingale is intoxicated with it, when in the moonlight or at dawn he sings and wails and sighs. And all those deluded people who send up to heaven their sighs and sufferings in prose or verse, are similarly intoxicated. — And from this sickness is no salvation, none — save in death. Who- ever has even once inhaled the fragrance of the 'Blaue Blume' can never know another calm hour here on earth." Alfieri tells us that after encountering his fourth and last passion — the Countess of Albany — his heart and genius were both equally kindled ; that, instead of finding her, like most women, a hindrance to useful occupation, a damper to thought, and an obstacle to literary glory, he found her a high incentive, a pure solace, an alluring example to every noble work. The depth and duration of this attachment are fully ex- 246 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. pressed in his own words when towards the close of his career he speaks of her as " my inseparable com- panion with whom I have now shared all the good and all the evil of this life for more than thirty-five years, and with whom I will share them for ever." Rousseau gives an account of the effect of imagina- tion in the production of "La Nouvelle Heloise." At the age of forty-five he is living at the " Hermitage" with Therese and her mother, subjected to endless annoyances through the unscrupulousness of the lat- ter and her family. His longings for love and friend- ship are as unsatisfied as ever, and Therese though affectionate and gentle is too illiterate to be a com- panion. Their walks and tetes-a-tetes become weari- some, and he seeks relief in long solitary rambles. Indulging in revery and day-dreaming, his imagina- tion filled with men and women created according to his own conceptions of character, he dwells upon them day after day, and finally plans scenes in which they shall act. After long meditation upon all the charming spots he has visited, he chooses the ground and begins to give " l'essor en quelque sorte au desir d'aimer que je n'avais pu satisfaire, et dont je me sentais devore." Not strange then that one of his susceptible tem- perament should see in Mme. de Houdetot — who chanced to be in the neighborhood on a visit to Mme. d'Epinay — a realization of his imaginary heroine. It was during his three months' intoxication with this lady that he wrote those famous letters in " Heloise." Rousseau asserts that this passion was the first and only one in his life, and that the consequences were for ever " memorable and terrible :" that although GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 247 nearly thirty and not " belle," Mme. de Houdetot's countenance was animated and pleasing, and a pro- fusion of black hair curling naturally reached to her knees. A brochure of M. de Musset describes her as much disfigured by smallpox, but possessing a fine bust, pretty hands and arms, and small feet. " Her form," continues Rousseau, "was mignonne, and in all her movements there was a piquant combination of grace and awkwardness. Her mind was both sprightly and original — la gaiete, l'etourderie et la naivete s'y marioient heureusement." As to her temper, he calls it angelic, gentleness being its chief characteristic and her heart being incapable of hating, which contributed greatly to inflame his heart for her. Another authority tells us that when Rousseau, towards the latter part of his life, wrote his " Remi- niscences," imagination continually mingled with memory. His statements — especially those relating to Mme. de Houdetot — when compared with exact and reliable facts, do not at all resemble the dreamy and passionate impressions his retrospective thinking furnished. He himself seemed to confound his real passion for her with the imaginary one experienced for "Julie" in "La Nouvelle Heloise." Mme.de Houdetot spoke but little of the period when Rous- seau manifested the passion for her which he repre- sents as so intense. She said simply that much exag- geration had entered into his " Reminiscences;" and that if truth were wanting in his "Confessions" it was still less perceptible when pertaining to the con- fessions of others. In whatever light or with what- ever feeling the career of this extraordinary man be 248 GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. regarded, justice demands that the intensity of his imaginative faculty be always borne in mind. With- out it he could never have written as he did : with it he was subjected to all the fluctuations of rapture and misery which that gift entails. In reading two " Lives" of Rousseau, one written by a man of prosaic, the other by one of poetic tem- perament, we should readily discover the widely differ- ent impressions to be obtained of the same character merely by viewing them through minds of such op- posite qualities. The poetic element in man, intent upon finding the essence of beauty, grace, and tender- ness, but subject meanwhile to ardent human sympa- thies which demand partial when denied full satisfac- tion, is often led into embarrassing situations which draw down the ridicule or the censure of the world. Dwelling on indications of the perfection it seeks, the heart becomes interested, warmed, impassioned, — and while the illusion lasts, love is said to exist. Gradu- ally the dream grows less vivid ; coolness, unrest, and that yearning for completeness which so often causes indifference to objects actually possessed, all these press their claims, until suddenly there is a rude awaking. The dream is dispelled : love is said to cease. The poets of all ages and nations — men otherwise wholly unlike in character — have invariably mani- fested that extreme susceptibility to the master-pas- sion which, until it meet with another soul capable of responding to and retaining imagination, must inevi- tably lead to extravagance and inconstancy. Frequently they themselves, when temporarily freed from the dominating faculty, see clearly their vagaries GREATER THAN SCEPTRES. 249 and inconsistencies, and form resolves which duly regulate action until imagination is again in the as- cendant. All human beings know the difficulty of the process called self-control: whether they admit it or not, they are conscious that each hour of each day affords prac- tical illustration of the moral force needed to acquire even a partial knowledge of that science. If then people of average endowments and sensibilities know this, they can form a conception of the augmented difficulty people of superior mental endowments must experience. The gift of imagination alone increases a hundredfold the temptations which beset mankind, and this in ways so subtle and insidious that a prosaic mind would fail utterly to discern the faintest trace of the enemy. In pronouncing judgment, then, upon the unortho- dox conduct often beheld and deplored in poetic genius, the harsh censor may well ask himself: Would I, if similarly endowed and exposed to similar influ- ences, have proved any wiser, any more consistent, any more self-controlled ? 22 VII- MAN AND WOMAN. Ueberall weichet das Weib dem Manne ; nur in dem Hochsten Weichet dem weiblichsten Weib immer der mannlichste Mann. Schiller. La nature a feraie la vie d'un nceud triple et absolu : l'homme, la femme, et l'enfant. On est sur de perir a part, et on ne se sauve qu'en- semble. — Michelet. On the whole, I had rather be loved than admired, and, I fear also, rather than esteemed. ... I am as convinced as of any mathematical fact, that the whole life can give is included in the four magical letters home. — Sir Charles Morgan. The exquisite fitness of every form of creation to its destined end is a ground upon which the equality of man and woman may be discussed without danger- of rivalry or usurpation on either side. However differ- ent in special characteristics, each is the complement of the other, and in the most advanced conditions of society both delight in the acknowledgment. Man — judged from the best types — is strong, reso- lute, self-reliant, indomitable; he manifests these at- tributes in all his undertakings, faces danger, storms difficulty, and yet retains vitality enough for enjoy- ment. Woman — judged likewise from the best types — is 250 MAN AND WOMAN 251 timid and compliant, more ready to follow than to lead ; strong only in intuition and affection. Perfect Manhood — Perfect Womanhood: should be the motto of the human race, and for the realization of this idea the occupations of the sexes must be widely different. Considered as created beings, their advantages and privileges are equal ; hence, even imperfect human laws affect one sex no more than the other, and the reproach of " weakness" from the one side and of " oppression" from the other, is founded on neither fact nor reason. Man, when civilized and unperverted, far from wish- ing to ill-treat woman, has a constant desire to further her endeavors towards suitable enlightenment and re- munerative labor. That the means he suggests are not always in accord with her ideas, is not a proof of his indifference or hardness, but merely of a different mental conception. Woman, when judiciously educated, taught that the minutest details of domestic life become invested with dignity when their effect upon human minds and hearts is considered, never knows the unrest and discontent so generally attributed to that abnormal growth of the nineteenth century called the " modern woman," but is uniformly happy in her sphere of feminine duties. What to an imperfectly-educated character appears as weary routine and drudgery, in one of higher de- velopment becomes labor clothed with worth and honor. Among men and women of similar mental culture — and every age has furnished instances of this possible similarity — we find no clashing of opinions 252 MAN AND WOMAN. and sentiments upon this subject. Man is satisfied with his sphere, woman with hers, and mutual com- panionship is recognized as the highest type of happi- ness. Before both, the world, with its rich treasures of wisdom, beauty, and experience, is spread out; and to both, the daily round of seemingly insignificant acts must grow weighty with the thought that upon indi- vidual honesty and skill depend effects greater than revolutions. Under all conditions of life their interests remain inseparable, and whatever good results are to issue from religion, legislation, or society, they must proceed from effort directed towards the welfare of both. No man however poor or uneducated, no woman however weak or dependent, can avoid responsibility in solving the great problem called " social life :" and that many shades of opinion respecting the privileges, rights, and wrongs of the sexes should exist, argues nothing strange or alarming. From argument and controversy pure grains of truth may be extracted, and although agitation is never agreeable it brings about a new order of things, often in a direction far distant from that desired by the agitator. Thus it has happened in our own country that many women, who otherwise would never have given the subject of feminine duties a moment's reflection, have been forced into serious and profitable consideration of them by the clamor of the Woman's Rights champions. Woman's truest friend is the one who teaches her how to use her reason : for there are many well fitted by nature to grace the highest positions in their sphere, who become restless simply because unable to discern in which kind of activity true honor lies. MAN AND WOMAN. 253 Hearing and seeing much, but unable to discriminate between sound and unsound logic, they fall readily under the guidance of any book or individual chancing to cross their path. Not too much, but too little knowledge makes women unsettled and complaining. Even from a utilitarian point this fact is of the utmost importance, for few will deny that in any domestic post whatsoever, a woman of well-trained mind will prove far more efficient than one ignorant and un- disciplined. Neither affection, good intentions, nor self-sacrifices can counteract the injurious effects of an inferior mind at the head of domestic government. Indeed, vacuity of mind is so direct a cause of all manner of discomfort that the entire influence of society should be turned to the subject of sounder education for our American girls. To say that the responsibility rests with the parents, that outside opinion avails little, and that each must take her chance, is simply to say : We are weary of it — let us leave the dull to their dulness, the frivolous to their frivolity, and enjoy intellect and grace where we find it. Whereas, although many unpleasantly true things may be said about young girls as commonly found, unqualified censure would be as unwise as unjust. Are they not, with modifying conditions of parent- age and education, the natural product of the age and country? If mothers themselves are not instructed as to the high uses of mental culture, how can they impress upon their daughters the necessity of devoting youth and enthusiasm to pursuits which will develop their highest faculties ? In running over the long list of defects attributed 22* 254 MAN AND WOMAN. to the women of this century and of this particular part of it, there is scarcely one which might not be remedied by fitting culture of the intellect. Observe, for instance, the model housekeeper, the woman who in the conscientious discharge of her apprehended duties wholly ignores the thoughts and sentiments of those around her. Absorbed in the practical manage- ment of her home, she makes no attempt to under- stand the tastes, moods, ambitions, or sensibilities of husband or children. This being the case, frequent annoyance on their part, perhaps even ill-concealed contempt, will ensue; and yet, with but a moderate allowance on the woman's side, of that consideration for others which usually accompanies culture, the disturbing cause would vanish. Even if unable to enter into the studies or amusements of others we may at least respect them. The incessant worry of a housewife who deems every thing — even feelings — subordinate to the house and appurtenances, renders each working-day of the week a series of distractions wellnigh unbearable to a reflective or imaginative temperament. Cleanliness, order, and beauty of ar- rangement in the home are, doubtless, intended for the enhancement of human content ; but when per- mitted to supersede the tranquillity without which that content is impossible, they fail utterly in their design. In an instance of this kind remonstrance and com- plaint are alike useless, redress for disturbed thought and irritated sensibilities unattainable. Only when this surplus energy is diverted into another channel can the lull ensue which conduces to the restoration of the moral system : and this chan- MAN AND WOMAN. 255 nel must be sought through the mind — philanthropy, literature, art, society, all in turn being evoked until the fitting vent be discovered. Or, to consider those charges of curiosity, gossip, vanity, frivolity, wilfulness, fickleness, and similar un- desirable qualities commonly — and perhaps with some justice — attributed to woman. Instead of condemning, ridiculing, sneering, or at best calmly dismissing the subject with a significant shrug which says: It is woman, — what more could you expect? would it not be wiser to give the matter serious attention and dis- cover if possible the cause of such defects ? Under mental culture what noble purposes those very quali- ties might be brought to serve! Curiosity, directed to principles instead of to people, to physical or moral science rather than to trivial facts, is a faculty well meriting respect. Gossip, turned from the details of our neighbor's private affairs or of his personal habits and tastes, may rise into a genuine interest in hu- manity, a means not of amusement but of aiding its progress. Vanity, if analyzed, might be found to consist mainly of an amiable desire to please by ap- propriating certain forms and colors in dress, or cer- tain graces of manner and speech. Indulged at the cost of self-respect, family duties, or pecuniary means intended for more important uses, vanity justly elicits disapproval or rebuke; but when subjected to reason it lends a charm to many phases of social and domestic life. A well-dressed woman, or a beautiful, attractive, and graceful one, is not necessarily vain; on the con- trary, by attempting to embody in outward form her innate sense of beauty, she may yield unspeakable pleasure to thousands. 256 MAN AND WOMAN. Indeed, when forced to see or hold converse with coarse, hard-featured, ill-dressed women, who are too utilitarian to be accused of vanity, we learn how to value those results of it which yield taste and beauty from small things. Frivolity appears to be a natural consequence of mental inanity, for youth and health if not directed to sensible pursuits will seek diversion in silly ones. Can a woman be censured for finding satisfaction in puerile amusements or unprofitable companions, if her mind be too meagrely furnished to appreciate better things ? We might with equal justice find fault with a child for setting too high a value upon his favorite toy or sweetmeats. Human nature — whether in child or adult — craves present enjoyment and seeks it with an avidity proportioned to physical strength and inherent tastes; judicious discipline of mind and heart is the only means of tempering that craving and giving it wholesome food. Wilfulness is an unfortunate combination of igno- rance and firmness, proceeding often from a wish to escape the charge of incompetency. Yielding as women generally do to any masculine mind of stronger calibre than their own that chooses to exert authority, they occasionally feel urged to assert their own power as reasoning beings : and, as often hap- pens with spasmodic effort, it is apt to be turned in the wrong direction. The harmless nature of wil- fulness is seen in the ease with which contradiction provokes it. By nature averse to rule, method, or monotony, either of these if enforced may induce a woman to insist upon certain points for which, in MAN AND WOMAN. 257 reality, she cares not a whit : contradiction gives variety, and even censure is preferable to an unbroken calm. Fickleness is one of the most easily-accounted-for weak points in woman, arising as it does from excess- ive susceptibility joined to defective mental training. Quick to see, think, feel, and imagine, woman stands in special need of a calm judgment which shall counteract the effect of such quickness in choos- ing new things. From this charge of fickleness few women are able to acquit themselves. The clearer their intellect the easier for them to see that they grow weary over daily tasks and are continually sending out tendrils of hope and sentiment in search of some- thing new. Nevertheless, this very desire for change, and this susceptibility of temperament, may, with proper cultivation, develop into adaptability, that •quality so indispensable for every woman who would live in peace and content. The imagination, too, plays an important part in the generation of fickle- ness: in many cases amusements, studies, even friends, are chosen not for their intrinsic worth, but because imagination depicts in glowing colors the advantages and pleasures to be derived from them. When reality has destroyed this illusion what remains but to seek change? In short, among all the accusations brought against women in this age there is not one which might not be traced to mental imbecility. As for the fear expressed by some people that too much learn- ing detracts from feminine grace and loveliness, there is nothing in the history of woman to support such a doctrine ; on the contrary, we find women of the most liberal culture making the noblest wives and most devoted mothers. 258 MAN AND WOMAN. In an admirable article upon Female Education, Sydney Smith bears eloquent testimony to this fact : "It is not easy to imagine that there can be any just cause why a woman of forty should be more ignorant than a boy of twelve years of age. If there be any good at all in female ignorance, this (to use a very colloquial phrase) is surely too much of a good thing. "Something in this question must depend, no doubt, upon the leisure which either sex enjoys for the culti- vation of their understandings ; — and we cannot help thinking that women have fully as much, if not more idle time upon their hands than men. Women are excluded from all the serious business of the world; men are lawyers, physicians, clergymen, apothecaries, and justices of the peace — sources of exertion which consume a great deal more time than producing and suckling children ; so that, if the thing is a thing that ought to be done— if the attainments of literature are objects really worthy the attention of females, they cannot plead the want of leisure as an excuse for in- dolence and neglect. The lawyer who passes his day in exasperating the bickerings of Roe and Doe, is cer- tainly as much engaged as his lady who has the whole of the morning before her to correct the children and pay the bills. . . . We are speaking always of the fair demands which ought to be made upon the time and attention of women ; for, as the matter now stands, the time of women is considered as worth nothing at all. Daughters are kept to occupations in sewing, patch- ing, mantua-making, and mending, by which it is im- possible they can earn tenpence a day. " The intellectual improvement of women is con- sidered to be of such subordinate importance, that MAN AND WOMAN. 259 twenty pounds paid for needle-work would give to a whole family leisure to acquire a fund of real knowl- edge. "They are kept with nimble fingers and vacant un- derstandings till the season for improvement is utterly passed away, and all chance of forming more impor- tant habits completely lost. We do not therefore say that women have more leisure than men, if it be necessary that they should lead the life of artisans; but we make this assertion only upon the supposition, that it is of some importance women should be in- structed ; and that many ordinary occupations, for which a little money will find a better substitute, should be sacrificed to this consideration." After exposing the fallacy of circumscribing woman's culture for fear of its baneful influence upon her do- mestic duties, he continues : " There is in either sex a strong and permanent dis- position to appear agreeable to the other : and this is the fair answer to those who are fond of supposing that a higher degree of knowledge would make women rather the rivals than the companions of men. " Presupposing such a desire to please, it seems much more probable that a common pursuit should be a fresh source of interest than a cause of conten- tion. Indeed, to suppose that any mode of education can create a general jealousy and rivalry between the sexes is so very ridiculous, that it requires only to be stated in order to be refuted. The same desire of pleasing secures all that delicacy and reserve which are of such inestimable value to women. We are quite astonished in hearing men converse on such sub- jects, to find them attributing such beautiful effects to 2 6o MAN AND WOMAN. ignorance. It would appear, from the tenor of such objections, that ignorance had been the great civilizer of the world. "Women are delicate and refined only because they are ignorant ; they manage their household only be- cause they are ignorant ; they attend to their children only because they know no better. Now we must really confess we have all our lives been so ignorant as not to know the value of ignorance. "We have always attributed the modesty and the. re- fined manners of women to their being well taught in moral and religious duty — to the hazardous situation in which they are placed — to that perpetual vigilance which it is their duty to exercise over thought, word, and action — and to that cultivation of the mild virtues which those who cultivate the stern and magnanimous virtues expect at their hands. . . . i There is nothing which requires more vigilance than the current phrases of the day, of which there are always some resorted to in every dispute, and from the sovereign authority of which it is often vain to make any appeal. ' The true theatre for a woman is the sick-chamber;' — 'Nothing so honorable to a woman as not to be spoken of at all.' These two phrases, the delight of noodledom, are grown into commonplaces upon the subject; and are not unfre- quently employed to extinguish that love of knowl- edge in women, which, in our humble opinion, it is of so much importance to cherish. Nothing, certainly, is so ornamental and delightful in woman as the benevolent affections ; but time cannot be filled up, and life employed, with high and impassioned virtues. Some of these feelings are of rare occurrence — all of MAN AND WOMAN. 26 1 short duration — or nature would sink under them. A scene of distress and anguish is an occasion where the finest qualities of the female mind may be displayed ; but it is a monstrous exaggeration to tell women that they are born only for scenes of distress and anguish. Nurse father, mother, sister, and brother, if they want it ; it would be a violation of the plainest duties to neglect them. " But when we are talking of the common occupa- tions of life, do not let us mistake the accidents for the occupations ; when we are arguing how the twenty- three hours of the day are to be filled up, it is idle to tell us of those feelings and agitations above the level of common existence, which may employ the remaining hour. Compassion and every other virtue are the great objects we all ought to have in view ; but no man (and no woman) can fill up the twenty- four hours by acts of virtue. But one is a lawyer, and the other a ploughman, and the third a merchant ; and then acts of goodness, and intervals of com- passion and fine feeling, are scattered up and down the common occupations of life. We know women are to be compassionate ; but they cannot be compas- sionate from eight o'clock in the morning till twelve at night : and what are they to do in the interval ?" After all has been spoken and written about edu- cation as the great need for woman, and character as her most enduring charm, it cannot be denied that in the opinion of the majority of mankind, beauty outstrips them both. And is it strange that there should be an instantaneous reverence for the divinest work of nature ? If called upon to admire the min utest specimen of the animal or the vegetable kingdom, or 262 MAN AND WOMAN. works of art which are merely an imitation of nature, may we not with proportionate enthusiasm tender our worship at the shrine of female beauty? Here we are subjugated at once, without reason, inquiry, or prudence, and the apparition is so fair and attractive that we shrink from disturbing the pleasurable sen- sations awakened by mundane questioning or doubt. The effect of female beauty upon men may be readily understood when it is remembered that women them- selves are highly susceptible to the witching influence. Not singular then that a mother should scan with anxious eye the existing defects or budding charms of her daughter, knowing as every mother does that no amount of goodness or cleverness will palliate the one or indemnify for the want of the other. Why does every woman wish nature had made her beautiful ? Does it arise wholly from a desire for admiration, power, and fame ? Or, is it not rather from a fine in- stinct which tells her that without beauty she can never awaken in others those sentiments of delight which produce her chief happiness ? No amount of moral worth or mental culture can ever bring to woman the soothing sense of giving pleasure to others involuntarily, by merely appearing, standing, walking, or opening her lips : neither will they bring her those domestic joys and ties which she craves as naturally as she exists. Seeing then — as who can help seeing? — that beauty signifies the best of life's blessings, that the longing for it or disappointment in not pos- sessing it is a result of nature, not of vanity or of weakness, it would be utterly futile to attempt to eradicate that longing or make light of the disappoint- ment. Neither can such an acknowledgment prove MAN AND WOMAN. 263 hurtful if it rouse women to consider the true nature of beauty and to study the immutable laws which produce and preserve it. But in beauty, as in all else, there are degrees, and few women have not some personal advantage which may give pleasure to others. The second instrument of power in woman's hands is manner, and when used with grace and skill it makes conquests less sudden but more enduring than those of beauty ; conquests in this sense signifying not the flippant term of society, but that deeper, stronger attraction founded upon intrinsic worth. Many women wholly devoid of personal beauty have been warmly eulogized as charming because of the intelligence, vivacity, and sincerity which receive so beautiful an interpretation through eye, word, smile, and gesture. Can it be true, as we often hear it asserted in de- fence of ignorance, that in society men like and en- courage silliness in young women, greatly preferring it to intelligence and dignity ? If so, then the cause, possibly, may be found in the manner of the intelli- gent kind, one which through its coldness and appar- ent assumption utterly repels men seeking society as a relaxation. Even among women of refinement there is an in- nate dislike to what is called a "superior" woman, unless the quality thus designated be veiled by kind- ness of heart and gentleness of manner. If then women are repelled by the cold, self-com- placent manner which too often accompanies unusual mental attainments, it is not strange that men should be so in a still greater degree.. Were the latter called 264 MAN AND WOMAN. upon to say why in general they find more entertain- ment in the society of a silly girl than in that of an intelligent one, they might answer somewhat in this wise : Because, above all things we prefer the gentleness, goodness, and unconsciousness of manner which, un- fortunately, more frequently accompany "silliness" than intelligence. Because, when in society, we want — not instruction, censure, or criticism, but rest : eye and mind desire beauty and simplicity rather than knowledge and special accomplishments. Not that we like silliness — Heaven forbid ! — but we accept it only when there is no alternative between that and indifference or hauteur. But give us the brilliant mind and cultivated tastes in addition to the heart and natural manner, and our allegiance will immediately be transferred. With reference to labor or science for woman, so many vague and conflicting opinions exist that at first sight it is difficult to distinguish true from false, wise from unwise. Yet if we believe, as many fine minds in both sexes do, that woman's occupation is a matter of immense importance to the welfare of the nation, we cannot rest until our own principles upon the subject are settled. Looking at women as they are, under all circumstances and conditions, it seems well- nigh incredible that any reasoning being should be found advocating the same pursuits for them as for men. Accepting the doctrine that to do any thing well the greater portion of life must be given to it, we may ask : How many of our young girls would be willing MAN AND WOMAN 265 to enter the service of state, church, law, or commerce? Or, how many, being willing, would be able, physically and mentally, to devote their whole time to one oc- cupation? That here and there an exceptional woman may creditably fill a post in one of the above depart- ments, has been clearly demonstrated by fact. All honor to those who through dire necessity or convic- tion devote themselves to science or business. Viewed as abnormal cases and semi-exiles from the amenities of woman's true sphere — defrauded as it were of their natural rights — they are entitled not only to justice, but also to the utmost courtesy and sympathy. Neither knowledge, nor assistance, nor toleration should be withheld or denied ; but these may be freely given without altering our persuasion that their labor would be more productive of genuine benefit if otherwise directed. The direct effect of labor, science, or public life upon woman is well worth the attention of those who would urge new fields for her tender feet and delicate sensibilities. Glancing at those who have adopted professions or mingled in public affairs, what is the deduction? Is there not a sad, wearied expression of countenance? — a something in manner and speech indicating dissatisfaction, a protest of the affections, possibly, against the denial of their rights ? In fact, the very absorption and hard mental work inseparable from a profession or business, detract largely from the grace, beauty, and content of woman. Influenced strongly by her surroundings, the very necessity of leaving the tranquil atmosphere of home, and being compelled to deal habitually with shrewd, worldly-wise people and hard facts, affects her nature 23* ' 266 MAN AND WOMAN. unfavorably, and develops it into something wholly unlike its original self. How far is Hawthorne right when he alludes to "that wisest but unloveliest variety of woman, a phi- losopher" ? But even allowing grace and beauty to be subordinate to utility, what would the world gain by encouraging women to become politicians, specu- lators, railroad directors, city councillors, ministers of the gospel, or lawyers! True culture implies, not the training of one special faculty, or information upon a special subject, but that careful adjustment of the mental powers which affords a view of universal science and kindles a desire for its comprehension. A woman, therefore, might have a thorough knowl- edge of medicine, jurisprudence, or mercantile af- fairs, and yet be extremely narrow-minded : whereas, another woman might possess no special facts or experience upon those branches, and yet have a far- reaching, liberally-cultured mind. Need we ask which would make the more womanly, lovable, and useful woman ! Moreover, notwithstanding the opinion of certain "advanced" minds concerning the superiority of woman's reasoning, investigating, or administrative abilities, there seems no secure ground for this belief. Judging of future conduct by present acts, what might we expect from "emancipated" woman's judgment and self-control? Turning to the sphere of home, are not acts of gross injustice frequently committed by women? servants are pronounced "stupid" for not remembering what the mistress forgot, children are harassed for lack of the brains nature failed to pro- vide, or for the brusqueness of manner caught from their parents, and possibly even the master of the MAN AND WOMAN. 267 mansion himself is twitted for not being better-looking, better-tempered, or more successful in business. In the question of Labor vs. Wages, we find too, that the average woman manifests no greater degree of philanthropy than the average man. Both see two grim facts that stand upon the threshold of society — first, the deplorable imperfections in human character; second, the impossibility of averting the consequences of those imperfections. That many women are in- competent to do the work they undertake, is quite as apparent as that many men are in a similar dilemma: likewise, that the remedy for this cannot be found in church, school, or philanthropy ; and that even legislation, though it may enforce stated hours for the instruction of the community, cannot provide brains for the comprehension of the same. So long as the world exists there must be that inequality of power which produces the effects called injustice and suffering. That many men employing working-women are hard and grasping, turning a deaf ear to kindness, and in the race for riches scrupling little what means are used, is but too true : learning promptly that humane principles rarely lead to wealth, they decide that whoever will do the best work for the least wages shall receive their patronage. Proof is not wanting, however, that women are no less ready to act upon this principle than men ; and the incredulous might, possibly, gain some light upon this subject by glancing at the manner in which they conduct their immediate household expenses or deal with the working-people they employ. If they evince a disposition to curtail comfort for the sake of show, or under-pay those they employ, we may be quite 268 MAN AND WOMAN. sure they would act upon precisely the same principle if at the head of a business establishment or public department. Public life is but private life on a large scale, and the same spirit dominates both. Only when woman convinces the world that entire justice to all within her sphere is her chief aim, will her plea of moral superiority be admitted. Is it heresy to assert that woman's organization necessitates a shrinking from the public gaze, a repug- nance to the concentration demanded by business, and a dread of exposure and hardship ? That feminine occupations, as usually understood, are more favorable to her health, beauty, and equanimity of mind than scientific or literary pursuits ? That domestic service is more conducive to her general well-being than a trade, and that worthily performing such service she is just as deserving of respect as when standing be- hind a counter or sitting in an office ? There are those who try to make us think so, but in refutation of the charge we need only glance at woman's most striking characteristics. When not warped by a false system of education, publicity, tumult, and disputation are wholly foreign to her, and she recoils instinctively from any kind of labor or employment which clashes with her sense of fitness and propriety. Woman's character in the home affects the whole community quite as powerfully as if she cast her vote or shared public duties. And whether gifted with judgment, eloquence, or administrative ability, one and all may find abundant scope within that precinct. That public recognition is not essential to power, many a noble woman has demonstrated through hus- MAN AND WOMAN. 269 band, son, brother, relative, or friend : and the more closely such power is veiled with grace, refinement, and tact, the more certain is its end. The Ideal Woman may be found in any age, nation, or class, and is recognized by the firmness with which she holds her own cherished convictions, and the faithfulness manifested in embodying them in her life. Each woman, whether of high or low degree, bears that within her being which conscientiously used wields an influence for good over thousands. What form it shall assume depends first upon natural en- dowment, then upon culture, and finally upon applica- tion of the same to a definite object. After all facts and observations bearing upon this question have been duly pondered, the umpire to be chosen is na- ture : there can be no higher appeal than this, and any inferior one will work mischief. At times, indeed, her voice may be drowned by the clangor of self-will, false pride, or weak judgment; but when fairly heard, none can remain in doubt as to her decision. In every woman's heart lies the emphatic denial of the practicability of making any out-door pursuit her preference. Those who have devoted earnest study and impartial investigation to the subject, unanimously concur in one opinion, namely, that from a marvellously early period girls turn their most serious thoughts in the direction of matrimony, and, under ordinary cir- cumstances, regard all else with indifference. Even when a trade or a situation in a business-house be- comes a necessity, it is never entered upon with any idea of permanence : acquiescence with cheerfulness or resignation, can never be mistaken for the hearty 270 MAN AND WOMAN. interest in work which arises from choice or convic- tion. Pre-eminently domestic in tastes and in feelings, seeing in the actual or imaginary home the acme of hope and the legitimate field of activity, woman seeks happiness neither in wealth nor in fame, but in the full employment of the affections. Here she is natural and at ease, and even the most gifted women have acknowledged, by word and act, that no worldly prizes can indemnify them for the absence of domestic ties. Save for pecuniary exigency or personal misfor- tunes, probably, neither Art nor Literature would be represented by woman. From her highly-sensitive organization and tendency to vivid impressions, she cannot without injury undertake any protracted men- tal labor. Her brain, no less susceptible to culture than man's, is yet widely different in all its functions. Of wonderful quickness and penetration, exceeding delicacy of apprehension, and rare sympathetic power, it would seem as if nature had set her stamp here as clearly as upon form or feature. With reference to her power in the nation, the fol- lowing anecdote attributed to Themistocles may serve to illustrate a truth practically known in many a modern household : " His son being master of his mother, and by her means of himself, he observed, laughing: 'This child is greater than any man in Greece; for the Athenians command the Greeks, I command the Athenians, his mother commands me, and he com- mands his mother.' " Here, undoubtedly, is woman's undisputed kingdom — in the heart — and only when perverted by luxury or superficial education can she MAN AND WOMAN. 2 J\ be induced to regard her prerogatives with levity or disdain. Why, under any circumstances, should she wish to compete with man? Is there a more painful social anomaly than an effeminate man or a masculine woman ? No man feels aggrieved when assured by competent judges — women themselves — that under no course of instruction could he ever rank with woman as nurse, seamstress, or housekeeper. On the contrary, he will- ingly enough accedes to her superiority in these departments, and while enjoying the results, rests tranquil in the belief that division of labor is the surest means of comfort for all. Why then should any woman feel aggrieved when assured by men that she can never make a good soldier, sailor, or car- penter? In failing to avail herself of the light of in- tuition which lifts her far above discussion or doubt, woman commits her gravest error. Thus guided, there could be no mistaken application of energy, no clamoring for things beyond her reach, no angry de- nunciation of man's short-comings, while in her own character lies so much unused or neglected. Leaving the extremes of wealth and poverty, and turning to the great middle class which represents the sterling virtues and prevalent vices of our country, does it not become painfully apparent that women manifest far less earnestness in their household duties than men manifest in their business? For, had women a just appreciation of the importance of their position, there would be no striving to escape from it, no puerile complaints about the petty details and the ever- recurring annoyances of the household. 272 MAN AND WOMAN. What is life to the merchant, the man of science, or earnest man in any department of labor, but a slow, almost imperceptible advance towards a desired end ? And if man's work be not always pleasant and con- genial to personal tastes, what right has woman to expect hers to be more so ? In her relations to home and society a woman is just as much subject to criticism as a man; and if her duties be neglected, she is on the same moral level with him who neglects his business or profession. More- over, if in her department there be ignorance, indo- lence, or improvidence, the skill and industry of her partner are of little avail. Whatever the actual endowments of woman, she will never lose the respect and protection of man so long as she remains true to her intuitions and per- ceptions : and in proportion to faithfulness here will she acquire those qualities which form the special adornment of her sex, and which always elicit from man the best fruits of chivalry. If worthy of affection, she usually receives it in full measure; when complaint is made of a want of due attention in the domestic or social circle, a cause will probably be found in her own coldness or selfishness, which would exact homage from others and yet give nothing in return. Character has as wide an arena for action in woman's sphere as in man's, each woman, apart from her accidental po- sition as daughter, wife, or mother, having countless opportunities for manifesting her individuality. Has not woman in all ages been the guiding spirit, the inspirer, the comforter of man ? Both were placed in the world to govern it, and surely woman has an equal share of power : and since neither can perform MAN AND WOMAN. 273 the duties of the other, and neither dispense with the other, why should there be any dispute ? Let man reign a king, and a right royal one, in his sphere, while woman reigns a queen, a truly womanly one, in hers. The more woman reasons upon the subject, the more earnest must be her conviction. that only in her true position can she work well ; as soon as she steps out of that and attempts to cope with men, whether in business, science, or politics, she fails to accomplish her end, and to a certain extent forfeits her rights of womanhood. Not that she should be ignorant of those matters: on the contrary, she should ever be on the alert to acquire knowledge and culti- vate her reasoning power. But no mortal can lead two distinct lives, — man's and woman's; and if due respect, courtesy, and chivalry on the one side be desired, there must be correspondent gentleness, for- bearance, and loveliness on the other. Did human faithfulness to instinct and reason per- mit nature's designs to be carried out, every man and every woman would have a "home" in the completest sense of the word, and find in it satisfactory employ- ment for thought, sentiment, and activity. But, owing mainly to human unfaithfulness to instinct and reason, thousands of men and women have no " home," no place of refuge after toil, no field for the healthful ex- ercise of domestic attachments. Concerning the causes of this condition of things many and opposite opinions are freely given. Unhappily for our country and our- selves — especially for our women — a true comprehen- sion of the value of family-life is far from being general even among the intelligent classes. An erroneous estimate of happiness is encouraged under the spe- 24 274 MAN AND WOMAN. clous names of position, rank, and appearances ; so that men and women often neglect opportunities of making a "home" not because they could not honor and love the individual willing to make or share it, but because they hope to " do better" in a worldly sense. Consequently, many young men spend annually upon themselves — without securing the comfort they seek — what would easily support a family; and many young women drag out annually a miserable existence in the too often vain attempt to earn a living. In observing the principles which are at the founda- tion of life here in America, it would seem as if waste were one of the most striking blemishes of social life. Among all classes, in all places, and in all modes, the lamentable fact is demonstrated. Whether poor, rich, grave, or gay, every one directly or indirectly participates in the work : and it is amazing to witness the indifference or complacency with which even those regarded as " sensible" throw away wealth, talent, wisdom, or opportunity. At times, indeed, it seems as if the whole community were abandoning itself with unbridled eagerness to the squandering of every thing most worthy and precious. So wide-spread and so destructive is the evil that any attempt at checking its course appears utterly hopeless. Nevertheless, in the face of an epidemic, better have sanitary meas- ures late than not at all. Thousands will be swept off, but eventually the labors of the wise and philan- thropic will bear fruit, and the benefits of the cleansing process accrue to many other thousands. Evil may be either seen or unseen: both kinds must be encountered, and both present special diffi- culties. MAN AND WOMAN. 75 In the question of waste, for instance, that which is perceived, acknowledged, — deplored, it may be, — never lacks recruits. Men and women of all ages swell the throng, move on and on, gazing, wondering, some doubtless greatly annoyed by discomfort, but lacking resolution to extricate themselves. Days, months, years pass, and although realizing painfully upon what spurious things time and strength are being expended, they are unable to break the spell which holds them passive. In the unseen, where from deficiency in mental force or fitting culture this scourge has appeared, the knife of reform must go still deeper. In the first case the mine is already opened, and while obstructions are numerous, labor and energy indispensable, yet the end is in a manner visible. In the second case the mine is closed, and however reli- able the assurance given of the wealth beneath, few people are sanguine enough to favor the enterprise. Seen or unseen, waste is one of those social diffi- culties the solution of which is of equal importance to both man and woman. In their hands is placed the ability to plant, watch, gather in, and distribute the forces which most effectually regulate public and private economy; in their characters is the strength sufficient to make itself felt in all institutions, educa- tional or religious, in all manners and customs. Endless are the ways opened, unlimited the means offered, by which this combined human force may help to answer this deeply-interesting question. Economy, as commonly applied, merely to financial affairs, is but a superficial glance at a many-sided structure; for, in thought, in time, and in strength, 276 MAN AND WOMAN. waste often makes a havoc far more serious in con- sequences than in the first case. In the mind, for example, with what recklessness the youth of both sexes are allowed to squander from their earliest years ! Through a fatality which has its root in error, their noblest faculties are-dissipated upon countless worthless subjects which have no higher aim than the amusement of an hour. And the mischievous results of such dissipation are incalculable in extent; for, whether wisely or foolishly directed, thought is ever the same subtile, searching power, drawing up or dragging down all who come within its range. And in regard to time; who, to see the extraordinary ways in which this commodity is lavished, would suppose that either man or woman had any concep- tion of its value or uses! Judging from these ways, we might suppose that the years allotted to mankind were counted by hundreds rather than by scores. Otherwise, by what argument of fashion could a woman be persuaded to spend precious days and weeks upon the ornamentation of a garment which makes it neither more comfortable nor more pleasing to the eye? Or, through what fallacy could a man be drawn into a career for which he has neither in- clination nor ability and wherein he becomes a mere tool for the ambition or cupidity of others ? Lastly, when applied to strength : we are continually reminded by daily-recurring facts that man and woman are prone to spend the very best of themselves upon the most barren projects, while odd moments and wearied bodies are reserved for the noblest pursuits. " It is astonishing as well as sad," says Thoreau, " how many trivial affairs even the wisest man thinks he must MAN AND WOMAN. 277 attend to in a day; how singular an affair he thinks he must omit." In whatever part of the world or under whatsoever circumstances men and women live, their interests are one and the same. Dependent upon one another for comfort, progress, and happiness, they cannot without irreparable injury neglect those points of training which inculcate this mutual dependence. As regards moral and intellectual greatness — the only kind worthy of human ambition — each sex must look to its own heaven-given powers for the elements wherewith to work out its ideal of life, although the animating principle of such aspiration remains ever the same for both. Where the true spirit of development is infused into each sex, there is no question of commanding or obeying, no harsh censorship or weak cringing, no discordant clamor of superiority and inferiority. Man reverences and loves woman, and — in propor- tion to education and morality — evinces those senti- ments in word and deed throughout life. Woman respects and loves man, and — save under abnormal conditions — finds her highest happiness in following his counsel and ministering to his well-being. In their appreciation of each other lie the germs of all romance, poetry, and virtue, as well as of those countless blessings and joys which find fittest expres- sion in our dear old English word "home." Here may be found the supreme felicity men and women dream of in their highest moments of revery ! Here are the rest, the peace, the perfect understanding, the inalienable confidence, the untiring devotion, the 24* 2 ;8 MAN AND WOMAN. mutual support, the satisfying rewards of toil ! And such views of " home" are not theoretical, Utopian, chimerical, unrealizable, but founded upon Nature her- self, who is all truth, all reality ! A happy home by no means implies human perfection, but an earnest striving after those attainments of head and heart which individual endowment and circumstances render practicable. Neither does it imply an absence of human faults, foibles, and passions which serve their purpose of repressing spiritual pride, arrogance, and intolerance. But the essentials demanded for such a home are a choosing of its inmates according to natural inclination and character, an absence of wanton indulgence and vicious habits, and a profound convic- tion that the slightest moral flaw permitted to rest upon the sacred threshold may overshadow and ulti- mately destroy both the temple and its worshippers. VIII. ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. We may blind ourselves to it if we like, but the hatreds and disgusts that are behind friendship, relationship, service, and indeed proximity of all kinds, is one of the darkest spots upon earth. — Helps. We learn to curb our will and keep our overt actions within the bounds of humanity, long before we can subdue our sentiments and imaginations to the same mild tone. We give up the external demon- stration, the bi-iite violence, but cannot part with the essence or prin- ciple of hostility. — Hazlitt. Nothing is more curious than our instinctive im- pressions concerning people. Towards some, without any definable cause, we feel instantly kindly disposed, desirous of assuming over them a sort of tacit pro- tection. Towards others, with no better reason, we are harshly disposed, and feel ruffled and annoyed by their mere presence. If after a first interview with a stranger we say, I like him : we may be sure there is something in his character which assimilates with our own. With this qualification, it matters not what the age, nationality, and circumstances are, the main and pleasure-giving point being : I am at ease with my companion, and. he is the same with me; I can talk and be understood, or I can be silent and not be deemed stupid ; I feel no timidity, no uneasiness, no 279 2 8o ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. desire to escape from his presence, and — whether wise or foolish — am willing to appear as I am. If after the first interview with another we say, I do not like him: it is equivalent to the mental verdict, I shall never like him. If not brought into close con- tact, we give the matter little thought; but if obliged to associate with him, his personality hardens our sensibilities, dulls our brain, or inflames our passions. Rather than meet one towards whom we stand in this antagonistic relation, we would willingly choose a day's hard toil. In early life, when effects are seen and felt without understanding causes, nature's warn- ings of this kind are frequently attributed to ill tem- per, prejudice, or injustice towards others. In later years, when reason and observation have drilled us into some sort of knowledge, we learn to make a broad distinction between antipathy and prejudice. The latter causes a judging of character from hearsay or superficial examination; the former arises directly from nature, and, far from being reprehensible, is evi- dently a means of defence against our social enemies. If we possess firmness and self-reliance, we give immediate support to antipathy, and where coarseness or deceit is detected accept the information without hesitation or doubt. But if timid and self-distrustful, we give suGh intuitions no fair play and overrule them by reason or unwise charity ; and this often accounts for the uncongenial and unsuitable companions we admit, if not to confidence, yet to our time and "our homes. Courtesy towards all men is a tribute rightfully claimed by the exigencies of domestic and social life: this being given, we are under no further obligation as ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 281 regards intercourse with the people around us, unless prompted thereto by affinity or humane feelings. But neither courtesy nor humanity necessitates fel- lowship. Under what humane law indeed should we feel obliged to conciliate those who regard us as odd, unsocial, or visionary, and who, we but too well know, can never be any thing to us? The best of ourselves — our thoughts, feelings, and convictions — ought not to be thrown away : if w r e weakly commit the folly, we expose ourselves to painful misconstruction from others and to the certain loss of self-respect. He who tries to please everybody verifies the paradox that there is no more certain way of doing little than to undertake too much. Meeting a new person is an incident in itself agree- able and suggestive of new ideas. Possibly we have long known him by name or reputation, but we de- sire the testimony of our own mind, and if we are wise will permit its judgment to decide as to the place the new applicant for our interest is henceforth to hold in our esteem or affection. In many instances a single glance at a countenance may reveal to us antagonism, and yet we may, partly through curiosity or expe- diency, partly through a dogged determination to be just at whatever cost, compel ourselves to continue an intercourse absolutely painful in its uncongeniality. In this matter, however, intuition should have full scope and under no possible pretext should its stand- ard be lowered. Better far to appear cold, strange, and unlovable — although to a sensitive ear these epi- thets are painfully harsh — than to stoop to association with inferior spirits, through moral cowardice. Some people — women more frequently than men — are not 282 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. self-controlled in manner and conversation; so that in certain cases a reserve suggested by Nature herself may be forfeited by giving, in an unguarded moment, the word or the smile which commits them to an undesired intimacy. Through this breach may enter officiousness and intrusion, those two inflictions which more than any others are likely to breed misanthropy in the human soul. In the domain of self — one which neither law nor lawlessness can take from -us — each person who appears should occupy his special place, and any relaxing of discipline in the order of occupa- tion must result in discomfiture on both sides. Neither can the standard of admission be too high, for if not with fitting companions we are better alone. When we perceive our mind becoming impaired and our sen- sibilities dulled by contact with certain acquaintances, we are not only justified in avoiding their society, but under a moral obligation so to act. There need be no fault found, no unkindness felt or expressed, but sim- ply an acceptance of a psychological fact. But how- ever earnestly we may endeavor to avoid association with those who would lower our modes of thought, we are compelled by virtue of our humanity to have daily rencounters with these antagonistic natures. To assert that reason will enable us to overcome the aversion caused by an affected manner, a vicious temper, or a disagreeable habit, is as futile as to pre- tend that reason can render us insensible to changes in the atmosphere. In vain do we deride in ourselves what seems an unjustifiable fastidiousness! Battle against it as we may, the aversion remains, and makes itself felt every time the antagonism is presented. ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 283 The same law applies to children as well as to grown people: indeed, very slight observation proves that they are antagonistic or the reverse, not only to one another but also to their elders. Favoritism in the family-circle or in the school is simply a synonym of congeniality. No human power, not even Christianity, can make us love children who are antagonistic to us, although a principle of justice induces us to treat them kindly and self-control enables us to conceal our dislike to their presence. True, we are not accountable for the effect produced, nor are they for producing it; but it would be sheer folly to attempt to deny a fact so ap- parent. Although, as Hawthorne says, "it contributes greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual health to be brought into habits of companionship with indi- viduals unlike himself, who care little for his pursuits and whose sphere and abilities he must go out of him- self to appreciate," we are nevertheless, during this process of being benefited, in a condition of unmiti- gated discomfort — one we would escape from if we could. There is a marked difference between the people who excite in us a positive antagonism and those who excite in us no feeling whatever. In the main, people interest us in proportion to their struggles, misfortunes, or errors; whereas those who live easy, comfortable lives, knowing no greater excitement than the effort required to seek or purchase their pleasures, awaken in us only that languid curiosity which inquires for the name, title, profession, and means. In the first instance it is the soul of the in- dividual which attracts us ; in the second it is merely the outer covering. 284 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. In travelling, or in a concourse of people anywhere, we see hundreds pass to and fro without awaken- ing in us the slightest feeling. We may even accuse ourselves of callousness, almost of inhumanity, when lo, there appears one who instantaneously rivets our attention and commands our thoughts. Apparently^ there is no reason why we should study this one with more earnestness than another ; but the fact that we do is undeniable, unchangeable. Involuntarily, we give him a warm mental greeting and are sure that, conditions favoring, we should become his friend. Every human face has a story to tell, although our own pressing affairs give us no time to listen unless the incidents have a psychological attraction for us. In such a case they hold us spell-bound, breathless, and, like a child hearing a fairy-tale, we could listen for ever, and for ever fancy much untold. A face may tell us that the soul behind it loves high and earnest things, that it is ardent, buoyant, expect- ing every thing, hoping, demanding every thing ; in its youthful manly beauty, it looks as if it might almost defy fate. Some years later, this same face may again cross our path. The same, and yet how different! Between then and now there seems a whole history intervening. Possibly vigorous manhood is still there, passion's fires not yet spent ; but there is a thoughtful, subdued, sad- dened look which tells of opportunities lost, plans abandoned, hopes crushed ; with maturity have come storms, trials, and disappointments. The quality of the soul has been tested and — with joy we hear it — found genuine; although in the same breath we hear that peace and rest have not yet ensued, and that ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 285 wrestlings between material and spiritual forces are still frequent and fierce. A brown, hard, weather-beaten face may be so full of goodness as to awaken instant and entire confidence in the beholder : or one bearing every indication of culture and refinement may be so strongly marked with cunning or passion that we shrink from it with repugnance. Nature gives us our features, but we stamp them with the cheerfulness proceeding from nobleness of purpose or the discontent arising from unredeemed promises. " Notre visage est une masque," says Victor Hugo. " Le vrai homme c'est ce qui est sous l'homme. L'er- reur commune c'est de prendre l'etre exterieur pour l'etre reel." True — in one sense. Superficially considered, fea- tures do not give any definite information regarding character : but studiously observed, they are very far from being a mask. On the contrary, "le vrai homme" is set forth in every line and every shade of expression which past years have traced. The faculty of reading the human countenance — one partly intuitive, partly acquired — conduces more than any other towards power over men. One possessing it would much more confidently trust his deductions from this source, than any information vouchsafed by the individual himself or his friends. Another powerful agent in creating antagonism or sympathy for the people around us is manner. Sus- ceptibility to this indescribable something which speaks so eloquently through the walk, the repose, the speech, the work, and the amusements of men, depends upon our organization and culture. Many sensible, scien- 25 286 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. tific, good, or intelligent people are found who mani- fest utter indifference to the esthetics of language, conduct, or dress ; but inquiry invariably proves that there is a radical defect in such characters which pre- vents the appreciation of beauty and harmony. No reproach can be attached to a man because he has no ear for music, but no doubt exists that he is debarred from that which affords delight to thousands. So with refinement of manner : there can be no censure for those who do not possess it, but at the same time we know they never can be on an equal footing with those who do. Many virtues and various degrees of intellect or mechanical skill have claims upon our respect or admiration ; this given, no more can be required of us. We cannot force ourselves to grant social equality in cases where our sensibilities are jarred upon by ignorance, vulgarity, or ill-breeding. As man to man, or woman to woman, we cannot yield companionship unless the best within ourselves meets its counterpart. Better far in solitude than to be irritated and made uncomfortable by another. Those who are peculiarly susceptible to manner see so close a tie between motive and action that they involuntarily look to a man's way of doing things to find out the man himself. Rudeness or want of deli- cacy in our social inferiors can be tolerated through remembering their disadvantages of education, but from those with whom we daily associate we have a right to expect consideration and refinement equal to our own. If these be wanting, the deficiencies pierce us like so many thorns, rendering us unfit for our own part. One coarse, ill-bred member in a family is a per- ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 287 petual discord, a never-ending source of discomfort and mental feud, an ill utterly incurable. By whatever name we call that gentle spirit which is personified in think- ing of and feeling for others, and which in all times has been found in the noblest of human kind, we cannot help believing it inborn. Nevertheless, manner is to a certain extent possible of acquirement, and as such just as well worth study as language, music, science, or any of the arts which affect mankind. Whatever our own endowments or idiosyncrasies, we cannot escape the all-pervading influence of one spirit upon another. All men, high and low, good and bad, brilliant and dull, sensual and spiritual, prosaic and imaginative, are bound together by the mysterious but indissoluble bonds of humanity. Whether consciously or not, with the consent of our will or against it, we are acted upon, agreeably or disagreeably, by every being with whom we come in contact; and however far apart our ways in life, or however dissimilar our work, this invisible power will make itself felt. Those who in the past have thus acted upon us are wholly ineradicable from our existence ; and while the agreeable influence is remembered with deep delight, the other causes an irrepressible loathing. The first surrounded us like a balmy atmosphere, penetrating every fibre of our being and making us long to shake off every ignoble shackle, whil^ in- spiring gratitude for the inestimable boon of faith in a fellow-creature. The second oppressed us like a noxious gas, pre- venting our natural capability from asserting itself, and causing a distaste for human companionship, because 288 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. our companions excited evil tendencies and painful suspicions as to the beneficence of Nature. Practical people are sometimes heard ridiculing certain portions of books where thoughts, motives, and workings of the mind are analyzed. Thoughts unspoken, they think, must be thoughts unknown. But sympathetic people know how similar are the processes which form the discipline of the soul, and can read their fellow-creatures with as much certainty as if the facts stood out in actual characters. In the reading of human character more depends upon the brain than upon the eye. Consequently, upon seeing a person for the first time, an impression is made wholly disconnected from the color of eye and hair or cut of feature, and after seeing this person frequently an indefinite number of these impressions accumulate. A man, for instance, in whom intellect without hu- manity exists, inspires a sentiment of mingled respect and dread. A child would shrink, without knowing why, from such a character, while a mature person would have the same shrinking modified by knowl- edge. In truth, intellect without humanity must always stamp the countenance with mistrust. The eye ever bent upon penetrating the mysteries of physical science and yet incapable of seeing any beauty or marvel in humanity, cannot acquire that attractive light which diffuses kindliness. The brow, constantly habituated to narrow, contemptuous contemplation of man and woman, grows into a contraction unpleasant to behold; and in looking at it the contraction seems to pass over to us, instantly stifling any generous impulse or be- nevolent thought which previously existed. ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 289 Hard and cold is the magnetic influence from such a nature. Those inferior to him in intellectual ability he holds in unqualified contempt; those equal to him he respects, but only in proportion to their subservience to his ideas and interest in his pursuits. Abrupt even to those whom he respects, to inferiors his manners are so imperious as to verge on insolence; and orders given to those under him are in a tone calculated to rouse the blood, making the subordinate feel per- sonally injured and aggrieved. If savages, they would probably seize the first opportunity that offered to revenge themselves, either by poison or by open violence, for the implied contempt. For all depart- ments of knowledge outside his own such a man usually expresses indifference or open dislike. There is something altogether peculiar in the feel- ing with which we regard a man of manifest intellectual superiority and yet devoid of those moral and affec- tional qualities which produce sentiment and reverence for human nature. Wholly deficient in tenderness and charity, he takes no interest whatever in the welfare of the community, and none even in those closely related by social ties, save that necessary for pecuniary or intellectual sup- port. Yet he may be wholly unconscious of this flaw in his organization, and evince in manner and conversation so great a self-complacency that we involuntarily re- lease him from all responsibility, and should no more expect benevolence from him than courtesy from a boor. However repugnant to our own sense of fitness or goodness his conduct might be, it is so manifestly an honest acting-out of his nature that there would be no attempt on our part to pass judgment upon him. 25* 290 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. Manner is invariably the reflection of the moral nature : hence the striking varieties in cultivated no less than in rude classes of society. Society, the " social instrument," affects us more powerfully than either virtue or ability. What mis- chief may it not cause, what pain not inflict, this "instrument," when of defective metal, ill made, and unskilfully handled ! To form " good" society it might be supposed that the quality of the men and women composing it would be the great essential. But, singularly enough, the world seems to think divers external accessories, such as genealogy, gold, costly raiment, and grand houses, far more important considerations, and insists upon judging the merits and demerits of applicants accord- ingly. And inasmuch as many of the people best endowed with brains and sensibilities are often found wanting in the above-named accessories, society must needs do without them. "Visiting" and "receiving," if understood as afford- ing us the means of associating with people of char- acter, are indeed suggestive and inspiriting words. But what do these two words represent to the average man and woman in our own country? Is the fact they represent — society — a recreation for wearied bodies and souls, or is it something productive of more fatigue and discomfort than satisfaction ? Throw several hundreds of men and women into the most splendid of rooms, with lights, music, and fitting banquet, and how many, when the " gayety" is over, can truly say they have been pleased, refreshed, or benefited ? Chamfort defined his friends thus : " II y a mes amis ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 29 1 qui m'aiment, mes amis qui ne se soucient pas du tout de moi, et mes amis qui me detestent;" and in a large assemblage of people anywhere probably the same definition might be made by each person. Especially is it difficult to explain how the senseless custom of " calling," as practised by women, ever could have taken root in American soil. Assuming that women similarly educated and connected by various social ties entertain kindly feelings for one another, and in time of need are ready to proffer assistance or counsel, this in no way renders it essential that at stated periods there should be a careful selection of finery and a campaign of " calls" entered upon. Why should women, whether queens or simply subjects of society, be called away from their ordinary morning avocations for the purpose of a mutual interchange of looks, platitudes, and suppressed yawns ? Each woman knows it is a sham, and yet each voluntarily en- courages it. Frequently it happens that an apology is considered necessary for the supposed fault of having allowed too long an interval to elapse before submitting to the ceremonial. At such times can any woman of average intelligence repress a feeling of contempt at the falseness of the position and the insincerity of the remarks ? Usually the basis of conversation during these "calls" consists of inquiries — general and particular — about the family, in which inquiries no one, old or young, man, woman, or child, is forgotten; and if any thing like illness or misfortune permits expansion of the subject, the details are dwelt upon with strange interest. Are then women's minds so vacant that these per- sonal details of their acquaintances prove a pleasing 292 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. source of excitement? Or is it merely through cus- tom or courtesy that such questions are asked and answered ? Many amiable and intelligent women ac- knowledge that these last-named reasons fully account for what is to them a most disagreeable phase of so- ciety. But how shall we escape ? they ask. How do what we think just and sensible, and yet retain our position ? To which may be replied : There are women to be found so earnestly engaged in useful oc- cupations that they can never make or return "calls," and yet the world by no means loses its respect for them. Home duties, philanthropic works, art, music, or science, should so absorb every earnest woman that even a single hour of flippancy or insincerity would be an impossibility. Can it be doubted for an instant that if the women of our generation were heartily impressed with the utter absurdity of this and similar customs, those of the next would show more sense and spirit ? Loyalty to an idea is one of the most striking characteristics of woman ; whether it be love, ambition, religion, or fashion, all else is subservient to the idea considered proper to her age, position, or appearance. Conse- quently, however strong a disinclination she may evince towards certain forms of 'society, however much disposed to think and act in accordance with reason or sentiment, she is usually held in check by the domi- nant idea implanted in youth. Not strange then that when all the ingenuity and perseverance of mother and teachers have been taxed to impress upon the gentle, plastic nature of the girl the absolute necessity of obedience to custom, she should yield unresistingly. The most absurd fashion, irksome routine, profitless ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 293 occupation, wearisome hospitality, or meaningless phrase, may come to be viewed in the light of duty if advocated by venerated lips. And when once the young girl's mind has been well drilled by such a system, she may be launched into society with but little fear as to results. Innovation seldom' attacks one of this stamp, a fact which ought to bring infinite encouragement to those interested in education. Fortified by all the instruc- tions of past years, she will move along thoughtlessly and easily on the beaten track, stopping occasionally, it may be, for a hasty glance at some special beauty of earth or sky, but never dreaming of either thorough examination or natural enjoyment. If, as is sometimes admitted, " calling" is a mere form, the skeleton of what was once " visiting," why should such pains be taken to deck it out like a living reality ? Why, if we do not want to see people, should we go to their houses and pretend that we do ? Why, if we do want to see them, should we go just when we know they are either out or engaged ? When women meet in private or in public, why not consent to talk sensibly and act courteously without thinking it necessary to " visit," unless a similarity of tastes or a mutual liking make it probable that such visits will prove a source of pleasure? Fashion, how- ever, is always antagonistic to natural feeling and reasonable ideas, and any one who deliberately resists it becomes an object of suspicion. If on this point a woman presume to differ from her companions, she may possibly differ on other points, and it would be a dangerous precedent, fashion thinks, to pass unnoticed one such flagrant breach of established absurdity. 294 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. Society, apparently, thinks that women are specially fitted both by natural qualities and by training for prominence in the work of perpetuating etiquette ; that, however unable to cope with man in matters requiring the sterner attributes of judgment and re- flection, in this domain she may be permitted to claim superiority: and that with her quickness of apprehension and subtile tact she may reach a point of culture which will enable her with one word to settle social difficulties which would cost many hours of doubt to the more massive intellect of man. "Visiting" and "receiving," if practised intelligently, are not unimportant or useless, but a means of asso- ciating people who otherwise would never meet, and whose intercourse often proves the most delightful of human experiences. "Conversation will not corrupt us," says Emerson, " if we come to the assembly in our own garb and speech, and with the energy of health to select what is ours and reject what is not. Society we must have ; but let it be society, and not exchanging news, or eating from the same dish. Is it society to sit in one of your chairs? Society exists by chemical affinity, and not otherwise." Many people of genuine culture but extreme sensitiveness are so bewildered by the noise and confusion incident to a miscellaneous com- pany that they become wholly unlike themselves, and to hide their confusion take refuge in the veriest non- sense or in a semblance of gayety — both of which hypocrisies they heartily despise. The men and women they see and the words they hear are tedi- ously inane, and silence looms up before the mind's eye as a blessed relief. But in "society" silence is ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 2 g$ one of the unpardonable sins, and to avoid it, the extremes of chattering, gossiping, and prosing are resorted to. There are people who tell us that if we are ill at ease in society it is because of some defect in our own character which we might counteract by force of will: that if we act naturally we attract those of similar tastes : finally, that if we find ourselves at variance with society we should lose no chance of reconcilia- tion, and under no consideration withdraw from its numerous advantages. While acknowledging whatever of truth these argu- ments hold, we must leave a wide margin for difference in the quality of " society" presented to us, as well as for idiosyncrasies of temperament. That "society is no comfort to one not sociable," is a verity to which many a strong heart sincerely responds. The unlucky man " not sociable" who permits himself to be in- veigled into society-follies is liable to fall into savage moods the venom of which is often poured upon un- offending heads. Forced into a position wholly at variance with natural feeling and taste, and made to perform parts from which every instinct revolts, it cannot be a matter of surprise if he manifest phases of temper expressed by the adjectives "irascible," "cyn- ical," " misanthropic." Such a man seeks solitude as the greatest of boons not from antagonism to his fel- low-creatures, but simply from the impossibility of realizing his ideal of society in the institution which goes by that name. One of a different temperament may have so strong a desire for social intercourse, that he consents to associate with very inferior people, not because they meet his needs, but because it must 296 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. be this or nothing. The society which will meet the needs of thinking people must be one which en- courages reunions of congenial minds without restraint, formality, or fatigue : of this kind we cannot have too much. But the common fallacy of trying to ex- tract benefit or relaxation from a senseless round of formalities exhausts patience, and creates disgust for so-called social life. The people now living who hold places in our hearts and minds, may or may not be personally known to us ; probably those who hold the best places have been seen only mentally. To know intimately one human being who approaches our conception of noble character gives greater joy than millions of treasure, or countless honors : to know one human being through his works yields a stronger sense of reality as regards the satisfaction of the soul, than seeing the thousands who pass and repass us daily. No man has ever lived long in absolute retirement without longing with a touching intensity for sights and sounds representing humanity. A recluse may accomplish a certain given end, bring forth intellectual power, reconcile repentance with transgression, or present a noble example of resigna- tion. He cannot, however, give us the type of true manhood such as human judgment approves, and which under social auspices from time to time awakens universal admiration. Under any circum- stances, isolation from our kind becomes supportable only through activity of imagination or through books, either of which may be considered an equivalent for companionship. When a man seems to prefer books ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 297 to society it is because he finds more suitable com- panionship in them than in the people he meets : but with the prospect of meeting even one person of con- genial tastes, his books are gladly forsaken. Has not many a student confessed that when he fancied him- self most alone he has often been startled by the vividness with which imagination pictures the human beings most dear to him in real life, past or present? What would education — that just leveller of all inequalities of birth or fortune, the talisman which makes utter degradation or misery almost impossible — be without social intercourse ? As in man's phys- ical structure attention not to one point only, but to all, insures a healthy whole, so in his spiritual struc- ture an immense variety of influences is requisite to make strength and beauty of character. The keen delights of solitude as experienced by many earnest souls, have never been overrated : but the solitude which proves a means of elevation must be occa- sional, not habitual, taken as a season of repose after faithful participation in the activities of life. Days of self-communion or absorption in another mind through his works should be deemed allowable only as they prepare us for new struggles, more energetic action, more absolute self-denial, nearer and more affectionate intercourse with those whom we are privileged to call friends. That hours of solitude are essential to moral health, the most profound students of human nature have uniformly asserted. Are there not times when the body cannot continue in its accustomed routine, when the palate turns from food, the eye sees nothing fair in nature, the foot refuses to carry its burden, the hand can perform none of its wonted functions? 26 298 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. But because of this temporary suspension of force we do not feel or declare that we can never again be restored to health. Thus when the soul becomes wearied, overtaxed, or disheartened, it should be ten- derly dealt with, until restored to vigor and useful- ness. The worlds of sense and spirit in which we alternately live teem with suggestions, wonders, and lessons, and if not utilized as fast as presented, the accumulation will become so great as to defy control. The law of mental supremacy is in society, as in every other human arrangement or pursuit, immu- table. If too weak to govern ourselves we must be governed by others : hence, the rulers of the world are those who listen to inspiration and act upon it; the ruled are those who through wanton negligence have so weakened their brain-power that its guid- ance can no longer be trusted, and they are forced to follow that of others. From this point of view it seems clear that if society is to be able, influential, and agreeable, the people composing it must needs have varied mental accomplishments. A distinguished French philosopher says that " one can conceive of nothing more mean, more tame, more filled up with petty interests, in a word, more anti- poetic, than the life of a man in the United States; but amid the thoughts that control him, there is always one which is full of poetry, one like that hidden nerve which gives vigor to all the rest." The poetic thought which thus redeems this heavy charge of national materialism is probably the feeling of intense dissatis- faction which many men and many more women ex- perience amid their occupations and amusements. None — even of the most poetic — will deny that life ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 299 must be sustained by daily labor and forethought ; but let every human being possessed of the least spark of intellectual fire protest against the whole of this brief life being condensed into a wearisome routine of drudgery. If, as we acknowledge, there can never be equality as regards houses, lands, dress, and mode of living, why should any of us persist in striving to rise above our circumstances at the cost of health, time, intellect, heart, and true happiness? Of all fal- lacies, none has such a deadening effect upon the national character as the commonly-accepted one of placing money before every other thing. Character, peace of mind, human progress, individual happiness, all these should, among noble-minded people, take precedence, and wealth should be sought after only when those have been duly considered. We cannot indeed ignore the vast amount of in- dustry, energy, perseverance, and self-sacrifice found in all ranks of society; but in the majority of cases these virtues seem to be practised without adequate reward. When the absolute needs of material life are satisfied, no man is justified in allowing the esthetic part of his nature to languish for want of fitting nourishment. We cannot tell others how they may be elevated or diverted ; but we know that neither children nor grown people are morally well when they give themselves no relaxation from work. The common excuse, want of " leisure" or " time," is by no means the greatest want with most of our men and women : that greatest want is a desire for better things than now occupy them body and soul, a desire to make character, not wealth or position, their chief ambition. Our " great" men should be estimated not 3 oo ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. by their millions, but by their amount of intellect and heart. In the " Memoirs" of Horace Walpole, it is said most truly that "men who have made them- selves honourably celebrated may be said to create their family. The greatest name ever inserted in the Herald's books was that of the Stratford wool-stapler. The Libro d'Oro of mind, if such a work existed, would be a book of reference of far higher interest than the ordinary aristocratic dictionaries, and the compiler might put forth the claims of noble intellect, in terms as lofty as are commonly devoted to the claims of noble blood." To become thus "honorably celebrated" is a legitimate ambition of every man and of every woman in the land, and to encourage this spirit all classes and all kinds of ability must be put in requisition. A perfect teacher would be a thoroughly cultivated and self-disciplined man having no other wish than the highest development of his pupil's faculties ; and the trait which most conduces to perfection of human character is the one termed "self-control." If we wish to know how much or how little of this desirable quality we possess, we need only examine our con- duct in all the minor relations of life. To have lost the temper and have spoken the bitter word of re- proach or contempt; to have been unjust towards others, or to have given way to invective or ill-timed cross-questioning ; to have said " yes" or " no" in the wrong place, thus causing days of waste to ourselves or pain to others ; to have yielded to solicitations of pleasure which reason condemned and conscience punished — such are some of the lapses from self-con- trol which rankle in a sensitive mind and cause it to sink in its self-esteem. ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 301 Self-control is the quality which more than any- other enables us to control others, for it commands respect when imposing externals or even virtue itself fails to command it. The self-controlled men and women hold the reins of government, whether in public or social life, and thus become the kings and queens of their respective spheres. We cannot don graces of manner or culture of mind as we would a garment; so that if we are to find amiable or brilliant qualities in society the foundation must be laid at home. But what do we too often see there? We see as heads of families those who never can be made either comfortable or happy themselves, and will not allow others to be so ; who find nothing right from the moment they rise to the hour of retiring, and whose sole object, apparently, is to find fault and worry. Continually looking either backwards or for- wards, tormenting themselves with what has been or with what may be, they lose entirely the best of ex- istence — the present. What abnormal conditions of body, mind, and heart must there not be to cause such miserable results! What more pitiable than to behold a man approaching old age under the firm conviction that nothing in the world — whether parents, education, friends, society, wife, children, or servants, — nothing in short outside himself, — has ever been right ? To live under the same roof with one whose mind is thus blurred and whose heart is thus jaundiced gives a vivid conception of the pains of discontent, and the incessant drain upon patience and forbearance leaves both the body and soul of the sufferer sadly en- feebled. The natural impulse of a healthily-organized individual is to allay the excitement perceptible in 26* 3 02 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. his unhappy companion either by removing the ob- noxious cause or by persuasive tones and conduct. But a yielding to this generous impulse only aggra- vates what it was meant to soothe. When a man asserts that he is the most ill-treated and unhappy man in the world, nothing save absolute acquiescence on the part of his auditor will preserve the latter from being considered an " unfeeling wretch," utterly callous to a fellow-creature's tribulation. Solitude has its horrors, but its worst phases are peace-bringing compared to the companionship of one of these discontented spirits. Even when in his best mood he doggedly makes life a drudgery. He finds no beauty in the sunshine, no joyousness in youth, no comfort in easy circumstances, no uses in adversity, no benefit in labor, no refreshment in intellectual com- munion, no peace anywhere. Mercy upon us ! cries the young soul who hears that wail, of melancholy, and beholds its charred fruit scattered in the home, but has not yet penetration enough to discover the, true cause of such misery : Is this then all of life ? Is there really nothing good, nothing beautiful, nothing restful ? Probably in every community or household may be found specimens of these difficult people, so that their existence must be recognized as one of the inscrutable mysteries of nature. Neither argument, nor rebuke, nor persuasion will ever reach their understanding, and their wretchedness, like a moral malaria, spreads over the neighborhood, striking down many of the_ fairest and best among mortals. So far as observation indicates the cause of the evil, it would seem to be a perverted individuality, one ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 303 starting- from selfish desires and culminating in the extremes of exaction. Their wishes, their plans, their feelings, must upon all occasions and under every circumstance be re- ligiously venerated ; while friends and family are sup- posed to be wholly devoid of special characteristics and need have no object in life save to minister to their whims and tastes. Blinded by a strange self- infatuation to every thing except their own cares and failures, they trample upon the rights and feelings of their fellow-creatures as ruthlessly as a despot who knows no law but his own will and passions. How does a wise man then deal with any weak form of humanity that comes under his notice ? Does he reason with, rebuke, or regard with contempt the one who is thus deficient in the higher attributes of man? By no means. Numerous and skilfully-applied experiments have proved conclusively that moral ailments can rarely be either cured or exorcised, but that they must be tolerated like many other human imperfections. That they greatly mar the enjoyment of others, im- pede the natural development of intellect and feeling, and cast a gloom over even the most brilliant pros- pects, none will dispute; and yet there is no escape from this depressing influence save upon the neutral ground of tolerance. Have you, O reader, ever lived in the same house with one of those mortals possessed by the demon " Hurry" ? — one who from the beginning to the end of each day, week, and year is under the lash of that merciless task-master? — who is so driven by the 304 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. multiform duties and pleasures of the world that he finds time for none of them — that is, for performing the one well or enjoying the other rationally? A man thus possessed will confess that he takes even sleep, that " chief nourisher in life's feast," only under protest, grudgingly, and that it is always dis- turbed with dreams of all he has left undone the day before and all he means to do on the morrow. He may be well bred, well educated, and kindly disposed, and yet through this mocking fiend rendered incapable of giving forth either comfort or help. In vain will he descant upon the extreme brevity of the days and hours, and the universal tendency to loiter and idle ; wish he had a duplicate brain and additional hands and feet; or try to impress upon the younger members of the home-circle who have not yet reached the dismal age of retrospection that they have " no time to lose !" However honest his precepts, his manner of enforcing them is utterly at variance with everybody's comfort, so great an infringement on personal rights that escape from his over-busy at- mosphere is ardently prayed for. Better downright laziness than this ! we exclaim, as we saunter away with our slowest step, or sink into the easiest of arm- chairs as a means of recuperation. The weakest of weak grumblers are those who never "find time" for even their commonest duties, and fancy the whole community bent upon " interrupting" their great little plans. Were men's " interruptions" only from external sources, we should indeed possess a noble corps of workers ! Unfortunately, facts prove conclusively that incorrigible personal foibles and habits are the chief hindrances to progress in any profession or ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 305 branch of work. Where one man of singleness of purpose is found, hundreds allow themselves to be driven or cajoled from their object by the multifarious forces of external life. It might justly be said of us as a people, that we seem less to be living in and appreciating the present than to be preparing for some vague future, — a future which, alas ! too often proves a chimera. For when the fortune is made, or the honor attained, the power of enjoyment has gone ; or when leisure is within reach, habit is found to have set an indelible stamp upon the character, causing the once-desired object to appear valueless. Neither body nor mind ever recovers from an early career of hurry and anxiety. Another character which proves antagonistic to the best interests of society is the "stupidly-good-natured" one. To have an obliging friend or neighbor is cer- tainly desirable, but when that trait necessitates, on his part, an obvious waste of that bodily and mental vigor without which life becomes a dreary process of decay, we cannot give our approval. Why indeed should we exclaim, Admirable good-nature ! when we know of a surety that its source is a mere desire for temporary applause, and that a faithful attendance upon home or business duties would have made it impossible ? No, this we cannot do and ought not to do. If we admire a good act or condemn a bad one we must have a reason for it, one which will bear scrutiny and examination: and the mere fact of a man's going out of his way or taking an immense amount of trouble to please us, affords not the slightest proof of genuine goodness in his character. 306 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. Another form of specious good-nature is the mortal fatigue its votaries inflict upon themselves when in society — that part of it expressed by the words "parties," "balls," and "reunions." Under this motive which colors all their actions, they sit through weary hours of intercourse with antagonistic people, talking and smiling with all the suavity of manner demanded by etiquette, while sensible of that prostration of spirit which wholly neutralizes whatever benefits society is supposed to yield. Whereas, if not " stupidly-good- natured," a man or a woman would remain passive when thrown into an oppressive social atmosphere from which escape was impossible. Passiveness, as a social quality, is one to be cultivated with assiduity ; for, although it cannot mitigate the pain resulting from antagonisms, it acts as a means of defence against rude- ness and folly, and prevents that strain upon mind and nerves which induces unfitness for other duties. Of what avail that an ardent, whole-souled man should open his mind to the first frivolous man or woman he meets? Whoever through inexperience or lack of self-control is betrayed into this folly, is punished by seeing the looks of misapprehension or scorn his lan- guage awakens. Another typical antagonism is the " intolerant char- acter," that disagreeable anomaly which brings about the family feuds and public calamities no earthly power can assuage. Imbued with the fallacy that nothing beyond the range of his own purblind intelligence can be worthy of attention, he judges men and things by prejudice rather than by reason and benevolence. Refusing to recognize religion unless it wear the livery of his own ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 307 sect ; ignoring merit that contrasts with his own de- fects ; underrating whatever clashes with his narrow conception of intellect, goodness, or beauty, he thinks it his special mission to offer his opinions and plans to others, and ruthlessly thrusts his spear into the tenderest of human sensibilities. Why should any being, because, forsooth, he fancies that his own chosen principles contain the quintessence of wisdom, insist upon others conforming to them ? Where each feels within himself a something which yields comfort, —--wisdom for him, even if foolishness for others, — he cannot but resent another's interference. 11 In dealing with alien beliefs," says Herbert Spen- cer, " our endeavor must be, not simply to refrain from injustice of word or deed; but also to do justice by an open recognition of positive worth. We must qualify our disagreement with as much as may be of sympathy." Children, especially, are subjected to this species of torture. What showers of advice and reprimand fall upon their devoted heads ! Easy to understand why so many of these young souls, full of happy ignorance, cannot be joyful and natural in their ways when at every step they dread disapproval, rebuke, or open displeasure ! No marvel that they should avoid the stifling air of cavil and even resort to mischief as an antidote. When their social surroundings are uncongenial, rebellion is likely to en- sue, the demonstrations being in accordance with men- tal or moral force. However peculiar or unpleasant the characteristics of some children, they have as in- alienable a right to tolerance and courtesy as adults, and the greater their mental vigor the more vehemently they must resent intolerance from their elders. ^/jtl^Z 3 o8 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. One type of intolerance which is peculiarly trying in the family or social circle is the literary one. Of either sex it may be, but let us consider the "gentle" one, this being the most objectionable, owing to its more frequent presence in-doors and its greater ingenuity in devising means of annoyance. Studious and thoughtful herself, this sort of woman fancies, erroneously, that everybody ought to be the same, and incessantly urges her views upon brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, or any other young people over whom her years give a presumable authority. Upon what ground, might justly be asked, does she suppose this to be the only kind of excellence? The physician, because he finds present gratification and an ever-increasing interest in his profession, does not therefore try to persuade all the young men about him to adopt the same : neither does the clergyman, law- yer, merchant, or artist. True, they fully appreciate any interest or sympathy manifested; but if thor- oughly absorbed in pursuing their own vocation they find no time for interfering with the vocations of others. To be helpful to the young is a widely different thing from trying to make them see or think like their elders. The very best help a woman of studious tastes can give the young people about her, is, to make her own life true and harmonious. Here she has an honorable sphere for manifesting the highest results of mental culture ; and if her pursuits do not make her gentle in manner, sympathetic in spirit, and modest in conversation, she has failed to derive from them their best fruits. Increase of knowledge, received by a true-hearted woman, never causes a fault-finding or ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 309 dictatorial manner, but tends rather to enlarge her natural kindness for, and charitable judgment of, others. Another kind of antagonism which frequently dis- turbs our equanimity is that produced by intercourse with "good people." Alluding to Priestley's Life of himself, Sir James Mackintosh says : " Priestley was a good man, though his life was too busy to leave him leisure for that refinement and ardour of moral sentiment which have been felt by men of less blameless life. . . . His morality was more useful than brilliant. But the virtue of the sentimental moral- ist is so over-precarious and ostentatious that he can seldom be entitled to look down with contempt on the steady though homely morals of the household." Does Mackintosh mean by this that those who practise household virtues with extreme rigor and punctuality are incapacitated for lofty sentiment and conception? that the daily routine of a meagrely- provided home so consumes the energies of intellect and affection that there is no elasticity left for the re- finements of life ? Certainly we all know that many " good" people — " good" in the sense of hard-work- ing, practical, steady — are the most uninteresting as characters. They become machine-like even in their goodness, and their fellow-creatures of quicker minds and more ardent sensibilities gradually drift far away from them. Body and mind are so intimately connected that, with equal endowment and culture, two people sim- ply through their daily routine may arrive at very dissimilar conditions. Hawthorne speaks of a character who had so culti- 27 3 io ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. vated his mental part that it could not fail to mould the physical to itself and become manifest by unmis- takable tokens. A woman compelled to devote the best hours of the day to household work or out-door occupations which drain her strength, cannot have the clear thoughts or the delicate fancies of the woman of leisure and seclusion. However gallantly we may fight against the law of assimilation, we must finally succumb : the people with whom we live and the kind of work we do will always prove too strong for our wishes or aspirations. Hence, to be at ease and happy, socially, we must seek congenial and try to escape from antagonistic people. To acquire clear reasoning power and strength of imagination, me- chanical or frivolous occupations should be avoided as much as possible; those whose years are spent in mechanical labor can never acquire that knowledge of character which follows close and long-continued study of human thoughts, motives, and actions. Certain habits of antagonistic people which inces- santly jar upon our sensibilities may arise simply from a want of that indispensable ingredient of comfortable social life called " tact." The weighty trifles which vex eye, ear, and feeling so powerfully as to estrange us from those we " ought" to love may generally be traced to that source. Who has not been annoyed by the tactless member of the family-circle who persistently reads aloud from the daily paper the most trivial local items or the most shocking accidents, when others are engaged in reading or writing? — or by the one who asks incon- siderate questions, makes personal remarks or ill- timed criticisms, and abruptly stigmatizes as " silly" or ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 31 " ridiculous" all tastes or pursuits which are unlike his own ? Or who has not been tormented by guests of this tactless stamp ? — those for instance of the reticent, self-conscious kind who never move or speak at their ease, never show their true colors, and yet expect ceaseless exertion on the part of their entertainer? Nothing more charming than true hospitality : no- thing more exhausting than antagonistic guests. When forced to be with antagonistic people, moans and groans are forced from us, spite of reason, spite of philosophy, spite of resignation : perhaps the wisest plan is to acknowledge to the soul just cause for dis- content while honorably striving to avoid a repetition of the castigation. Walpole writing to John Chute exclaims : " Oh! my dear sir, don't you find that nine parts in ten of the world are of no use but to make you wish yourself with that tenth part ? I am so far from growing used to mankind by living amongst them, that my natural ferocity and wildness do but every day grow worse. They tire me, they fatigue me; I don't know what to do with them ; I don't know what to say to them ; I fling open the windows, and fancy I want air; and when I get by myself, I undress myself, and seem to have had people in my pockets, in my plaits, and on my shoulders! I indeed find this fatigue worse in the country than in town, because one can avoid it there and has more resources; but it is there too. They say there is no English word for Ennui; ... I think you may translate it most literally by what is called ' entertaining people' and ' doing the honours': that is, you sit an hour with somebody you don't know and 312 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. don't care for, talk about the wind and the weather, and ask a thousand foolish questions which all begin with, ' I think you live a good deal in the country,' or, ' I think you don't love this thing or that.' Oh ! 'tis dreadful !" Antagonistic people are no less numerous and " dreadful" to-day than in the last century, but our consolation may be found in the thought that in agreeable contrast to antagonism stands the fact con- geniality. " At the close of a busy but still very incomplete life, it is a great joy to be held in esteem by those to whom by right of intellect, taste, and aspiration we belong." And this "great joy" to which Humboldt thus alludes every one must desire to have, or at least to be worthy of. The caste of intellect, taste, and aspiration is one of honorable distinction, and one to which every member of the human family should earnestly strive to belong. That birth and circumstances furnish us with our quantum of brains and taste, we all know ; but the actual use we make of these attributes is of infinitely more importance as regards our position in the world of worth we admire. Society for us, as individuals, means associating on terms of equality with people who have similar ideas, tastes, manners, and aims ; when in such society we are happy and constantly being benefited. What- ever of good there may be in us is strengthened and developed, evil tendencies are counteracted by elevated thoughts, and, there being no need for masking our characters, they appear in their natural attributes. ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 313 People are not necessarily hypocritical because they act in a manner opposed to feeling. What to one man is highest and best, to another may be cause only for curiosity and gossip : the soul cannot be laid bare to the gaze of the uninitiated. Those who are outwardly calm and passive, may possess turbulent hearts: hence in certain phases of life their conduct must inevitably appear hypocritical. Or excessive imagination joined to reserve and a keen sense of ridicule may render us liable to exaggerate trifles and attach too little impor- tance to the realities of life. To know people, therefore, we must judge them less by their manner in a mixed company than when at home or in a tete-a-tete. Many a noble character is completely obscured by the exigencies or restraints of custom, and can be known only after close study when removed from those fetters. Although the term society, flippantly used, brings up a formidable array of fatigues, annoyances, and inanities, yet in an earnest sense it means very great happiness, because it represents people. Without so- ciety we could have no friendship; for this supreme condition of being, wherein two people find that in- voluntary communion of thought and sentiment which induces confidence without fear, conversation without fatigue, and silence without embarrassment, could never occur among men and women untrained by the varied experiences of social life. Only a truly noble nature is capable of partaking of or yielding friendship, and the loftier the standard the rarer the gratification. Among all the people encountered in a lifetime there seldom appears one whom — even with the greatest amount of self-sacrifice — we could make happy;* for 27* 314 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. while we may willingly work for, amuse, or instruct those who cross our path, there can be no happiness given without a positive natural similarity of tem- peraments. But when we meet one to whom we can give un- alloyed happiness by being simply what we are, and who in return — with no conscious volition — gives us the same delight, we may know that we cannot give too much friendship. All our oft-repeated desires, emotions, and aspirations, which to an unrelated ear sound so vapid, foolish, and tiresome, are to the ear of friendship natural and harmonious. Even when criticism is freely given it never frets or jars upon us, for we know it to be calm and just, capable of en- couraging, as well as of pointing out defects, although never ridiculing, reproaching, or mistrusting. The tranquillizing thought that another being has our wel- fare so much at heart that even his partiality cannot make him hesitate to tell the truth — even to condemn when necessary — relieves life of half its responsibility. Amid all the excitements of the inner life, and all the annoyances of the outward one, this certainty of find- ing one soul always ready and always true, acts upon us like magic. "In the hour of distress and misery," says Walter Savage Landor, " the eye of every mortal turns to friendship : in the hour of gladness and conviviality what is our want? 'tis friendship. When the heart overflows with gratitude, or with any other sweet and sacred sentiment, what is the word to which it would give utterance? my friend" To a friend we come when wearied with indispensable activities, as to a place of refuge, sure that here are sympathy, interest, ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 315 and help. Life is but an endless repetition of triviali- ties which to ardent souls would finally become intol- erable were it not for the look, the word, or the smile of a friend. Him we can conjure to our side, tell him all that annoys us, — let him laugh if he so choose, — and derive infinite comfort from his presence. We fear neither his ridicule nor his rebuke; indeed, we rather desire his critical judgment upon our thinking and doing. The thorough trust and beneficent sense of repose engendered by the possession of such a friend almost cause surprise, sometimes making us think it may after all be only a dream, — one pleasant and satis- fying, but from which |he awaking will be rude and painful. Do not many of us know what it is to feel strongly, keenly, warmly ? — to try to express some of this, to fail in making ourselves understood, and to succeed only in making ourselves wondered at and arousing suspicions as to our entire sanity? It is like trying to talk in an unknown tongue: conscious of having some- thing to say not wholly worthless, we are yet unable to convey any idea of our meaning. This experience is ours when we talk to people generally, not from want of courtesy or affection on either side, but simply because of dissimilar temperaments. Consequently, it is not strange for those who feel intensely to seek the ear that can understand, the mind that can appreciate, the heart that can sympathize. Companionship to such is as absolute a need as food for the* body, and they who ignore this fact make a sad mistake, and entail endless misery upon themselves and others. Can any words overrate those hours we pass with a soul-related friend, hours so replete with wholesome 3i6 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. sweetness that even their memory yields greater joy than any other earthly boon ? Soul-communion may be enjoyed both with those who lived ages ago, and with those wholly unknown personally, but best of all with the living ! And yet this intercourse with the living is, truly considered, not very far removed from that with the dead, for they are often almost as inaccessible. For the most part, even when living in the same city or neighborhood, we can have our dearest friend with us only during brief hours. Indi- vidual ties, duties, labors, and interests render any thing more than occasional interviews impossible ; and even then thoughts and feelings can be only par- tially expressed, forcing us to realize that the best things of life are more shadowy than real. Friendship is one of the soul's passions, which the best people of all ages have acknowledged and done homage to as a source of happiness, peace, and in- spiration. Without it the world of thought and sen- timent would be a dreary desert, with it the plainest abode becomes illumined, transfigured, blessed ! With what a consciousness of rest, of abstraction from things worldly and unprofitable, of gratitude for the gift of friendship, we seek the quiet nook where what our nature most craves always awaits our com- ing! In hours passed thus, self-knowledge comes to us with unerring certainty, and the daring to be our- selves proves to us that the soul has found a com- panion. With such a vis-a-vis we may speak of life, of its errors, of its significance, and of its end, without contempt, awe, or terror: never forgetting our destiny as mortals, we yet know entire rest and content in the present. ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 317 When hours which were full of the only kind of happiness we believe in — that of friendship — must be spoken of as in the past, that past is nevertheless not a dream, but a reality which is to us a legacy of ex- haustless bounty. To have had one such friend, and to have been permitted to enliven, by our trust and affection, those hours of dull prose which press so heavily upon every highly-endowed nature, bring to us the immutable conviction that human joy is not a chimera, but a fact which every being worthy of the prize may sooner or later grasp. Between people of education there is a sort of free- masonry which being instantly felt and acted upon makes them feel comfortable when together. But in this state there is no exhilaration, no sense of unusual enjoyment, this last phase requiring positive mental and moral affinity. A few words, an expres- sion of countenance, or the behavior, will reveal this to us, and indicate the possibility of more familiar intercourse. Companionship is a nourishment which satisfies the deepest wants of the soul, and braces it for the unavoidable conflicts and privations entailed upon existence. Capable of many different grades, in its loftiest manifestation it proves a balm for every dis- appointment or humiliation, while in its lowest it is merely a temporary bond for the sake of convenience or amusement. From the moment we are conscious of thought and feeling we seek — every one in his own way — to satisfy this want, and, failing to find food altogether palatable, are prone to take whatever will at least appease hunger. This accounts partially for many strange vagaries of companionship in early youth. The thoughtful, earnest. child consorts with the 3i8 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. giddy, reckless one, because he is attracted by certain characteristics, and he knows nothing as yet of dis- crimination. With maturity come caution and fastidi- ousness, which cause a decrease in the number of his companions, but a higher standard of worth. There are moments in our life when looking back into the past we discern several distinct eras marked with the indi- viduality of the companions we chose. Years have passed, and we know not whether we ever shall meet them again. What does it matter? That life, with its events, its lessons, and its experiences, is gone irre- coverably, leaving behind many painful but likewise many happy recollections. The life of the present is new, unlike the other in all its features, but replete likewise with varied sensations and activities. The one gone can never be lived over again : the one we are now living is full of interest. No reason then for murmur or complaint, and we can even recur to expe- riences most painful in character as to a series of pic- tures or chapters in which another, not the self, was the principal actor. This faculty of living new lives, throwing off, as it were, certain stages of existence, is not given to every one. It seems a power of sepa- rating one's individuality from actual events and view- ing it as something apart and distinctive. Many who think themselves peculiarly fitted for friendship, complain that they meet with no appre- ciation, no sympathy, no congeniality. Mere feeling, however, is no criterion of fitness. A man may wish for a thing, labor under a continual sense of chagrin and disappointment because he cannot obtain it, and yet lack precisely those qualities which make its attainment possible. ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 319 In all recorded instances of devoted friendship we find generosity on both sides the most prominent feature; so that whoever earnestly craves a noble- minded companion must first discover whether he be worthy of the honor. Unless we have that within which would accord with nobility, we have no right to expect to meet it. Generally, if our own lives are elevated and harmonious, those of similar traits will be attracted to us. Nothing indicates greater moral weakness than to wish for a thing without giving adequate exertion towards its attainment. By what manner of logic can we expect to be admired if we are not admirable, or loved if we are not lovable ? By all the laws of soul-aristocracy high natures cannot consort with low ones, and any attempt to force the unnatural condition must result in failure. To be recognized and appreciated by our equals, we must be simply ourselves. On what else, indeed, save this principle of honesty, can true worth rest? Supposing that for a time, say to gain temporary favor, we succeed in repressing our natural tendencies, will not this apparent success eventually prove our severest chastisement? For if we walk about in disguise, we need not be surprised if our friends fail to award us their ordinary respect, courtesy, or affection. If we descend from our own high standard of thought and sentiment and are con- tent with an inferior one, our friendships will partake of the same spirit of inferiority. Not a single mean thought or selfish impulse which, if harbored, does not send its influence through every portion of our organization. Impressionable natures, unless endowed with great force of will, are liable to adapt themselves 320 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. to inferior companions, through fear of losing the pleasure they derive from partial congeniality. It frequently happens, in early life, that, through ignorance of the laws of our own being, want of self- confidence even when enlightened, or extreme sensi- tiveness to the world's opinion, we lose much valuable friendship; some of the choicest pleasures of exist- ence may be sacrificed to what bears the name of duty or necessity, but which in reality arises from a motive much meaner or weaker. Later, thanks to the knowledge which comes with experience, we come to a more conscious life, and discriminate more justly between the doctrines of duty and mere con- ventionalism, the former, when reasonably appre- hended, enabling us to take and enjoy many things which the latter arbitrarily forbids. To one who holds companionship as the highest of earthly pleasures, the loss of a chosen friend is the most deadly blow Fate can inflict. In vain does the sun shine, in vain do the flowers bloom, in vain do the birds sing, when the soul is drooping under such a loss ! All outward objects assume unattractive forms and hues, or are perhaps entirely unheeded by eyes striving to penetrate in- scrutable mysteries ! What does not make happiness ? is a question easily solved when the comforts and luxuries of life are viewed with an indifference so absolute that their removal would not stir a fibre of our being. Not insensible, perhaps, to the charms of color, form, and quality — as regards the objects in daily use — yet, when compared with the mental and moral at- ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 321 tributes which excite our love, they appear wholly- worthless. All our treasures would be given, oh, how gladly ! for the sake of one hour more of dear companionship with the one who was so close to our soul. Even the annoyances of life which once were confided to his ear and listened to with ready sympathy, now seem insignificant and contemptible. Who can answer the agonized questionings of the soul as to Where? What? How long? Who can penetrate mysteries which religion, philosophy, and the still greater enigma called " faith," make only the more profound? What, we cry, — when, bowed with grief, we walk mechanically through our parts, gazing at things in possession which but a little while before seemed so desirable, — what now are all these worth to us ? What satisfaction can these toys, these fabrics, these unmeaning civilities yield, now that the heart's nour- ishment is taken away? Who can tell in what moment grief will fall upon and rob life of all its value and sweetness? In youth we fear the strange, dark, awful fact called death. Full of hope and joyousness in the anticipation of life's good gifts, never for an instant doubting that the joys we read of and embellish in our own minds with still greater brilliancy are at some future time to be ours, — how, indeed, could grief be believed in? How could youth be brought to understand that those ardent feelings and intense desires implanted in his breast may, possibly, never see fulfilment? Surely, he argues, Nature — if she be the good mother we are taught to love — could not be so cruel as first to 28 322 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. awaken and then to deny the gratification of those feelings and desires \ Year after year they beset him, and although always met with stern denial, he never loses the hope of one day possessing and becoming tranquillized in that possession. Duties are fulfilled, annoyances submitted to, disappointments endured, humiliations borne, because within chants the refrain, Bear this and this, O mortal, without murmur, for the time cometh when all will be healed and com- forted by the fruition of thy hopes ! Wealth, station, fine raiment, and gay associates, — all these seem but as passing shadows compared to the supreme joys the heart of youth dreams of perpetually. Strange and terrible does death seem to him in those days from the fear that it may come and bear him to the unknown land ere these sweet dreams are realized. Thus passes the first period. With the departure of youth, what a change comes over the self-same being ! The objects once so fervently prayed for came at last, although in guise so different from expectation that it was long before they were recognized. Doubt, anxiety, bewilderment, for a time distracted his heart, but finally there came hours in which all tribulations were divested of their bitterness by the gratification of life-long cherished wishes, and his sole prayer was for continuance of the joy then experienced. Thus passes the second period. The third is ushered in with a storm in which all the elements of body and spirit are at war, and whose effects will be felt till the close of existence. All that had been so ardently prayed for, joyfully accepted, and tremblingly enjoyed, is torn from the mortal and hurled ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 323 into that abyss of grief from which nothing has ever been recovered save memory of past joy. Nevermore can life be to thee the same, O mortal, nevermore canst thou know a renewal of the past. Weep if thou wilt, but only in those- hours when no human eye is a witness to thy stricken condition ; and, weeping, re- member that thy lot is special — not to thee alone — but to humanity! What thou hast known and suf- fered will continue to be known and suffered' by as many — constituted like thee — as are now living or as shall live after thee. Hide thy tears and stifle thy cries of anguish — not from shame for the cause, but from a desire to spare others the sight of misery they cannot prevent or assuage! Close thy heart to longing and hoping, and live henceforth solely to accomplish thy work, whatever thou knowest it to be ! Live, not for vain show and weary conformity, but for the development of the noblest faculties of reason and imagination! When this stage of life has been reached, death no longer seems strange or awful, and the mature being dwells upon it with calm pleasure rather than with dread. Blessed terminus of struggle and suffering, he cries, I hail thy advent, whether near or distant, as the sole mode of quieting the tumults of this restless soul ! Painfully susceptible to the transcendent beauties of Ideality, I have never found peace in the realities around me, and the hopes that once yielded me such strength and delight have proved wholly illusory. Life — such as is possible with honor — has been sounded and been found wanting in power to give the satis- faction once deemed attainable. Death will not be sought, nor asked for, because of a desire still strong 324 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. within the soul to do my appointed task ; but, should the hour come before this task is ended, -before aught has been done to keep my name green in the memory of the good and loving among my fellow-creatures, methinks regret will yield to the sense of rest and gain acquired ! Sunlight, verdure, flowers, mountain, valley, sea, and lake, all these are full of beauty and charm ; so likewise are the myriad forms of grace and goodness which men and women unfold. Neverthe- less, nothing in all visible nature, nothing in all living humanity, can reinstate the illusions of hope or quicken a desire for continuance of life under the old conditions of suffering. If the lesson had not been learned before, the loss of a soul-friend teaches us to appreciate and enjoy the present, to say to ourselves when with one we love : How long shall we be together? How long will these opportunities for communion continue ? We know not: why then permit any obstacle, save positive duty, to mar our mutual happiness? A man of culture and conscience may fully realize the fearful risks attending human life and human plans, and yet derive delicious nectar and exquisite perfume from existence. A philosopher in thought, a poet in feeling, a philanthropist in action — living closely up to his own standard of right, while at the same time extracting happiness from a thousand sources which others less enlightened would pass by unnoticed, — such a man is not a creature of the imagination, but a reality which more than one of us have beheld face to face. Of all the human beings encountered in a lifetime, ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. 325 most of them must necessarily be antagonistic to one of a refined and sensitive organization. The servant whom we employ does not know he is rude and abrupt in manner, and when reminded of it, never so gently, thinks himself more or less aggrieved. Nevertheless, that very manner causes so unpleasant a sensation to his employer that he shrinks from giving even the necessary orders for the day. Yet that servant's ser- vices may be valuable and not to be conveniently dispensed with : so he is retained, although his very presence always mars personal comfort, and even the recollection and anticipation of it are equally disagree- able. The child who visits us, or who is temporarily given into our charge, is happily ignorant of the im- pression he makes; but we cannot ignore the dislike we feel for his awkwardness, ill-breeding, surliness, or dulness. We cannot permit ourselves to be unjust in our treatment of him, nor do we suffer him to see any trace of the antagonism he awakens. But it is there, makes itself felt every time the child is beheld, and never can be overcome. The child has his own antagonisms in abundance, and we may or may not be one of them: consequently, we see no reason to censure ourselves, but simply feel a strong need for complete self-control, for courtesy's or humanity's sake. The man or the woman met in society or in busi- ness affairs affects us similarly, and we would gladly avoid intercourse could it be done with due regard to civility. If it be only to exchange a morning greeting or to purchase a trifling article, we have preferences stronger than we should care to express ; this last simply because non-susceptible, non-refined natures 28* 326 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. look upon the subtleties of antagonism and attraction as decided marks of unsoundness of mind. No one cares to be pointed at or thought unsound even by his inferiors, so that multitudes of men and women pass through life racked at every step and in every sentiment without even the poor satisfaction of giving vent to their sensations. The only sure means of counteracting the distresses caused by human antagonisms is intimate acquaintance with human nature and mental capacity of reasoning upon its enigmas. This enables us to face our fellow- creatures without trembling, shuddering, or fighting; to treat them fairly without attempting to give them all the same degree of respect or affection ; to assist them as occasion offers without professing personal regard; to study their peculiarities without being re- pulsed; to behold their evil conduct without being shocked, their eccentricities without being surprised. So much for the mass : while for the few with whom our personality can assimilate, we cherish unbounded reverence and affection, count every moment spent in their presence as a marked privilege, value every thought that falls from their lips as treasure to be hoarded. We may or we may not see them often — circumstances, not we ourselves, decide this — but when we do see them, we are refreshed and made happy ; when separated, we dwell upon their attractive points with extreme pleasure, and let them act as antidotes to the poisonous antagonisms of others. This acquaintance with human nature tranquillizes, too, by balancing good and bad, agreeable and dis- agreeable, beautiful and ugly, by furnishing reasons for our hate as well as for our love, and making us ANTAGONISTIC PEOTLE. 327 quite comfortable in the certainty that, with certain modifications of morality and self-control, we are not responsible for either. Again, it is worth our study because it strengthens whatever we possess of ability, honesty, or charitable- ness ; makes us patient not only with the stupidity or weakness of others, but also with our own; fortifies us in the belief that, while we may not have genius, we may have perseverance enough to keep upon the road which reason assures us leads to an honorable destination. Absolute fairness to all grades and forms of humanity — although it will not render us less susceptible to human antagonisms — will qualify us to penetrate to their sources and discover ameliorations for their effects. Absolute fairness to ourselves will not change our characteristics of intellect or sentiment, but will clothe us with authority in their development and adaptation. Through self-discipline and culture two people of decidedly antagonistic natures may live together upon the most amicable terms: each leaving to the other the utmost liberty of thought and action, there can be no clashing, no enmity, no quarrelling. But that no two people thus dissimilar would choose to live together is a fact requiring neither assertion nor argument. For who wishes to be always watching his own words and looks, always avoiding causes for disagreement or weighing the results of actions? Yet without such incessant circumspection peaceable living under the same roof would be wholly impossible where antago- nism exists. There is then not only the amplest justification for 328 ANTAGONISTIC PEOPLE. us to avoid such a condition of living whenever the question is permitted discussion with a view to choice, but there are reasons as absolute for selecting an at- mosphere congenial to temperament, as for selecting one congenial to physical health. ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. There are two worlds; the world that we can measure with line and rule, and the world that we feel with our hearts and imaginations. To be sensible of the truth of only one of these, is to know truth but by halves. — Leigh Hunt. The critic, then, should be not merely a poet, not merely a philoso- pher, not merely an observer, but tempered of all three. — Margaret Fuller Ossoli. 'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill Appear in writing or in judging ill; But of the two less dangerous is th' offence To tire our patience than mislead our sense : Some few in that, but numbers err in this, Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss; A fool might once himself alone expose, Now one in verse makes many more in prose. Pope. To many people the world of romance is far more real and satisfactory than the one they "can measure/' so that they are fully justified in devoting as much time and enthusiasm to one as to the other. In ordinary modes of thought the two departments are deemed wholly separated, while their respective students are continually engaged in those petty quar- rels which correspond to partisanship in the state. But to discover the truth in. any vexed question we 329 330 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. do not rely upon popular belief: we turn to those noble intellects which by their intense application to the solution of difficult problems merit our respect and confidence. And of these we listen most reverently to the one which believes that "the eye of imagination sees farther than the glasses of astronomy," and in its teachings urges us into contemplation of the whole rather than of detached parts of the universe. " But while insisting on the claim of Intellect to pursue its ideal objects," says G. H. Lewes, "and to be uncon- trolled in its prosecution of even the remotest re- search, we must never forget that its ideal ends are only sanctified by the final end — by that correspond- ence with Reality which was its starting-point and must be its goal. No speculation, however wide of actual experience, can be valueless, if, in any way, it enlarge our vision of the Real ; but this is its final test. If with mighty span of wing, it soar above the sphere of the Real, it must not keep hovering there, but must at some point re-enter the sphere. Ideal con- struction is unlimited in freedom, on the understand- ing that it must always submit to real verification, and have values assigned to its symbols." To the mind endowed with imaginative power, real life is full of romance, and every hour of even the 'most uneventful experience furnishes abundant mate- rial for novels, allegories, fables, and fairy-tales. A person of prosaic mind may encounter very romantic incidents and pass them over as commonplace; whereas an imaginative person lives in a perpetually- fresh atmosphere of romance even when nothing in his outward life deviates from the ordinary routine. ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 33! Hence the most perfect specimens of fictitious narra- tive are not dependent upon any external incidents, but simply upon the coloring given by imagination to everyday occurrences. The characters of a novel, if drawn by a master-hand, are recognized as actual men and women with new names ; and their deeds, whether great or small, are in consonance with their time, station, and education. In real life, we judge people by manner, words, and actions, and when they transgress the acknowledged code of their class, their peers at once stamp them as unfitted for or as disgracing their position. By the same law of association we judge their representatives in fiction : and when incongruities appear, we may rightly conclude that the artist has not made his studies from nature. If, then, we have a just appre- ciation of the term aristocracy, we are made indignant by seeing in a novel that a "gentleman" belonging to that favored class can, under provocation, descend to scurrility of language, or cowardly assault upon a woman, — or that a "lady" from the same class can so far forget the dignity of her station as to listen to the suggestions of her ignorant and vicious maid con- cerning a crime both of them contemplate. Not that people high in station may not plan or commit base crimes: but the mode in which tempta- tion assails them, as well as their mode of resisting or yielding to it, is in accord with character and breed- ing. Likewise after the commission of crime : the consequences direct or indirect — including remorse — will rebound upon the individual of refinement and education with far greater force than upon one of vulgar habits and hardened sensibilities. Moral jus- 332 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. tice forbids, too, that fictitious characters presented to us at first as virtuous, should, without perceptible corrupting influences, suddenly fall from candor to deceit, from truth to falsehood ; and when they are represented as committing not only grave errors but blackest crimes without a compunction of conscience or a pang of remorse, members of the same class have a right to protest indignantly against such a delineation of their associates. Except where parentage and surroundings have in- duced precocious vice, people do not commit flagrant violations of morality without preliminary steps: and that Art should either show or narrate these steps, is claimed by all who have un-sensational ideas of ethics. That apparent anomalies exist in Nature, and that these may mislead many sincere people, will not be disputed. A man may at one period of his career b? high in position and of unblemished character, while at another he may be very low socially and harboi the worst principles. But — and here is the point af- issue — upon investigating his mode of life between those two periods, we are not at all surprised at th* change. Extraordinary effects can invariably be traced to causes equally powerful : and if this be so in rea life, why not in fiction? Why should not character there be depicted according to natural laws ? If th? hero of the tale, for instance, be described as hating cant and every form of hypocrisy, are we not led t« infer that he possesses a germ of sound moralit) which at some period in his career will produo- honest living on his part? Not that we should ex pect him to reach his standard : for we well knov ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 333 that while hatred of cant may be accepted as a sign of innate sense of right, it is by no means a panoply against moral lethargy or transgression. Ability to discern blemishes does not imply exemption from them. A man may indeed have that faculty of dis- cernment highly developed while he himself is thor- oughly unprincipled; but supposing him possessed of intelligence, he will not be so unconsciously, and will be far from boasting of his superiority to other men. Or if the hero of a novel be endowed with fine intellectual powers in addition to material wealth, we should hardly expect to hear him complain of having no special sphere of action. If he have not found one, whose fault but his own ? Even supposing his early training to have been per- nicious, showing no attempt on the part of parents or teachers to control or direct his strong nature: in this case, the battle with self would be a hard one, but no harder than many others have engaged in and come out of either victorious or honorably scarred. Natu- ral to infer, moreover, that if a man of parts experience the ills resulting from early indulgence, he would earnestly strive to acquire self-control, and not — as the novel demonstrates — continue unresistingly to drain the cup of sensual pleasure until a broken con- stitution necessitates desistance. Again : if essential to the interest of the story or considered consistent with reality that a young man must be portrayed as headstrong, self-indulgent, or fool- hardy, it would seem as if he might in middle age — conformably to real life — be permitted to show us something better. Experience, it is true, teaches fools nothing : but the hero now in view— one taken -29 334 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. from a popular novel — is not in that category, but, on the contrary, is said to be endowed with unusual in- tellectual force. So that when he reaches middle age with as little sense of moral obligation as in youth, with augmented cynicism and inertia, we refuse him either admiration or respect. Or if he be drawn with strong inherited passions, neither is this a plea for leading a lawless life. A hot temper or an iron will is often accompanied by other, possibly very noble, traits, for which the progenitor should be held in grateful remembrance. Neither is it possible to comprehend by what dia- lectical subtlety a novelist can make an unfortunate marriage the cause of a useless or licentious life. Granting that a rash, unwise, or ill-assorted union entails consequences utterly destructive of domestic harmony, it cannot therefore be deduced that either the husband or the wife is by reason of that discord released from all moral responsibility as an individual. A fatal code indeed, that which would permit all those who have found unhappiness in marriage, to lead reckless lives and then attribute their vices, forsooth, to disappointment in that venture ! Upon the same convenient principle, any species of levity or excess might be sanctioned simply by producing sufficient proofs of our unhappiness ! Marriage, like a journey taken for our pleasure or interest, is usually entered upon voluntarily. When, therefore, accidents or disasters occur, it surely be- tokens excessive puerility to accuse the undertaking as the cause of our misery and the excuse for ill- temper or dissipation. Turning from the ethical to the esthetic side, we are ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 335 often disagreeably impressed by the persistency with which certain novels bring physical ailments or de- formities to view. In real life it is tacitly understood that such subjects are to be avoided in conversation, save for some special reason of courtesy or humanity. Certainly none of us desire to hear the painful details of disease and suffering, unless we are actuated by a morbid fancy, or feel competent to offer relief or con- solation. Therefore, to carry this bad taste into fiction, mak- ing the prominent character physically repulsive and describing symptoms with an accuracy suitable only for a medical journal, is to violate every law of fitness, to commit a fault utterly reprehensible and unpardon- able. " Nature," says Hawthorne, " thrusts some of us into the world miserably incomplete on the emotional side, with hardly any sensibilities except which per- tain to us as animals. No passion save of the senses; no holy tenderness, nor the delicacy that results from this." In the same " miserably incomplete" manner many modern novels are ushered into existence ; and while — humanely speaking — nobody is to blame, it is well to try and prevent their influence from overshadowing those people who take ideas and facts found in books for granted, and chancing upon an injurious set, im- bibe its principles and try to embody them in their own lives. Regarding fiction in this light, we cannot have too great a reverence for good work, or too severe a condemnation for unsound morality or care- less execution. 336 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. Whatever tends to make or unmake character merits profound thought and cautious analysis : attention to these two points would prove that far more people are corrupted through the worship of fictitious idols than through association with the same class in actual life. If people have any thing in head or heart worthy of being listened to, a novel may be justly esteemed one of the forms most likely to reach the public ear. And it matters little to the reader whether the story that charms him be written in orthodox or unorthodox style : if conceived when heart and brain were aglow and composed when the fires of imagination had grown cool, it cannot fail to appeal to his reason and stir his sympathies. A faithful delineation of passion is something as real as life itself, but can be accom- plished only by obeying inspiration and seizing auspi- cious moments for its expression. When a novel thrifls us with emotion, becomes to us as actual a creation as the beings of flesh and blood we see about us, we may know that it is a spontane- ous growth of intellectual and spiritual experience. And when moved — as many impulsive natures are — to imitation of a favorite hero or heroine, the prompt- ing need not be despised. For however forcible the argument that no two beings, either in romance or in reality, are endowed with the same qualities or placed in the same circumstances, hence the futility of choos- ing examples for imitation or precedent — nevertheless, character as a principle may be worthily and practi- cally imitated. The creation of a hero or heroine combining nobility of soul with strong and generous action must infallibly prove a strong incentive to simi- lar conduct on the part of living beings of susceptible ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 337 temperament. Consequently, a character in fiction may become a positive and powerful aid to real people although without specifying which course they are to take in any given complication. Imaginary heroes and heroines, if of good quality, cannot be too numer- ous or too closely imitated. Judged by the principles which govern or influence their prototypes they can no longer be called fictitious, but simply emblematic, and are as worthy of our study as the works of the sculptor or the artist. In referring to such types we recall with satisfaction the opinion of the Ettrick Shepherd of the Noctes Ambrosianae, as follows ; "North. James, I wish you would review for Maga all those fashionable Novels — Novels of High Life; such as Pelham — the Disowned " Shepherd. I've read thae twa, and they're baith gude. But the mair I think on't, the profounder is my conviction that the strength o' human nature lies either in the highest or lowest state of life. Charac- ters in books should either be kings, and princes, and nobles, and on a level with them, like heroes; or peasants, shepherds, farmers, and the like, includin' a' orders amaist o' our ain working population. The intermediate class — that is, leddies and gentlemen in general — are no worth the Muse's while; for their life is made up chiefly o' mainners — mainners — mainners; — you canna see the human creturs for their claes; and should ane o' them commit suicide in despair, in lookin' on the dead body, you are mair ta'en up wi' its dress than its decease. "Tickler. Is this Tay or Tweed salmon, James? " Shepherd. Tay, to be sure — it has the Perthshire 29* 338 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. accent, verra pallateable. These leddies and gentle- men in fashionable novels, as in fashionable life, are aye intrig — trig — triguin — this leddy with that ane's gentleman, and this gentleman with that ane's leddy, — then it's a' fund out through letters or keyholes, and there's a duel, and a divorce, and a death, the per- petual repetition o' which, I confess, gets unco weari- some." That every novel is written with a purpose, one definite and satisfactory to the author, may be safely assumed ; but to readers of mediocre understanding the majority of novels are so entirely devoid of every element that can entertain or enlighten, that the eulo- giums pronounced upon them by literary critics must be suspected of bastard origin. The needs of trade, well-meant kindness towards authors, or positive inefficiency in the critic — any or all of these may produce the encomium which gives the new novel a wide circulation: but as a country advances in years and culture something higher and more beneficial is demanded. When a stranger presents himself with a good letter of introduction we receive him with due cordiality for the letter-writer's sake, but notwithstanding claim the privilege of forming our own unbiassed opinion of the new-comer. In the same spirit we receive new books that come well recommended. Assuming willingly that both author and publisher have good intentions and do their utmost to make them palpable, we accord their work fair treatment, although deeming close examination needless save for reasons of public in- terest. What possible difference can it make to people ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 339 earnestly occupied with their own affairs, whether sensation novels come into the world by tens or by thousands, so long as there is no obligation to read them ? Why not regard them stoically as merely a disagreeable fact, one among many we would rather avoid than encounter ? But, for obviously wise pur- poses, we are not permitted to avoid disagreeable facts, and, willingly or otherwise, are forced into examination and expression of opinion. Voltaire, alluding to Richardson's Clarissa Harlowe, writes: " It is cruel to expect a man of my vivacity to read through nine volumes containing absolutely nothing, and which are intended, apparently, merely to show that Miss Clarissa is in love with a debauchee named Lovelace. Why, even if all those people were my rela- tives or friends I could not take any interest in them! "The author strikes me as a shrewd man who, knowing the curiosity of the human race, promises something from volume to volume in order to insure their sale." Now, although we of the nineteenth century are no longer taxed with nine-volume novels, we have gained nothing, by reason of the alarming increase in num- bers. Instead of nine volumes at long intervals as in the last century, we now find it no easy task to count the single volumes issued from month to month and from week to week. And whoever would maintain a reputation for ordinary intelligence, dare not neglect reading or, at least, "looking over" a portion of these literary productions. Even those people who profess indifference to the flashing jewel named "popularity" are induced to search into its causes. 340 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. If the nation be amused, instructed, or excited by a book, we would fain examine its contents and make ourselves acquainted with the tastes of the nation. To exact that the plot of a novel should be in har- mony with fact and possibility implies neither restraint nor limitation of the imaginative faculty. For is it not readily conceded that the records of actual life furnish more incidents of a romantic and extraordi- nary nature than all the novelists in the world could exhaust? As a bare record of romantic facts, how- ever, would not make a romance, we must infer that it is less the incidents themselves than the mode of delineation which declares the power of the writer. In the most famous chefs-d'oeuvre of fiction we find plots of the simplest construction : underlying this, however, is a central idea from which all others ema- nate, and a definite purpose which, however skilfully elaborated and delicately colored, gives tone to every character and incident. We find likewise Analysis — that which penetrates the surface of character and unveils motives, feelings, wishes, hopes, and fears : Passion — that force of the soul which in the pursuit of its object carries a man beyond himself, causing forgetfulness of opinion, position, or danger: Senti- ment—that refining element which necessitates affec- tion, sympathy, and devotion : and lastly, Construc- tion: — that dexterous management of materials which brings divers parts into a whole which, from whatever side beheld, is perfectly symmetrical. The last quali- fication is, apparently, more rare than the others, so that it is not uncommon to see a writer with talent, material, and ideality sufficient for a host of novels, ex- periencing great difficulty in constructing a single one. ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 341 Just as an artist draws his figures from real life, intensifying, idealizing, or caricaturing their striking points, so a novelist looks into society for the originals of his fictitious creations, and enhances their beauties or exaggerates their defects according to the supposed exigencies of the narrative, or his own fancy. To an experienced writer the construction of a plot causes as little concern as the invention of characters, for the simple reason that the world of men and women about him presents an endless variety from which to select. Has not every man some conception of a plot when he glances at the incidents of his own life, or at those of his neighbor? Does not every day bring before our notice precisely the materials of which novels are composed — the wealth, poverty, strength, weakness, virtue, vice, happiness, and misery which constitute life ? For a novel, then, nothing more is needed, ap- parently, than to transcribe familiar scenes and char- acters and illumine them with imagination: but the numerous and pitiable failures constantly appearing testify loudly that much more than transcribing and illumining is needed. If novels are to be incorporated into the literature of a country, and rank with history, poetry, and science, they should be admitted solely upon the basis of truthfulness to nature. Not that this should imply dulness or prosiness ; on the con- trary, it admits all the variety, warmth, brilliancy, and depth which nature everywhere manifests. A novel may be the means of introducing any kind of theory, sentiment, or philosophy, keeping always in view the fact that minds of many different conditions are to be entertained or instructed. With the object the novelist has in view the critic has very little concern, for people 342 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. are under no obligation to read a book unless it appeals to their sympathies or tastes ; but what the critic should feel very deeply concerned about is the mode in which the novelist makes his characters think, speak, and act. Most people, if accustomed to observe those around them, in even a desultory way, very soon acquire a knowledge of their peculiarities, and would quickly detect a false representation of them, whether it took the form of affectation, assumption, or cari- cature. True, if a man is pleased with trash, and honestly avows it, he cannot be censured. But the fact of his being thus pleased is the one which calls for exami- nation, and for an antidote in the shape of criticism ; and none being too old to be taught, such an antidote promptly administered, may be effectual in extirpating ignorance and prejudice. Not that criticism is in itself agreeable, or ever likely to be graciously received. On the contrary, even the utmost gentleness on the part of a literary Mentor may be unable to prevent a sud- den rise of resentment in the breast of the hearer ; but with the abatement of this little gust of passion he is usually ready not only to acknowledge his defi- ciencies but also to request aid in overcoming them. Whatever the degree of a reader's experience, there is always some one to whom he will naturally appeal for advice. A novel which conforms to principles of true art, and at the same time thrills the hearts of multitudes by its beauty and passion, is so rare an event in the history of literature that it must be ranked with all other works of inspiration. ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 343 How many among our own novelists are giving the world faithful pictures of life as it is to-day in the United States ? Who indeed would be daring enough to portray accurately the lives lived by multitudes of men and women in our so-called good society? In order to give a faithful representation of manners, cus- toms, incidents, and character as found in any given age, the novelist cannot avoid those heavy shadows which passion, idleness, and deliberate wickedness produce in social life. However small or insignificant the community, those shadows are apparent, and must be reproduced if the picture is to have due effect. This much granted, the mode of portrayal is the next and all-important question. In actual life we know in how many different ways the same story may be told. From the lips of one it may utterly shock our sense of delicacy and refinement, causing us to regret — tem- porarily — the faculty of hearing; while from the lips of another the same facts may come so veiled with benevolence that their most repulsive features inspire pity rather than disgust. The same difference pre- cisely is manifest in novels. It is less the dreadful thing that occurs than the crude and vulgar mode of telling it which arouses indignant protest against such narratives being given to miscellaneous readers : for although nothing pertaining to the interests of man- kind need be concealed from those who look at pain- ful sights for the sake of learning their cause or their remedy, it cannot be otherwise than injurious to per- mit the young and unreflecting — or those influenced merely by curiosity — to witness them. Is it desirable, can it serve any wise end, to intro- duce young girls to those characters in fiction which 344 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. in real life they would never meet? — permit them to hear their language, to learn their vicious sentiments and modes of life, and to become painfully familiar with haunts of social corruption? Every year seems to bring increased boldness in describing depraved people of both sexes, so that even quite young girls, after an indiscriminate course of novels, may be heard glibly discussing complex questions of affinity, divorce, or immorality with all the sang-froid but with none of the earnestness of veteran moralists. None who observe the modes of thought and the manners of the young girls of America can doubt that there is an almost universal lack of that maidenly gentleness which, by the best judges of all nations, has ever been deemed the most attractive ornament of their sex and age. That independence of manner which culminates in brusqueness is one of the traits which most detracts from a woman's influence ; and the tendency of demo- cratic institutions to foster this trait can be counter- acted only by Ideality. A woman who bears within herself a lofty ideal of female beauty and excellence is naturally prompted to avoid national defects, and to aim at the cultivation of the refinement her mind per- ceives. But if a young girl's intelligence be allowed to feed upon the low representations of men and women found in the mass of novels she is at liberty to read, her mature womanhood will show the due effects of such unwholesome nurture. Where a high degree of intellectual susceptibility exists — in either sex — the entire range of thought may be said to de- pend upon the works of fiction selected in early youth. Can we not conceive of the vast changes a century of novel-reading might make in the women of America ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 345 if the books they pored over inculcated sound doc- trines of morality, and noble ideas of grace and beauty? We may say "women" here advisedly; first, because they read many more novels than men, and second, because upon the women of a country de- pends mainly the character of its men and children. The best school in the country can do nothing for a girl if her mind be enfeebled or poisoned by fictitious trash. " The purpose of Knowledge being to regulate Con- duct," says G. H. Lewes, "and the nature of Knowl- edge being that of virtual Feeling, the importance of Sentiment both as regulative and representative is in- disputable. None but shrivelled souls, with narrow vision of the facts of life, can entertain the notion that Philosophy ought to be restricted within the limits of the Logic of Signs ; it has roots in the Logic of Feel- ing, and many of its products which cannot emerge into the air of exact science, nevertheless give the im- pulse to theories, and regulate conduct." To attempt to write a work of fiction with an ideal of man made real, would be preposterous. No ideal of beauty, grace, intelligence, or goodness ever can be attained by mortal man or woman : the utmost the best and wisest people can do is to spend their lives in seeking what Ideality indicates. Consequently, when told of a novel that such and such a character is presumed to be the author's ideal of a perfect man, woman, or child, we turn away with impatient incre- dulity, feeling very much as children do when they frankly acknowledge that they like stories about naughty boys and girls better, than those about good 30 346 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. ones. We all, whether children or adults, want to hear true stories idealized — that is, clothed in those rainbow-colors which every character looked at with the imagination presents. But although the attain- ment of perfection is impossible, it is the striving after it which makes the ideal people we dream of and long to know and love. And the reason is simple enough : we are well aware that effort, labor, and enthusiasm applied anywhere, accomplish whatever good or beauty the world has to show. If the whole cannot be at- tained by mortal minds or hands, we are content with a part, and give our admiration and love to him who strives hardest in the undertaking. So that in the works of fiction presented to us to read we are right in demanding that the heroes and heroines held up for admiration should possess heroism, that superiority of spirit which answers to our highest conception of real flesh and blood. It matters little where these heroes and heroines are born, or indeed what they do, provided their thoughts and aims are above — not their station — but the ignor- ance, cupidity, and vulgarity which surround them. Writers and readers are alike responsible for the good or bad literature of a country; but the latter if trained to a sounder judgment would quickly decide the fate of meretricious books, and thus discourage the volunteers who are continually reinforcing the ranks, although too often only to disgrace the standard they follow. To what degree an author should draw his opinions or deductions from self-consciousness and experience, cannot be settled by any formula. In the lowest form ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 347 of this mode of writing, the author makes himself the hero of every story he writes, palliating his faults, justifying his crimes, or painting him as he might have been save for cruel fate : and to an unvitiated taste nothing is more offensive than this species of sickly sentimentality. But in other and higher forms, where the aim is to illustrate errors or passions com- mon to all — with the view of aiding in their control or eradication — an author may justly avail himself of personal history as the most forcible means of in- culcating his moral or his warning. And to those readers whose own inner lives are intense, the interest of a novel is greatly enhanced by knowing that the author's own experience is there transcribed. Their interest in him as a real living being is carried over to the imaginary men and women he depicts ; and if possessed of psychological discernment they will know, too, that an author like all other men passes through many phases of thought and feeling in the course of a life, and in his fictitious narrative may ingeniously fit his character to those phases and its incidents. Not that this necessitates the thrusting of himself before the world : for just as in every-day life a man of tact and self-control may freely express his opinions without revealing the source whence they have been derived, so the author's actual life may fur- nish the main incidents of his novel, while he himself remains wholly concealed from the world. In the familiar intercourse of private life, egotism is not always objectionable ; but it becomes so in a super- lative degree when in any public matter men seek to attract attention to themselves rather than to their principles or their work. 348 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. The creative author makes his characters think and act according to their respective abilities and tenden- cies : right or wrong, noble or ignoble, they work out their destinies while the author apparently only imagines or directs the circumstances in which they are to act. Whether such creations are to benefit humanity depends wholly upon the moral force of the author. A mere reproduction of scenes in actual life — however truthfully or skilfully drawn — could be of no possible use to the world unless it were inspired by an idea or a motive : this alone could supply the moral or intellectual force which indicates a spirit behind the mechanism. Myriads of people require myriads of books, and that all degrees of taste must be met, none will dis- pute. But the question of questions is — How ? Are all works of fiction, for instance, to be accepted, all to be given to the minds awaiting them, all to be con- sidered useful in their places ? A casual glance at the new lists daily paraded before our eyes — not to speak of those already in circulation — fills us with a sense of utter nothingness as regards our acquaintance with " light" literature. Nevertheless, after the first feeling of discouragement has subsided, reason sug- gests that a few specimens carefully examined may, possibly, give us correct ideas of the class to which they belong. Just as an assemblage of people awakens in us keen speculation and warm sympathy, although well aware that only a handful can ever stand to us in the light of friends or instructors, — so an assemblage of novels stirs in us many thoughts and feelings. For, if only a few of them can interest or influence us indi- ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 349 vidually, we know that all the others have an equal influence over other minds, and therefore ought not to be carelessly regarded. Each new novel that ap- pears possesses a certain amount of influence — good or bad — and consequently challenges criticism. If it be the work of a distinguished man or woman, there is an acknowledged claim of courtesy in addition to the literary one; although the former should not influence our judgment as to worth. Viewing it as a work of art, we are privileged to drop ceremony, forget the eminent position of the author, and discuss his actual merit with the same candor as if it pertained to a novice. Genuine criticism may well be supposed too much engrossed with principles to attack individuals, whether famous or obscure, but their works, whatever their na- ture, are public property, open to inspection and discus- sion. The object brought under the lens of the intellect is regarded not as an accidental growth, but as a type of many more of the same form and attributes. No man or woman can remain neutral in a question involv- ing vital principles which govern taste and culture : and until criticism becomes elevated to its proper place in human affairs, crude and deleterious articles will continue to be imposed upon the multitude. Is criticism, then, a thing intrinsically good, to be sought after and valued ? or, is it the outgrowth of an artificial state of society, a thing to be dreaded and avoided? Surely it is worth attention, this subject upon which people have such strangely indefinite ideas that they zealously applaud or condemn upon no better ground than like or dislike, popular opinion or self- mistrust. Rightly understood, is it not a judgment 35o ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. upon a piece of work, an action, or a principle, one intended to incite us to admiration and commendation, or the reverse? And whether this judgment laud or censure, is not its ultimate object to persuade others to entertain the same opinion? Such an influence, there- fore, permeating, as it must, every phase of ethics and esthetics, elevating or lowering public sentiment and taste, should be intrusted only to character of the staunchest kind. Nature, it is said, stamps those whom she deems fitly endowed for certain departments of science or art: granting this, willingly, it must likewise be maintained that cultivation eventually decides whether those en- dowments are to become available. Thus a critic is heeded not only because of his naturally keen eye or clear intellect, but also because those attributes have been carefully trained and diligently used : when we reverence our leader, we are always glad to obey. If criticism be genuine and reliable, it must be un- prejudiced by either friendship or enmity, ready to bring its entire force of learning, penetration, and con- science to the examination of its subject. Swayed by no motive of depreciation or self-aggrandizement, it discusses and analyzes with unwearied patience until its end has been attained ; and whatever the ultimate conclusion, expunges from it every semblance of bitter- ness. Looking thus at the qualifications demanded by worthy criticism, we are not surprised at the small number meriting its honors: indeed, rarely do we find one whose culture and judgment entitle him to full trust, one who, unbiassed by personal feeling, is anx- ious simply to indicate to others where they can find the pure gold of truth and how to avoid the dross of error. ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 351 In addition to virility of reason, there must be special knowledge of the subject criticised, discrimi- nation in the selection of specimens, and an idealism which enables the critic to conceive of the perfection he wishes to point out or elicit. Bulwer tells us that reflection in one's own chamber and action in the world are the best critics. With them we can dispense with other teachers; without them all teachers are in vain. Nothing truer, if ap- plied to people who have already learned the art of reflection, — how to gather up all the scattered frag- ments of self- consciousness and observation, weld them skilfully and harden the mass into a whole by the action of reason. But in view of the numbers who experience a heavi- ness of spirit at the bare mention of the word reflection, and who gladly avail themselves of any other mind which chances to be at hand for the settling of their opinions and tastes, it must be strictly urged that critics are no less essential in a community than writers. If ideas and principles are to be taken at second hand, is it not just to provide the soundest and whole- somest kind for the purchasers ? Especially is it a simple form of humane feeling to desire that honest and laborious people should be helped, not hindered, in the performance of their respective duties. Now, before even the plainest of these duties can receive fitting attention, the individual mind must have some knowledge of the world of people about him, as well as of his relative position towards those people. Not only should the rich have a just appreciation of the condition of the poor, of their labor, virtues, and vices; 352 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM, but the poor, too, should be informed as to the con- dition of their richer neighbors, how they work or idle, progress or degenerate, enjoy or suffer. In either case, an erroneous statement of facts must prove highly detrimental : so that the books purporting to give views of society should be closely scanned and criti- cised before they are scattered broadcast over the country. To know what a people craves, we must glance not at the select few, but at the miscellaneous crowd. Which are the books most hungrily devoured by the youth of our modern civilization? Works of fiction, is the prompt answer. And the appetite being there, is it not the plain duty of ma- turity — that which has been tempered by experience and reflection — to provide suitable food for its gratifi- cation? However different the idiosyncrasies of this appetite, its cravings, in the main, are alike. Romance, sentiment, passion, adventure, — these are the subjects that attract the reader. Nor can these, if judiciously prepared and temperately partaken of, injure his con- stitution; but when given in ignorant good-nature without consideration as to fitness of time, or age, or selection, food loses its health-giving properties and weakens instead of increasing vitality. As children, we know nothing but our wishes, our sensations, and our satisfaction in their gratification ; of the things we fike we take whatever we can find, asking neither the name nor the quality of the giver, least of all troubling ourselves about his honesty or breadth of mental culture. To obtain what we desire gives us trouble enough; beyond this we do not go. If possessed of but average imagination we find it ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 353 extremely difficult to disbelieve in fairies, ghosts, giants, and sorcerers. Why then should we presume to doubt what stories and novels tell us of society, of principles, of passions, of motives ? And we do not doubt them, but absorb them into our mental being with all that intensity of credulousness which makes them in due time a part of ourselves. And this credu- lousness is not a special attribute of childhood, for there are many who in a mental sense are always children. If a man be so immersed in business that he finds no time for thinking of principles or passions pertain- ing to human character, in what respect does he differ from the child who is likewise ignorant of the art of thinking ? Or, if a woman be so enervated by frivolity that her reasoning faculties become incapable of action, her judgment in any matter of importance is of no more value than a child's. Evidently, then, adults no less frequently than children need counsel and guidance; and far from resenting these aids, they seek them, both from people and from books. Many who would not scruple to question any verbal statement would unhesitatingly accept whatever ab- surdity a book tells them. Easy to conceive, then, what a powerful instrument the novel has become in the planting of opinions and sentiments in human soil ; and although its working is less apparent than that of the professed teacher, it is infinitely more de- cisive in its effects. Fiction, when good, acts upon a susceptible mind like a stimulant at once delicious and beneficial., — the last because it takes the indi- vidual out of himself and makes daily labor 'endurable through the possibilities it discloses. Fiction, when 31 354 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. bad, inculcates false ideas of life, inspires discontent with surroundings, and impairs the native vigor of mind and heart. The opinion held by many people that the tendency of fiction is to lessen the usefulness of the individual in practical life cannot be maintained if subjected to reason. This test proves that fiction — of the right kind, and judiciously used — is quite as essential to perfect the development of the intellect as history, logic, or science; that its direct effect is to modify prejudices, soften asperities, and counteract in numberless ways the anti-poetic ideas and tastes which make life so wearisome a burden to the mass of mankind. There are many men and women who are full of poetic feeling, but who do not know it by this name. They know, however, that they suffer daily and hourly from the rude manners and gross tastes of those^ around them, and that whenever they venture to ex- press such a thought they are bitterly reproached for their "over-sensitiveness" and "fastidiousness." Must it not be a great solace to such souls to learn through the pages of fiction — which might be defined as a poetic mode of portraying facts — that many men and women exist who are just as refined in feeling and as considerate in manner as imagination depicts them ? Writing upon Fiction and Matter of Fact, Leigh Hunt remarks: "A passion for these two things is supposed to be incompatible. It is certainly not; and the supposition is founded on an ignorance of the nature of the human mind and the very sympathies of the two strangers. Mathematical truth is not the only truth in the world. An unpoetical logician is ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 355 not the only philosopher. . . . The mathematician, the schoolman, the wit, the statesman, and the soldier, may all be blind to the merits of poetry, and of one another; but the poet, by the privileges which he possesses of recognizing every species of truth, is aware of the merits of mathematics, of learning, of wit, of politics, and of generalship. He is great in his own art, and he is great in his appreciation of that of others. And this is most remarkable in proportion as he is a poetical poet — a high lover of fiction. ... I can pass with as much pleasure as ever from the read- ing of one of Hume's Essays to that of the Arabian Nights, and vice versa ; and I think, the longer I live, the closer, if possible, will the union grow. The roads are found to approach nearer, in proportion as we advance upon either ; and they both terminate in the same prospect. . . . Matter of fact is our percep- tion of the grosser and more external shapes of truth; fiction represents the residuum and the mystery. To love matter of fact is to have a lively sense of the visible and immediate; to love fiction is to have as lively a sense of the possible and the remote. Now these two senses, if they exist at all, are of necessity as real, the one as the other. The only proof of either is in our perception. To a blind man, the most visible colors no more exist, than the hues of a fairy tale to a man destitute of fancy. To a man of fancy, who sheds tears over a tale, the chair in which he sits has no truer existence in its way, than the story that moves him. His being touched is his proof in both instances." This union between romance and reality to which Hunt refers begets those powers of assimi- lation, appreciation, and tolerance which, broadly ap- 356 ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. plied, render the individual the happiest of his kind. The man who sees reality only is perpetually fretted and disturbed at seeing people around him idling, dreaming, speculating, "wasting their lives," as he thinks. From his point of observation, nothing is good or desirable unless it have a direct, practical, utilitarian application. Under this impression he naturally spends much of his life in protesting against dreamers, visionaries, romanticists, and meta- physicians ; and when not directly opposing them he is rendered morose and miserable by what to him appear instances of egregious human folly. Believing what he can see, touch, and handle, denying all else, he grows into a bigotry which in its aggravated forms makes the inquisitor, the pedant, the. dogmatist, the tyrant, and in its least offensive shape makes the formal, precise, stern, unsympathetic human animal, whom, in ordinary phrase, everybody "respects," but nobody loves. He who sees romance only is liable to underrate all useful projects and patient labor, and develop into a sentimentalism which is continually shocked by the callousness and want of spirituality in mankind, although doing nothing towards modifying the defect he deplores. In its most exaggerated phase, roman- ticism is the progenitor of those wildly-improbable fictions which excite ridicule in intelligent minds, and in the masses bring about strong reactions towards materialism. In brief, neither romance nor reality — taken singly — can be deemed salutary for mankind: only when united can they create those beautiful characteristics called charitableness, appreciation, and harmony. ROMANCE VERSUS CRITICISM. 357 To the mind which discerns romance in the daily lives of men and women nothing can be common, prosaic, or uninteresting, but even the most trivial acts, words, and events are colored with delicate shades of sentiment or made forcible by the character perceived behind them. Such a mind finds an abso- lute and ever-increasing delight in studying humanity, and experiences regret and depression of spirits only from the consciousness of limitation in the absorption of its knowledge. When even the most insignificant or worst specimen of mankind yields materials for thought, sympathy, and speculation, the accumulation which must ensue from the observation of distin- guished and noble characters can easily be imagined. He who has a due conception of romance and re- ality — those two ingredients of life which give it zest and intensity — and feels within himself the desire to put that conception into intelligible form, will do well to remember the advice of Pope: First follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same ; Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of art. THE END. 713 ,,H X .& .A ^ * > <> ■y ^ ° Ha ^ C.V V ,0'' 0> * ' oo , o %> ,-y - -V o o W $% V k V > ' " * ^?. v & % %*'■ ^ ** < ,%-? .^S ^c u ,0 o ^ . ^ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS iiiiiiiiiiiiin M 018 597 103 A •