/ 6 !/*-*> MR. JUSTICE DAVID J BREWER. {Supreme Court of the United Stat EDITOR IN CH11 'r. Justice Brewer was appointed to the .Supreme Bench of the United Slates by President Harrison in December, 1889. As a prep- aration for that exalted position, he had had an experience than a quarter of a century on the bench of lower courts, State and Federal. ■inning in 1862, he served as judge of the probate and criminal courts of Leavenworth County, Kansas; judge of the First District Court of Kansas; justice of the Supreme Court of Kansas; and judge of the United States Cir- cuit Court, — a position from which he was promoted to the Supreme Bench as the successor to Mr. Justice Matthews, of Ohio. Justice Brewer is the son of Rev. Josiah Brewer, who, as a missionary to Asia Minor, established the first English newspaper in Smyrna and first intro- duced American methods of education into the Turkish Empire. His mother, a sister of Mr. Justice Field, accompanied his father to Asia Minor and, while they were residents of .Smyrna, <( David Josiah Brewer » was born there, June 20th, 1837. While he was still a child his parents returned to America, and he grew up in Connecticut. lie was educated at the Wesleyan University, at Vale, and at the Albany Daw School, studying also in the law office of his uncle, David Dudley Field. Among his classmates at Yale were Senator Chauncey M. Depew and Mr. Justice Brown of the Supreme Court. He is an LL. D. of Yale and several other universities, but has the still higher honor of having found time to be president of a library association; chairman of a school board; superintendent of public schools; and president of the Kansas State Teachers' Association. Since his appointment to the Supreme Bench of the United States, he has served as a member of the Venezuela Commission appointed by President Cleveland; -and as a member of the British-Vene/Aiela Arbitration Tribunal, selected by the two nations. He has done important educational work, notably as a member of the faculty of the Columbian Law School. His address, «The Protection of Private Property against Public Attack, » delivered before the Vale Law School in 1891, at- tracted wide attention and excited an animated discussion. «The World's Best Orations » (F. B. Kaiser, St. Louis, 1899, ten volumes) of which he was Editor in Chief, have been one of the notable book-making suc- cesses of the last quarter of the nineteenth century. « The World's Best Es- says," edited as a companion collection for the World's Best Orations, represent the same purposes and methods. ROYAL EDITION THE World's Best Gssays FROM THE EARLIEST PERIOD TO THE PRESENT TIME DAVID J. BREWER EDITOR EDWARD A. ALLEN WILLIAM SCHUYLER ASSOCIATE EDITORS TEN VOLUMES VOL. I. ST. LOUIS FERD. P. KAISER ,§• 1900 Royal edition LIMITED TO 1000 COMPLETE SETS, OF WHICH THIS IS No. Copyright 1900 BY FERD. P. KAISER All rights reserved EDITOR cUsZ&f^ PUBLISHER THE WERNER COMPANY PRINTERS AND BINDER8 AKRON, OHIO Santa bar~'-^ ^— ^ JiJ 762; THE ADVISORY COUNCIL SIR WALTER BESANT, M. A., F. S. A., Soho Square, London W., England. PROFESSOR KUNO FRANCKE, Ph. D., Department of German, Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass. HIRAM CORSON, A. M., LL. D., Department of English Literature, Cornell University, Ithaca, N. Y. WILLIAM DRAPER LEWIS, Ph. D., Dean of the Department of Law, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pa. RICHARD GOTTHEIL, Ph. D., Professor of Oriental Languages, Columbia University, New York City. MRS. LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON, Author « Swallow Flights, »« Bed-Time Stories, w etc., Boston, Mass. WILLIAM VINCENT BYARS, Manager The Valley Press Bureau, St. Louis. F. M. CRUNDEN, A. M., Librarian St. Louis Public Library; President (1890) American Library Association. MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A. M., LL. D., Professor of Ensflish and Literature, Catholic University of America, Washington, D. C. ALCEE FORTIER, Lit. D., Professor of Romance Languages, Tulane University, New Orleans, La. SHELDON JACKSON, D. D., LL. D., Bureau of Education, Washington, D. C. A. MARSHALL ELLIOTT, Ph. D., LL. D., Professor of Romance Languages, Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, Md. WILLIAM P. TRENT, M. A., Professor of English and History, Columbia University, in the city of New York. PROFESSOR C. M. GAYLEY, Department of English, University of California, Berkeley, Cal. AUSTIN H. MERRILL, A.M., Professor of Elocution, Vanderbilt University, Nashville, Tenn. W. STUART SYMINGTON, Jr., Ph.D., Professor of Romance Languages, Amherst College, Amherst, Mass. TABLE OF CONTENTS VOLUME I LIVED PAGE Preface xi Justice David J. Brewer Abercrombie, John 1780-1844 1 The General Nature and Object of Science Adam, Madame 1836- 13 Woman in the Nineteenth Century Addison, Joseph 1672-1719 17 The Spectator Introduces Himself The Message of the Stars The Extension of the Female Neck The Philosophy of Puns Wit and Wisdom in Literature Women's Men and Their Ways The Poetry of the Common People Chevy Chase The Vision of Mirza The Unaccountable Humor in Womankind (< Dominus Regit Me w Homer and Milton The Mountain of Miseries Steele Introduces Sir Roger de Coverley Addison Meets Sir Roger Sir Roger at Home Will Wimble Is Introduced The Coverley Ghosts Sunday with Sir Roger The Spectator Returns to London Sir Roger Again in London Sir Roger in Westminster Abbey Sir Roger's Views on Beards VI LIVED PAGE Addison, Joseph — Continued: Sir Roger at the Play Death of Sir Roger Agassiz, Jean Louis Rodolphe 1807-1873 no Relations between Animals and Plants and the Sur- rounding World Relations of Individuals to One Another Mutual Dependence of the Animal and Vegetable Kingdoms Alcott, Amos Bronson 1799-1888 117 The Age of Iron and Bronze Hawthorne Sleep and Dreams Alger, William Rounseville 1822- 125 The Lyric Poetry of Persia Alison, Sir Archibald 1792-1867 135 The Future of America Homer, Dante, and Michael Angelo Allen, Grant 1848-1899 142 Scientific Aspects of Falling in Love Allston, Washington 1799-1843 149 Human Art and Infinite Truth Praise as a Duty Life as a Test of Fitness Art and Religion Amicis, Edmondo de 1846- 157 The Shams, Shamelessness, and Delights of Paris Amiel, Henri Frederic 1821-1881 165 A Soap Bubble Hanging from a Reed (< John Halifax, Gentleman » Mozart and Beethoven Aquinas, Saint Thomas c. 1225-1274 173 The Effects of Love Of Hatred What is Happiness ? Vll Arago, Francois Jean Dominique The Central Fires of the Earth Argyle, The Duke of The Unity of Nature LIVED 1786-1853 I 823- 1 9OO 384-322 B. C. Aristotle The Poetics of Aristotle The Dispositions Consequent on Wealth The Dispositions of Men in Power, and of the Fortu- nate Arnold, Matthew A Final Word on America The Real Burns <( Sweetness and Light" 1822-1888 Arrian The « Enchiridion » c. 95-^. 180 A. D. 1515-1568 Ascham, Roger The Education of a Gentleman The Literature of Chivalry Athen^eus Third Century A. D. What Men Fight about Most Atterbury, Francis Harmony and the Passions 1662-1732 Audubon, John James 1780-1851 The Humming Bird and the Poetry of Spring Life in the Woods The Mocking Bird The Wood Thrush Augustine, Saint 354-430 A. D. Concerning Imperial Power and the Kingdom of God Kingdoms without Justice Like unto Thievish Pur- chases Domestic Manifestations of the Roman Spirit of Conquest PAGE 179 183 188 230 243 264 272 276 279 286 Vlll Aurelius, Marcus Meditations on the Highest Usefulness Austin, Alfred The Apostle of Culture LIVED c. 121-180 A. D. 1835- I 561—1626 Bacon, Francis Of Truth Of Death Of Revenge Of Adversity Of Simulation and Dissimulation Of Parents and Children Of Marriage and Single Life Of Envy Of Love Of Great Place Of Boldness Of Goodness, and Goodness of Nature Of Atheism Of Superstition Of Negotiating Of Studies Of Praise Of Vainglory Of Honor and Reputation Of Anger Of Riches Of Nature in Men Of Custom and Education Of Fortune Of Usury Of Youth and Age Of Beauty Of Delays Of Cunning Of Wisdom for a Man's Self Of Innovations The Advancement of Learning The Central Thought of the (( Novum Organum * PAGE 290 302 308 Bagehot, Walter The Natural Mind in Man 182^-1877 372 LIVED PAGE l8l8- 375 184O- 381 I799-185O 385 IX Bain, Alexander What It Costs to Feel and Think Ball, Sir Robert Life in Other Worlds Balzac, Honore de Saint Paul as a Prophet of Progress Walter Scott and Fenimore Cooper Bancroft, George 1 800-1 891 389 The Ruling Passion in Death Bathurst, Richard (?)-i762 399 The History of a Half-Penny Baudelaire, Charles 1 821-1867 404 The Gallant Marksman At Twilight The Clock Bayle, Pierre 1647-1706 408 The Greatest of Philosophers Beattie, James 1735-1803 413 An Essay on Laughter FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS VOLUME I PAGE Justice David J. Brewer (Portrait, Photogravure) Frontispiece Joseph Addison (Portrait, Photogravure) 17 Rev. Lancelot Addison's Parsonage (Photogravure) 77 Jean Louis Rodolphe Agassiz (Portrait, Photogravure) no Michael Angelo and Pope Julius II. Viewing the Apollo Belvidere (Photogravure) 138 Aristotle (Portrait, Photogravure) 188 John James Audubon (Portrait, Photogravure) 279 Francis Bacon (Photogravure) 308 Xlll PREFACE Iless the essayist! He is our true literary friend. He in- structs, entertains, or amuses us, and he does it quickly. He knows that in these rapid days time is of the essence of the contract and is always on time in closing. He gives us no preface, puts no "stump speech in the belly of the bill, 8 and does not detain us by a peroration or even a benediction. The latter we pronounce. He points to no quarto or folio as his accumulation of thought. He hands us a morsel, bids us taste its sweetness, smell its fragrance, and be thankful that it is only a morsel. He invites us to a lunch and not a dinner, and yet how choice is that lunch! Ganymede serves at the table. With him it is not quantity, but quality ; multum haud multa. He has few words, but they are thought- bearers. They mean something; suggest something. We are stronger, better, happier, when we have read them. And this, because some one thought has been placed before us so clearly, so vividly, that we recognize its reality, its value, as never before. The essayist has often the suggestiveness, the divination of the poet. Indeed, he may well be called the poet's cousin. They both are seers, prophets. Montaigne anticipated the France of to-day. Rolling a single idea over and over, he sees what its force is, what its tendency; and so seeing declares with the accuracy of the me- chanical engineer what will be to-morrow's result of to-day's idea. But the essayist has not always the solemnity of the prophet. He knows that we like to be pleased, to be amused, and with his gifted pen he touches the secret springs of pleasure and amusement. How often when tired do we pick up some friendly essay, and read- ing it find it potent to <( drive dull care away. >} XIV To many, an essay suggests something not only small, but crude. One of the definitions of the word is <( attempt. » And so to them an essay is a mere attempt at literary production, which, by reason of its imperfections and incompleteness, deserves no or only partial recognition. At the mention of the word, the mind involuntarily recalls the annual commencements of the various high schools, acad- emies, and other educational institutions, and fancies that it sees ten thousand young men and women standing on the platform, in the best of black suits, or the whitest of white dresses, and filling the hearts of at least loving and hopeful parents and friends with won- der and admiration at their first literary efforts, — their essays. The more ambitious graduates call their productions orations, but the great majority name theirs essays. That word is much less pre- tentious. And in this connection it is worthy of note that the grad- uates in advanced courses of the higher institutions, as well as they who return to claim a higher academic degree, do not content them- selves with essays, but always prepare theses. The difference be- tween an essay and a thesis seems large, and they forget that a rose by any other name will smell as sweet. As suggested, this common thought as to essays is correct, in re- spect to the matter of brevity. The essay is relatively short. It has not the ponderous length of the historical work, theological treatise, or book on science or political economy. And yet brevity is no vice in literature or elsewhere. It is the soul of wit. And so an essay commends itself by its very brevity. We read it quickly. But mere brevity does not make every literary composition an essay. The news paragraphs with which our daily papers teem are not essays. Novelettes or short stories are not essays. Indeed, it may be said that no mere narrative of events, description of scenes, or story, can be called an essay. Yet each may rightfully be used in an essay to make more clear and vivid the thought of the writer. On the other hand, in the editorial columns of the press are often essays, good, bad, or indifferent. For they are brief argu- ments in support of some proposition of politics, finance, or social economy; brief developments of some thought, interesting, or sup- posed to interest the public mind. XV The charm of the essay, it may be added, is not only its brevity, but also in a certain sense its narrowness. The attention is called to a single matter, its development, its relations, and its suggestive- ness. We are not burdened with many things; with either length or breadth. We, of course, are not content with a simple collocation of words, a mere display of rhetoric; but we expect and have a right to expect that some thought will be fully presented; and in the more ambitious, that the relations of that thought to life and its experiences will also be suggested. As Lord Bacon, the prince of essayists, quaintly says : — «To write just treatises requireth leisure in the writer and leisure in the reader, — which is the cause that hath made me choose to write certain brief notes, set down rather significantly than curiously, which I have called Essays. The word is late, but the thing is ancient. w The literary style of the essay varies, determined always by the character of its thought, the subject-matter. If that be a serious one, we look for a solemn, didactic, style ; if of a lighter nature, an easier, gayer, flow of words. And one of the beauties of the essay is the adaptation of style to thought. There is that harmony be- tween thought and expression, the significance of which we under- stand, when we speak of the fitness of things. Alexander Smith says, in his essay on the (( Writing of Essays, w — <( The essay, as a literary form, resembles the lyric, in so far as it is molded by some central mood, — whimsical, serious, or satirical. Give the mood, and the essay, from the first sentence to the last, grows around it as the cocoon grows around the silkworm. The essay writer is a chartered libertine, and a law unto himself. A quick ear and eye, an ability to discern the infinite suggestiveness of common things, a brooding meditative spirit, are all that the essayist requires to start business with. The essayist carries a free lance. The world is his range. He grapples the most serious things of time and eternity, of life and death, or the most frivolous fancies of the passing hour. And his answer must in its movement be in harmony with the thought he presents. We take Lord Bacon's essays, and as we read his thoughts on the earnest matters of life we find his literary style in full XVI accord therewith. Clear, didactic, solemn, we feel that a preacher is talking to us, and as we read we know that he never wrote Shakes- peare's plays. We read Charles Lamb and are rested, as his sweet, playful words pass before us. How he loved the bright, sunny side of life! The humor, the delicate touch, the gentle picture of our weaknesses, amuse and interest us. As we lay his essays down, we can but think how his friends must have enjoyed his companionship. And so we might go on and characterize the various essayists of the world. They have given us the choice bits of literature. They are not mere mechanical forces. They work in harmony with nature in its highest processes. They do not take literature and simply compress it. They do not give us condensed milk, but in sym- pathy with that subtle, higher, mysterious action of nature's forces, they work out from the milk of life the richer, more nourishing and comforting cream : and so every one invokes blessings upon the essayist. With these preliminary words we pass on to say that in these volumes we have tried to extract the cream of the cream. If any one thinks that this selection is an easy work, he does not know the range of the essay. And justice to myself, and to the others connected with this publication, compels me to add that the credit for the work belongs to them rather than to me. I say this not out of compliment, but because of its truth. Further, we have had before us the same general idea that was pursued in (( The World's Best Orations. w We did not then take all the great orations of even the world's greatest orators. We aimed to present a comparative view. We sought to show by illustration the range of oratory, and by placing before the reader some entire orations of the greatest orators, and selections from those of lesser rank, to present a sort of historical epitome or encyclopaedia of ora- tory. We believed that such a compilation was better than a vol- ume of statistics, and yet in a certain sense subserved the same purpose. It was not a mere collection of figures, such as the census bureau gives, but a gathering of those speeches which have moved and affected the world's history. XV11 That the work was not exhaustive may be conceded, for after its completion in ten volumes we measured the mass of material which had been collected and examined, and found that we could have printed forty-six additional volumes. And while our selections may not have accorded with the views of every one, we have been grati- fied by the hearty reception that work has received. In the like spirit, and with like purpose, we present this collec- tion of (< The World's Best Essays. * Giving prominence and prefer- ence to those who have written in our own language (for this work is designed primarily for the benefit of the American reader), we have searched the literature of all nations and languages for their best essays, have had careful and accurate translations made, and, placing them beside the writings of our own essayists, have thus sought to justify the title given to this work. We have not attempted to enforce any particular views in respect to religion, science, political economy, or other department of life, but in the most catholic spirit have aimed to give some represen- tation of the writings of every one who has succeeded in placing his name on the long roll of the world's true essayists. And trusting that the reader will find in these pages ample com- pensation for his patience in perusing, we commit our collection to the kindly judgment of the American public. c: JOHN ABERCROMBIE (1780-1844) Jbercrombie's definition of the object of science was dictated by a deep consciousness of the supernatural origin of nature, and it has served to discredit him with some later writers who hold that the supernatural is <( unknowable. w His essays on the (< Intellectual Powers, B on the (< Philosophy of the Moral Feelings, w and allied topics have not been discredited with the general public, how- ever, by the change of scientific terminology, and it is by no means certain that any later writer — not even Mr. Spencer himself — has succeeded in putting into intelligible and accurate English so many well-defined ideas of fundamental importance as guided Abercrombie in the composition of such essays as that on the <( General Nature and Objects of Science B with which he introduced his essays on the <( Intellectual Powers. B He differs from some later writers on similar topics because of his recognition of law in nature as a tendency resulting from an infinite power of improvement imposed on nature rather than as a necessary and inherent quality of matter itself. To him nature pre- sented a harmony of forces working to produce results tending to a more nearly perfect harmony. It is said that in his religious life he was <( unaffectedly pious, B but this involved him in no contradiction when, writing before Professor Huxley, he stated the scientific principle of Huxley's "agnosticism. B That final causes are beyond the reach of chemical analysis and that they are never to be reached by micro- scopic investigation, he insists in his analysis of the powers of the intellect. But he recognized this as a mere matter of definition, — an implication of the word (< knowledge B itself as it implies the results of experience and as it is distinct in meaning from <( consciousness. B Professor Max Miiller in his <( Science of Thought B expresses the same idea by quoting: <( We have but faith; we cannot know, For Knowledge is of things we see!" Intellect to Abercrombie is a mere mode of operation, — a method by which the human soul takes hold on the transitory phenomena of a natural order in which a Supreme Will is eternally operating to 1 — 1 2 JOHN ABERCROMBIE produce infinite improvement. It is said by his critics that he does not show (< marked originality • in such ideas and it is in the nature of things impossible that he should. They are as old as the Chal- dean science which expresses itself through the metaphors of the Book of Job. They belong to all poets and creative thinkers from Homer to Goethe. Aristotle appropriated them as the foundation principles of his school, and they are no less the foundations of the (< Novum Organum * when, with the premise that <( the beginning is from God," Bacon declares that (< the induction which is to be avail- able for the discovery of science and arts must analyze nature by proper rejections and exclusions . . . not only to discover axioms, but also in the formation of notions; and it is in this induction that our chief hope lies.* This observation of all possible operations of nature as part of a Supreme Law not governed by the qualities of matter, but operating harmoniously through them, Bacon proposed as the reasonable mode through which alone the scientific intelligence can act. Certainly there is nothing of novelty in Abercrombie, writing after him. If novelty or originality be possible in thought, it is by no means estab- lished that it is desirable, and the question which is finally to deter- mine the merits of any thinker is not (< Is he original ? w but (< Is he right ?" Tried by that test Abercrombie is perhaps as little apt to be discredited as any later writer on the subjects which occupied his attention. He was born in 1780 at Aberdeen, Scotland, and educated in med- icine at its university and in London. For a long time he held the first rank among the physicians and scientific writers of Scotland. His (< Inquiries Concerning the Intellectual Powers of Man" was pub- lished in 1830 and three years later he followed it with (< The Phi- losophy of the Moral Feelings." In 1835 he became Lord Rector of Marischal College at Aberdeen, and, until his death in 1844, Scotland honored him as one of its greatest thinkers. His essays have passed through many editions, and still retain a popularity due to their ease of style and the lucidity of the language in which they express ideas which some writers on similar topics succeed in making incompre- hensible. W. V. B. JOHN ABERCROMBIE THE GENERAL NATURE AND OBJECTS OF SCIENCE By the will of the Almighty Creator, all things in nature have been placed in certain relations to each other, which are fixed and uniform. In other words, they have been en- dowed with capacities of acting and capabilities of being acted upon, according to certain uniform laws; so that their actions take place in the same manner in every instance in which the same bodies are brought together under similar circumstances. We have a conviction, which appears to be original and instinc- tive, of the general uniformity of these relations; and in this consists our confidence in the regularity of all the operations of nature. But the powers or principles on which the relations de- pend are entirely hidden from us in our present state of being. The province of human knowledge is merely to observe the facts and to trace what their relations or sequences are. This is to be accomplished only by a careful and extensive observa- tion of the facts as they pass before us, and by carefully distin- guishing their true or uniform relations from connections which are only incidental and temporary. In our first observation of any particular series of facts or events, we find a certain number of them placed together in a state of contiguity or apparent connection. But we are not en- titled from this to assume the connection to be anything more than incidental juxtaposition. When, in the further progress of observation, we find the same events occurring a certain number of times, in the same relations or sequences to each other, we suspect that their connection is not merely that of incidental con- tiguity. We begin to believe that there exists among them such a relation as leads us, when we meet with some of these events, to expect that certain others are to follow. Hence is excited our idea of power in reference to these events, or of the relation of cause and effect. This relation, however, according to the utmost extent of our knowledge of it in any individual instance, is founded entirely upon the fact of certain events uniformly following one another. But when we have found, by sufficient observation, the particular events which do thus follow one another, we conclude that there is a connection, whatever may be the nature of it, in consequence of which the sequence which we have observed will continue to recur in the same fixed and uniform manner. In 4 JOHN ABERCROMBIE other words, we conclude with confidence that when we observe the first of two such events, the second will follow; and that when we observe the second, the first has preceded it. The first we call cause, the second effect. Thus our general confidence in the uniformity of the true relations or sequences of events is an original or instinctive principle, and not the result of experience; but it is by experience that we ascertain what the individual sequences are which observe this uniformity, or, in other words, learn to distinguish connections which consist of incidental con- tiguity from those which constitute true and uniform relations. The natural tendency of the mind appears indeed to be to infer causation from every succession of phenomena and to ex- pect uniformity in every sequence. It is from experience we learn that this impression is not to be relied on in regard to in- dividual sequences, but requires to be corrected by observation. The result of our further experience then is to ascertain what those sequences or connections are which are uniform, and which, consequently, we may consider as connected in the manner of causation. We are thus first taught by experience the caution which is necessary in considering events as connected in the manner of cause and effect, and learn not to assume this relation till, by further experience, we have ascertained that the sequence is uniform. This caution, however, has no reference to our in- stinctive impression of causation, or our absolute conviction that every event must have an adequate cause; it only relates to our fixing the arrangement of individual antecedents, or, in other words, to our determining what individual events we are war- ranted in considering as the true antecedents or causes of certain other events. This, accordingly, can in many cases be accom- plished only by long and extensive observation; while, in others, a single instance may be sufficient to produce an absolute convic- tion of what is the true antecedent. A child who has been only once burnt may dread the fire as certainly as if the accident had happened a hundred times; and there are many other instances in which the conviction may be produced in the same rapid man- ner. The natural tendency of the mind, in fact, is not only to infer the connection, but in many cases to carry it further than the truth. If, for instance, we suppose a man who, for the first time in his life, has seen gunpowder explode upon a match be- ing applied to it, he would probably have an immediate convic- tion that a similar explosion would take place again in similar JOHN ABERCROMBIE 5 circumstances. But he would perhaps go further than this: he would probably expect a similar explosion when he applied a match to other black powders, with the nature of which he was unacquainted, such as powdered charcoal. It is by experience that this erroneous expectation would be corrected, and that he would learn the precise instances in which the particular result takes place. But it is also by experience that he learns the former, though the conviction was produced more immediately; for there is nothing in the character of gunpowder and char- coal from which any man could pronounce, by reasoning a priori, that the one would explode with violence when a match was ap- plied to it and the other remain entirely unchanged. Thus, our general impression of causation is not the result of experience, but an original and intuitive principle of belief; that is, our absolute conviction that every event must have an ade- quate cause. This is, in fact, that great and fundamental truth by which, from the properties of a known effect, we infer the powers and qualities of an unknown cause. It is in this man- ner, for example, that from the works of nature we infer the ex- istence and the attributes of the Almighty Creator. But in judging of the connection between any two individual events in that order of things which he has established, our idea of causa- tion is derived from experience alone; for, in regard to any two such events, our idea of causation or of power amounts to nothing more than our knowledge of the fact that the one is invariably the antecedent of the other. Of the mysterious agency on which the connection depends, we know nothing, and never can know anything in our present state of being. We know that the application of a match always sets fire to gunpowder, and we say that it has the power of doing so, or that it is the cause of the explosion; but we have not the least conception why the application of fire produces combustion in an inflammable sub- stance; — these expressions, therefore, amount to nothing more than a statement of the fact that the result is universal. When we speak, therefore, of physical causes, in regard to any of the phenomena of nature, we mean nothing more than the fact of a certain uniform connection which has been observed between events. Of efficient causes, or the manner in which the result takes place, we know nothing. In this sense, indeed, we may be said not to know the cause of anything, even of events which at first sight appear the most simple and obvious. Thus, 6 JOHN ABERCROMBIE the communication of motion from one body to another by im- pulse appears a very simple phenomenon, — but how little idea have we of the cause of it! We say the bodies touch each other, and so the motion is communicated. But, in the first place, we cannot say why a body in motion, coming in contact with one at rest, should put the latter in motion; and, further, we know that they do not come in contact. We may consider it, indeed, as ascertained that there is no such thing as the actual contact of bodies under these circumstances; and therefore the fact which appears so simple comes to be as unaccountable as any phenom- enon in nature. What, again, appears more intelligible than an unsupported body falling to the ground ? Yet what is more in- explicable than that one mass of matter should thus act upon another, at any distance, and even though a vacuum be inter- posed between them ? The same observation will be seen to apply to all the facts which are most familiar to us. Why, for example, one medicine acts upon the stomach, another on the bowels, a third on the kidneys, a fourth on the skin, we have not the smallest conception; we know only the uniformity of the facts. It is of importance to keep in mind the distinction now re- ferred to between physical and efficient causes, as the former only are the proper objects of philosophical inquiry. The term final cause, again, has been applied to a subject entirely differ- ent; namely, to the appearances of unity of design in the phe- nomena of nature, and the manner in which means are adapted to particular ends. The subject is one of great and extensive importance, but it appears desirable that the name be altered, though it is sanctioned by high authority; for, when viewed in connection with the sense in which the word cause is employed in modern science, it expresses a meaning remarkably different. The investigation to which it refers is also of a distinct nature, though one of the highest interest. It leads us chiefly to the inductions of natural religion respecting a great and intelligent First Cause; but it may also be directed to the discovery of truth in regard to the phenomena of nature. One of the most remarkable examples of this last application of it is to be found in the manner in which Harvey was led to the discovery of the circulation of the blood, by observing the valves in the veins, and contemplating the uses to which their peculiar structure might be adapted. JOHN ABERCROMBIE 7 The object of all science is to ascertain these established re- lations of things, or the tendency of certain events to be uni- formly followed by certain other events; in other words, the aptitude of certain bodies to produce or to be followed by certain changes in other bodies in particular circumstances. The object of art is to avail ourselves of the knowledge thus acquired, by bringing bodies into such circumstances as are calculated to lead to those actions upon each other of which we have ascertained them to be capable. Art, therefore, or the production of certain results by the action of bodies upon each other, must be founded upon science, or a knowledge of their fixed and uniform relations and tendencies. This principle applies to all sciences, and to the arts or practical rules which are founded upon them; and the various sciences differ only in the particular substances or events which are their more immediate objects. In the physical sciences, we investigate the relations of ma- terial substances, and their actions upon each other, either of a mechanical or chemical nature. On the relations thus ascertained are founded the mechanical and chemical arts, in which we pro- duce certain results by bringing bodies into such circumstances as are calculated to give rise to their peculiar actions. But men- tal phenomena have also their relations, which are likewise fixed and uniform; though it may be more difficult to ascertain the truth in regard to them than in the relations of material things. The relations or sequences of mental phenomena are to be considered in two points of view; namely, relations to each other, and relations to external things. In regard to both, it seems necessary to divide the phenomena themselves into three classes: 1. Simple intellect, or those powers by which we perceive, remem- ber, and combine facts or events, and compare them with each other : such as perception, memory, imagination, and judgment. 2. Passive emotions, or those by which the mind is affected by certain pleasurable or painful feelings, which are, or may be, confined entirely to the individual who is the subject of them. 3. Active emotions, or those which tend directly to influence the conduct of men, either as moral and responsible beings, or as mem- bers of society. In all these classes mental phenomena have certain relations to each other and to external things, the investigation of which is the object of particular branches of science; and these lead to certain arts or practical rules which are founded upon them. 8 JOHN ABERCROMBIE Intellectual science investigates the laws and relations of the processes of simple intellect, as perception, memory, imagination, and judgment; and the proper cultivation and regulation of these is the object of the practical art of intellectual education. The passive emotions may be influenced or excited in two ways; namely, through our relations to other sentient and intel- ligent beings, and by material or inanimate things. To the former head are referable many of the tenderest and most interesting feelings of our nature, as love, hope, joy, and sorrow. To the latter belong those emotions which come under the subject of taste, or the tendencies of certain combinations of material things to excite emotions of a pleasurable or painful kind, — as our im- pressions of the sublime, the beautiful, the terrible, or the ludi- crous. The practical rules or processes connected with the science of the passive emotions arrange themselves into two classes, cor- responding to the two divisions now mentioned. To the former belong the regulation of the emotions, and all those rules of con- duct not exactly referable to the higher subject of morals, which bear an extensive influence on the ties of friendship — and the relations of social and domestic intercourse. To the latter belong chiefly those processes which come under the head of the fine arts; namely, the arts of the painter, the sculptor, the architect, the musician, — perhaps we may add, the poet and the dramatist. The active emotions, or those which influence human conduct, are referable to two classes; namely, those which affect men in- dividually as moral and responsible agents, and those which affect them as united in large bodies constituting civil society. The cultivation of the emotions of the former class, and the investi- gation of the motives and principles by which they are influenced, belong to the high subjects of morals and religion. The investi- gation and control of emotions of the latter class come under the science of politics; and the practical art, founded upon it, relates to those measures by which the statesman attempts to control and regulate the conduct of masses of mankind united as mem- bers of a great civil community. In medical science the objects of our researches are chiefly the relations between external things and the living powers of animal bodies, — and the relations of these powers to each other; — more particularly in regard to the tendencies of external things to produce certain changes upon living bodies, either as causes of disease or as remedies. The practical art founded upon this JOHN ABERCROMBIE 9 science leads to the consideration of the means by which we may avail ourselves of this knowledge, by producing, in the one case, actions upon the body which we wish to produce, and in the other, by counteracting or avoiding actions which we wish to prevent. In all these sciences, and the practical arts which are founded upon them, the general principles are the same; namely, a care- ful observation of the natural and uniform relations or tendencies of bodies towards each other, and a bringing of those tenden- cies into operation for the production of results. All art, there- fore, must be founded upon science, or a correct knowledge of these relations; and all science must consist of such a careful observation of facts in regard to the relations, as shall enable us confidently to pronounce upon those which are fixed and uniform. He who follows certain arts or practical rules, without a knowledge of the science on which they are founded, is the mere artisan or the empiric; he cannot advance beyond the pre- cise rules which are given him, or provide for new occurrences and unforeseen difficulties. In regard to science, again, when the relations are assumed hastily, or without a sufficiently extensive observation of facts, the process constitutes false science, or false induction; and when practical rules are founded upon such con- clusions, they lead to error and disappointment in the result expected. The views which have now been referred to lead us to princi- ples by which the sciences are distinguished into those which are certain and those which are, in a greater or less degree, uncertain. The certainty of a science depends upon the facility and correct- ness with which we ascertain the true relations of things, or trace effects to their true causes, and causes to their true effects, — and calculate upon the actions which arise out of these relations tak- ing place with perfect uniformity. This certainty we easily attain in the purely physical sciences, or those in which we have to deal only with inanimate matter. For in our investigation of the rela- tions of material bodies, whether mechanical or chemical, we con- trive experiments, in which by placing the bodies in a variety of circumstances towards each other, and excluding all extraneous in- fluence, we come to determine their tendencies with perfect cer- tainty. Having done so, we rely with confidence on these tendencies continuing to be uniform; and should we in any instance be dis- appointed of the result which we wish to produce, we are able IO JOHN ABERCROMBIE at once to detect the nature of some incidental cause by which the result has been prevented, and to obviate the effect of its interference. The consequence of this accurate knowledge of their relations is, that we acquire a power over material things; but this power is entirely limited to a certain control and direc- tion of their natural relations; and we cannot change these rela- tions in the smallest particular. Our power is of course also limited to those objects which are within the reach of our imme- diate influence; but with respect to those which are beyond this influence, as the heavenly bodies, the result of our knowledge appears in a manner not less striking, in the minute accuracy with which we are enabled to foretell their movements, even at very distant periods. I need only mention the correctness with which the astronomer calculates eclipses and the appearance of comets. With these characters of certainty in the purely physical sci- ences, two sources of uncertainty are contrasted in those branches of science in which we have to deal with mental operations, or with the powers of living bodies. The first of these depends upon the circumstance, that, in investigating the relations and tendencies in these cases, we are generally obliged to trust to observation alone, as the phenomena happen to be presented to us, and cannot confirm or correct these observations by direct experiment. And as the actual connections in which the phe- nomena occur to us are often very different from their true rela- tions, it is in many cases extremely difficult to ascertain the true relations, that is, to refer effects to their true causes and to trace causes to their true effects. Hence just conclusions are arrived at slowly, and after a long course of occasional observa- tions; and we may be obliged to go on for a long time without acquiring any conclusions which we feel to be worthy of confi- dence. In these sciences, therefore, there is great temptation to grasp at premature inductions; and when such have been brought forward with confidence, there is often difficulty in exposing their fallacy; for in such a case it may happen that as long a course of observation is required for exposing the false conclusion as for ascertaining the true. In physical science, on the other hand, a single experiment may often overturn the most plausible hypoth- esis, or may establish one which was proposed in conjecture. The second source of uncertainty in this class of sciences consists in the fact that, even after we have ascertained the JOHN ABERCROMBIE II true relations of things, we may be disappointed of the results which we wish to produce, when we bring their tendencies into operation. This arises from the interposition of other causes, by which the true tendencies are modified or counteracted, and the operation of which we are not able either to calculate upon or to control. The new causes, which operate in this manner, are chiefly certain powers in living animal bodies, and the wills, feel- ings, and propensities of masses of human beings, which we have not the means of reducing to any fixed or uniform laws. As examples of the uncertain sciences, therefore, we may men- tion medicine and political economy; and their uncertainty is ref- erable to the same sources, namely, the difficulty of ascertaining the true relations of things, or of tracing effects to their true causes, and causes to their true effects; — and the intervention of new causes which elude our observation, while they interfere with the natural tendencies of things, and defeat our attempts to pro- duce certain results by bringing these into action. The scientific physician well knows the difficulty of ascertaining the true rela- tions of those things which are the proper objects of his atten- tion, and the uncertainty which attends all his efforts to produce particular results. A person, for example, affected with a dis- ease recovers under the use of a particular remedy; a second is affected with the same disease, and uses this remedy without any benefit; while a third recovers under a very different remedy, or without any treatment at all. And even in those cases in which he has distinctly ascertained true relations, new causes in- tervene and disappoint his endeavors to produce results by means of these relations. He knows, for example, a disease which would certainly be relieved by the full operation of diuretics, and he knows various substances which have unquestionably diu- retic virtues. But in a particular instance he may fail entirely in relieving the disease by the most assiduous use of these remedies, for the real and true tendencies of these bodies are interrupted by certain other causes in the constitution itself, which entirely elude his observation and are in no degree under his control. It is unnecessary to point out the similarity of these facts to the uncertainty experienced by the statesman in his attempts to influence the interests, the propensities, and the actions of masses of mankind; or to show how often measures which have been planned with every effort of human wisdom fail of the results 12 JOHN ABERCROMBIE which they were intended to produce, or are followed by conse- quences remarkably different. Nothing indeed can show in a more striking- manner the uncertainty which attaches to this sci- ence than the different aspects in which the same measure is often viewed by different men distinguished for political wisdom and talent. I abstain from alluding to particular examples, but those accustomed to attend to public affairs will find little diffi- culty in fixing upon remarkable instances in which measures have been recommended by wise and able men, as calculated to lead to important benefits, while others of no inferior name for talent and wisdom have, with equal confidence, predicted from them consequences altogether different. Such are the difficulties of tracing effects to their true causes, and causes to their true effects, when we have to deal, not with material substances sim- ply, but with the powers of living bodies, or with the wills, the interests, and the propensities of human beings. One other reflection arises out of the view which has been given of this important subject. The object of all science, whether it refer to matter or to mind, is simply to ascertain facts and to trace their relations to each other. The powers which regulate these relations are entirely hidden from us in our present imperfect state of being; and by grasping at principles which are beyond our reach, we leave that path of inquiry which alone is adapted to our limited faculties, and involve ourselves in error, perplexity, and darkness. It is humbling to the pride of human reason, but it is not the less true, that the highest ac- quirement ever made by the most exalted genius of man has been only to trace a part, and a very small part, of that order which the Deity has established in his works. When we en- deavor to pry into the causes of this order, we perceive the operation of powers which lie far beyond the reach of our lim- ited faculties. They who have made the highest advances in true science will be the first to confess how limited these facul- ties are and how small a part we can comprehend of the ways of the Almighty Creator. They will be the first to acknowledge that the highest acquirement of human wisdom is to advance to that line which is its legitimate boundary, and there, contemplat- ing the wondrous field which lies beyond it, to bend in humble adoration before a wisdom which it cannot fathom and a power which it cannot comprehend. Complete. From the essays on the (< Intellectual Powers.* i3 MADAME ADAM (Madame Edmond Adam, nee Juliette Lamber) (i 836-) |s the founder of the Nouvelle Revue and an essayist on moral, political, and social topics, Madame Adam is perhaps the best representative France has given the world of the « New Woman. w Since the death of her second husband in 1877, she has devoted a large share of her attention to politics, and her salon has been a rendezvous for the more advanced Republicans of Paris. She was born at Verberie, October 4th, 1836, and, by a number of works published under her maiden name of Juliette Lamber, gave promise of the masculine quality of intellect which appears in her later writings. Her first husband, M. La Messine, dying in the early years of their married life, she married a second husband, M. Ed- mond Adam, prefect of police in Paris, whom also she survives. Among her works are a (< Life of Garibaldi, M <( Studies of Contempo- raneous Greek Poets, w and a considerable number of essays and social studies, some of which were published in the Nouvelle Revue in a series said to be by various hands, but having the common signa- ture, «Paul Vasili." Intellectually, Madame Adam is a product of the same moral forces which produced Baudelaire in France and Swinburne in England. She stands for the belief, peculiarly characteristic of the last quarter of the nineteenth century, that the old standards, whether Greek, Gothic, Hebrew, or Christian, have been superseded by the moral laws and artistic canons of a new cycle. The reaction towards the Scott school of Romantic fiction during the last five years seems to have distracted the public mind from problems with which Madame Adam and her generation were so largely concerned. WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY Surely at no other period have women had the same incen- tives as at present to reflect upon their position, their rights, and their duties, as wives and mothers in our modern world. The various formulas, customs, institutions, prejudices, which for centuries have hemmed them in are by degrees being either 14 MADAME ADAM more liberally interpreted or being done away with altogether. The more and more expansive character imparted to modern life by the effects of material progress, the greater facilities of inter- communication, and the ever-increasing degree of social independ- ence gained by man has, among other causes, affected woman's position in this much, that she is now almost entirely freed from the bonds which once held her captive, a slave to the conjugal hearth. The era of woman's emancipation has commenced. Yet it cannot be denied that the march of woman toward a larger and more legitimate social development has been far slower and more embarrassed than man's during an equal lapse of time. Man to a great extent has triumphed over the long op- pression of caste, and, in his turn, has ceased to oppress woman so heavily as before; but he has never taken any steps to associate her with himself in his demands for the recognition of his rights. And woman, in the timidity and uncertainty born of ages of sub- jection, does not dare to press her just claims for herself. The door of her cage is open, but she is still held in awe by the bars. The health, happiness, and beneficent action of any and every organism are in direct ratio to its state of conformity with the natural laws of its being, and, consequently, with the general law of all. Now the modern woman approaches by no means so closely to this condition of natural conformity as does the mod- ern man, whether it be that, as in certain countries, like the United States, she tends to become man's social and intellectual superior, or whether, as in France for example, she acts as a drag upon the wheel of progress. In France woman uncon- sciously revenges herself for not having been suffered to partici- pate in the benefits of the Revolution by exerting a retrograde, ultraconservative influence, which at the present day works as a perturbing element in French society. It is a fact now generally recognized that all things on earth follow a natural progression on the lines of utilization of force, co-ordination of faculties, and development of productiveness. The very history of our globe, whose final destination was to be- come the habitat of man, gives evidence of the prolonged phases of perturbation through which things must pass on the way to their appointed goal. But, on the other hand, the more a sphere, a society, a caste, a sex begins to approximate to its true reason of being, its normal motives of activity, the more of power, of virtue of stability will it acquire. If, then, the natural, moral, MADAME ADAM 1 5 and social conditions regulating the existence of individuals were more thoroughly understood, and more strictly observed, it would soon be perceived that all oppressors are themselves oppressed through the effects of that very despotism they exert, and that abuses always recoil upon their authors. In all cases, under all circumstances, the final interests of the minority will be found to correspond with those of the greatest number. The effort made by social groups and by separate individuals to possess them- selves of what they feel to be their rights becomes excessive in exact proportion to the resistance of those who deny the rights in question. Injustice breeds injustice. Thus woman, whose mis- sion in society and in the family circle is one of beneficence, becomes a maleficent influence in direct consequence of the abase- ment to which she has hitherto been subjected. In ancient life we see Aspasia and the other Greek courtesans seizing upon the social influence which was denied to Grecian wives and mothers; and yet a Greek wife, by eloping with the seducer Paris, had already shown that the triple portals of the gynaeceum could not confine a woman against her will. And, strangely enough, all Greece was drawn into a war which im- periled its very existence through the action of her who had rebelled, however wantonly, against the oppressive restrictions then imposed upon members of her sex. Rome was contented, austere, temperate in her ambition, and ignorant of defeat just so long as the matron's rights were re- spected and her position secure. But from the day when the Republic, with all its virtues, disappears under the Caesars, woman is only regarded as a plaything. Corruption stalks abroad, and the empire totters to its fall. Under the feudal system woman is pent up in the manor house, chivalry is born, and the feudal knights scour the country in search of ideal love. The wife is regarded as a chattel, while that ideal entity, the ladye-love, is placed on a pedestal. Warlike peoples are prosperous so long as their women are brave, fond of war, and lead the life of the camp. But the na- tions which immure their women in harems lose in those very harems the last vestiges of manly virtue; and the greatest Ori- ental empires have sunk into decrepitude through the effects of intrigues set on foot by female slaves. When woman is not per- mitted to exercise her organizing powers, she becomes a disor- ganizing influence. l6 MADAME ADAM If, however, woman attempt to transcend her legitimate sphere of action by breaking away from her natural limitations, the re- sult can only be to subject her to new conditions of social infe- riority. In any society or among any people where woman is despised by man, he himself becomes despicable through his sharing in the degradation and corruption to which he has con- demned her. We have seen how the slave of the harem in her turn enslaves the enslaver. In more advanced societies, such as that of France during the eighteenth century, if man relegates woman to the sphere of gallantry and frivolity alone, the nation itself becomes merely gallant and frivolous. But should man, on the other hand, concede to woman an unduly wide influence in society, should he place himself in such a position of inferiority as to be no longer anything but an instrument to her luxurious tastes, she will drift away from him in disdain, will form a priv- ileged class, an aristocracy, and thus wealth comes to assume a factitious importance, imperiling the moral conditions of society and relaxing the former closeness of the family tie. Danger in these respects must still exist, even now that woman is no longer entirely a minor, whenever man declines to recog- nize her independence, refuses to treat her as a partner and companion, and to grant her, at least in the home, rights not identical with his, which she could exercise to no good effect, but rights equivalent in all the fields of her activity, rights pro- portioned to her powers, and bringing with them their meed of legitimate responsibility and control. At the present day more than ever before, it has become a mat- ter of necessity that the activity, the faculties, the influence, the powers of woman should be brought to bear upon the proper ad- justment of the social equilibrium. The laws regulating the world, with its human life and societies, plainly indicate that any force must be allowed its natural expansion, or else it will work the gravest disturbance. Woman nowadays is a force, and as a force must find her suitable employ. Her full and due share must be allowed her in social action and social rights, duties, and benefits. She can no more be indefinitely withheld from her public duties than she is exempted from taxation. The longer the delay in according woman her rights, the more disastrously will she make felt the influence of her defects. — From an essay in the Fortnightly Review 1892. JOSEPH ADDISON. After a Portrait by Sir Godfrey Kneller. IR Godfrey Kneller, painter of this portrait of Addison, was the rival of Sir Peter Lely for the first place among English portrait painters in his generation. He was born at Lubeck 1646, but set- tled in England in 1675, where he soon came into high favor at court. He kept his place under Charles II., James II., William III., and Queen Anne. He was knighted in 1691. So great was his reputation, that he painted the portraits of ten sovereigns reigning during his lifetime. i7 JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) Iaine says of Addison that (< after listening to him for a little, people feel themselves better, for they recognize in him from the first a singularly lofty soul, very pure and so much attached to uprightness that he made it his constant care and dearest pleasure. ® Perhaps no other sentence has been written which has in it so much of the secret of Addison's greatness, but Taine quotes from Addison himself one which suggests scarcely less: (< There is no society or conversation to be kept up in the world without good nature or something which must bear its appearance and supply its place. . . . The greatest wits I have conversed with were men eminent for their humanity. ® This gift of good nature which Addison had observed in <( the greatest wits * is the reward (< lofty souls, very pure and simple,® receive for the attachment to uprightness through which it becomes their (< constant care and dear- est pleasure. ® It is in itself at once the greatest reward genius can receive, and the mode through which it operates to express that fellow-feeling for humanity which is its own essence. Everywhere in Addison's essays we see this good nature operating as the source of their inspiration and the secret of their expression. It is not mere good humor, though good humor is a part of it, but good nature itself — the quality of mind and soul which <( is not puffed up,® <( doth not behave itself unseemly,® <( is not easily pro- voked,® w thinketh no evil.® If we wish to know what this means not merely in spirit, but in its effects on style, we have only to com- pare one of Addison's essays with one of the critical essays which characterize several well-known English reviews at the close of the nineteenth century. We will see then that Addison has grace while they have (< gnosis® — that untranslatable something which, according to Saint Paul, (< puffeth up® — which we translate <( knowledge,® though it has its foundations deep-laid in the pride of contemptuous superi- ority rather than in such pleasant pedantry as that of the Spectator in the days of Queen Anne when Horace still went trippingly on the tongues of those who made no great pretensions to learning. A recent critic has made a considerable collection of examples of what he considers false syntax from the Spectator; another has been at pains to prove that Addison's reading of the classics did not 1 — 2 18 JOSEPH ADDISON extend beyond the poets and that he had no considerable depth of learning, — all of which Addison had long ago answered conclusively in saying : <( The greatest wits I have conversed with were men eminent for their humanity. » He meant simply what he had implied in the preceding sentence, that they were eminently good-natured men. They had grace as he had; as the intellectually great Swift did not and could not have; as the closing decade of the nineteenth century has not had in its attempts at (< higher criticism w of everything most true and hence most subtly ethereal in the realm both of the natural and the supernatural. If it were fully admitted that Addison's syntax was sometimes slovenly, — if it were undeniable that he knew nothing of comparative philology, of biology, of sociology and political economy, he would re- main, nevertheless, a model for the English writers of all times, and more especially of this our own critical time, because of the quality of gracious and truthful good nature which permeates all he writes. (< A mere literary education, w writes Taine, <( only makes good talkers, able to adorn and publish ideas which they do not possess — which others furnish for them. If writers wish to invent, they must look to events and men, not to books and drawing-rooms. The conversation of men is more useful to them than the study of perfect periods. They can- not think for themselves but in so far as they have lived or acted. Addison knew how to act and live.* If we examine his life to find what this means, we find that he knew how to act and live in sympathy with others, that he was not shut off from them by that insolence of mind which is the result of recent or of unused intellectual acquisition. All literature that is either good or great must express what is best and most worthy of expression in common humanity; and no one can acquire it except by the sympathy which, as a habit of mind, enables him without con- scious effort and with conscious pleasure to put himself in the place of men of every class and every type, living their lives in his imag- ination, occupying through sympathy with them their usual stand- points of observation, and reaching easily and naturally their customary conclusions. When men who have (< gnosis w rather than grace attempt this, they patronize us so insufferably that we want none of their sym- pathy and as little as possible of their acquaintance. But the great poets, the great essayists, the great novelists who give a high and truthful expression to what we have expressed only clumsily and in- adequately, — they are our friends, our benefactors through whose grace we realize our own highest possibilities as we could not other- wise. They do not preach to us. They converse with us as Addison always does in the easiest and most natural way, developing our thought as it rises in our minds before we ourselves can express it. This is the highest gift a writer can have, and it characterizes Addison JOSEPH ADDISON 19 more than any other writer of English essays — with the single ex- ception of Bacon, who belongs to a wholly different school. Addison was born May 1st, 1672, in Wiltshire, where his father Lancelot Addison was dean of Litchfield. At Oxford where he gradu- ated with honors, he showed the taste for classical verse which char- acterized him all his life and contributed no doubt to give his style the easy elegance in which it approximates the highest productions of classical antiquity. In his politics he was a Whig; and after hold- ing various positions under Whig administrations, he became, under George I., one of the principal Secretaries of State, — a position from which he retired after eleven months with a pension of ,£1,500 a year. His work as a politician and as a poet need be touched on in this connection only as it is connected with the great work of his life, — the essays which created what is likely always to remain a distinct school of English prose in strong contrast, both of motive and method, with the academic style of prose Latin and its imitations in Cice- ronian English. The Spectator, in which Addison's best work appeared, issued its first number on March 1st, 171 1, succeeding the Tatler to which Addison was also a contributor. When the Spectator ceased to appear, Steele founded the Guardian to which Addison con- tributed fifty-three essays on much the same range of topics as char- acterized the Spectator. The superior popularity of the Spectator is largely due to Steele's invention of the Spectator club and the char- acter of Sir Roger de Coverley which was developed, chiefly by Addi- son, with an ease and naturalness not attained in the character studies of any other essays of the time. The Coverley papers are rightly a favorite with his readers because of their fine and free humor and the loving care with which they depict the virtuous sim- plicity of the good nature Addison so valued. They are perhaps his masterpieces, but, in contrast with the interminable prolixity of the later critical review, even the most careless of his essays is a model of expression. Of his pedantry, his love of snatches of classical verse which in later times may seem to deform the page with a display of outlandish learning, it must be remembered that in the time of Queen Anne there may have still existed those to whom such quotations from the <( dead languages w stood for strains of living melody, rarer than we can imagine from our own verse and full of the same magic of expression which compels the eye in the Apollo Belvedere and the Venus of Milo. If such a one then survived from the time when the realities of the classics were still something more than a scholastic tradition, Addison might well have been that one. If such a one come again, he may find the simple grace of Addison's prose in har- mony with the subtlest secrets of form in the great works of those mastersingers of antiquity whom he studied with admiration so lov- ing that we have no right to call it pedantry. W. V. B. 20 JOSEPH ADDISON THE SPECTATOR INTRODUCES HIMSELF Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucent Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat. — Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 143 One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke; Another out of smoke brings glorious light And (without raising expectation high) Surprises us with dazzling miracles. — Roscommon. I have observed that a reader seldom peruses a book with pleas- ure till he know whether the writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor, with other particulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right understanding of an author. To gratify this curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, I design this paper and my next as prefatory discourses to my following writ- ings, and shall give some account in them of the several persons that are engaged in this work. As the chief trouble of compil- ing, digesting, and correcting, will fall to my share, I must do myself the justice to open the work with my own history. I was born to a small hereditary estate, which, according to the tradition of the village where it lies, was bounded by the same hedges and ditches in William the Conqueror's time that it is at present, and has been delivered down from father to son whole and entire, without the loss or acquisition of a single field or meadow, during the space of six hundred years. There runs a story in the family, that before I was born my mother dreamt that she was to bring forth a judge; whether this might proceed from a lawsuit which was then depending in the family, or my father's being a justice of the peace, I cannot determine; for I am not so vain as to think it presaged any dignity that I should arrive at in my future life, though that was the interpretation which the neighborhood put upon it. The gravity of my be- havior at my very first appearance in the world seemed to favor my mother's dream: for, as she has often told me, I threw away my rattle before I was two months old, and would not make use of my coral till they had taken away the bells from it. As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing in it re- markable, I shall pass it over in silence. I find, that, during my nonage, I had the reputation of a very sullen youth, but was JOSEPH ADDISON 2 1 always a favorite of my schoolmaster, who used to say that my parts were solid and would wear well. I had not been long at the University, before I distinguished myself by a most profound silence; for, during the space of eight years, excepting in the public exercises of the college, I scarce uttered the quantity of an hundred words; and indeed do not remember that I ever spoke three sentences together in my whole life. Whilst I was in this learned body, I applied myself with so much diligence to my studies, that there are very few celebrated books, either in the learned or modern tongues, which I am not acquainted with. Upon the death of my father, I was resolved to travel into foreign countries, and therefore left the University with the char- acter of an odd unaccountable fellow, that had a great deal of learning, if I would but show it. An insatiable thirst after knowledge carried me into all the countries of Europe in which there was anything new or strange to be seen; nay, to such a degree was my curiosity raised, that having read the controver- sies of some great men concerning the antiquities of Egypt, I made a voyage to Grand Cairo, on purpose to take the measure of a pyramid: and, as soon as I had set myself right in that particular, returned to my native country with great satisfaction. I have passed my latter years in this city, where I am fre- quently seen in most public places, though there are not above half a dozen of my select friends that know me: of whom my next paper shall give a more particular account. There is no place of general resort wherein I do not often make my appear- ance; sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a round of politicians at Will's, and listening with great attention to the narratives that are made in those little circular audiences. Some- times I smoke a pipe at Child's, and, while I seem attentive to nothing but the Postman, overhear the conversation of every table in the room. I appear on Sunday nights at St. James's coffeehouse, and sometimes join the little committee of politics in the inner room, as one who comes there to hear and improve. My face is likewise very well known at the Grecian, the Cocoa Tree, and in the theatres both of Drury Lane and the Hay Market. I have been taken for a merchant upon the Exchange for above these ten years, and sometimes pass for a Jew in the assembly of stockjobbers at Jonathan's. In short, wherever I see a cluster of people, I always mix with them, though I never open my lips but in my own club. 22 JOSEPH ADDISON Thus I live in the world rather as a spectator of mankind than as one of the species; by which means I have made myself a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, without ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am very well versed in the theory of a husband or a father, and can discern the errors in the economy, business, and diversion of others, bet- ter than those who are engaged in them: as standers-by discover blots, which are apt to escape those who are in the game. I never espoused any party with violence, and am resolved to ob- serve an exact neutrality between the Whigs and Tories, unless I shall be forced to declare myself by the hostilities of either side. In short, I have acted in all the parts of my life as a looker-on, which is the character I intend to preserve in this paper. I have given the reader just so much of my history and char- acter, as to let him see I am not altogether unqualified for the business I have undertaken. As for other particulars in my life and adventures, I shall insert them in following papers, as I shall see occasion. In the meantime, when I consider how much I have seen, read, and heard, I begin to blame my own taciturn- ity; and since I have neither time nor inclination to communi- cate the fullness of my heart in speech, I am resolved to do it in writing, and to print myself out, if possible, before I die. I have been often told by my friends, that it is a pity so many useful discoveries which I have made should be in the possession of a silent man. For this reason, therefore, I shall publish a sheet full of thoughts every morning for the benefit of my contempo- raries; and if I can in any way contribute to the diversion or im- provement of the country in which I live, I shall leave it when I am summoned out of it, with the secret satisfaction of think- ing that I have not lived in vain. There are three very material points which I have not spoken to in this paper, and which, for several important reasons, I must keep to myself, at least for some time: I mean, an account of my name, my age, and my lodgings. I must confess I would gratify my reader in anything that is reasonable; but as for these three particulars, though I am sensible they might tend very much to the embellishment of my paper, I cannot yet come to a resolution of communicating them to the public. They would indeed draw me out of that obscurity which I have en- joyed for many years, and expose me in public places to several JOSEPH ADDISON 23 salutes and civilities, which have been always very disagreeable to me; for the greatest pain I can suffer is the being talked to, and being stared at. It is for this reason likewise that I keep my complexion and dress as very great secrets; though it is not impossible but I may make discoveries of both in the progress of the work I have undertaken. After having been thus particular upon myself, I shall in to- morrow's paper give an account of those gentlemen who are concerned with me in this work; for, as I have before intimated, a plan of it is laid and concerted (as all other matters of impor- tance are) in a club. However, as my friends have engaged me to stand in the front, those who have a mind to correspond with me may direct their letters to the Spectator, at Mr. Buckley's in Little Britain. For I must further acquaint the reader, that though our club meets only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we have appointed a committee to sit every night, for the inspection of all such papers as may contribute to the advancement of the public weal. Complete. From the Spectator of March 1st, 1711. THE MESSAGE OF THE STARS Auream quisquis mediocritatem Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti Sordibus tecti, caret invidendd Sobrius auld. — Hor. Od. x. Lib. II. 5. The golden mean, as she's too nice to dwell Among the ruins of a filthy cell, So is her modesty withal as great, To balk the envy of a princely seat. — Norris. I am wonderfully pleased when I meet with any passage in an old Greek or Latin author that is not blown upon, and which I have never met with in a quotation. Of this kind is a beautiful saying in Theognis: "Vice is covered by wealth, and virtue by poverty w ; or, to give it in the verbal translation, <( Among men there are some who have their vices concealed by wealth, and others who have their virtues concealed by poverty. B Every man's observation will supply him with instances of rich men, who have several faults and defects that are overlooked, if 24 JOSEPH ADDISON not entirely hidden, by means of their riches; and, I think, we cannot find a more natural description of a poor man, whose merits are lost in his poverty, than that in the words of the wise man: has nothing of his own ; he borrows all from a greater master in his own profession, and, which is worse, improves nothing which he finds. Nature fails him; and, being forced to his old shift, he has recourse to wit- ticism. This passes indeed with his soft admirers, and gives him the preference to Virgil in their esteem. B Were not I supported by so great an authority as that of Mr. Dryden, I should not venture to observe that the taste of most of our English poets, as well as readers, is extremely Gothic. He quotes Monsieur Segrais for a threefold distinction of the readers of poetry; in the first of which he comprehends the rabble of readers, whom he does not treat as such with regard to their 38 JOSEPH ADDISON quality, but to their numbers and the coarseness of their taste. His words are as follows : <( Segrais has distinguished the readers of poetry, according to their capacity of judging, into three classes." [He might have said the same of writers too, if he had pleased.] <( In the lowest form he places those whom he calls Les Petits Esprits, such things as our upper-gallery audience in a playhouse, who like nothing but the husk and rind of wit, and prefer a quibble, a conceit, an epigram before solid sense and elegant expression. These are mob readers If Virgil and Martial stood for parliament men, we know already who would carry it. But though they made the greatest appearance in the field, and cried the loudest, the best of it is they are but a sort of French Huguenots, or Dutch Boors, brought over in herds, but not naturalized; who have not lands of two pounds per annum in Parnassus, and therefore are not privileged to poll. Their authors are of the same level, fit to represent them on a mountebank's stage, or to be masters of the ceremonies in a bear- garden; yet these are they who have the most admirers. But it often happens, to their mortification, that as their readers im- prove their stock of sense, as they may by reading better books, and by conversation with men of judgment, they soon forsake them. » I must not dismiss this subject without observing that, as Mr. Locke, in the passage above mentioned, has discovered the most fruitful source of wit, so there is another of a quite con- trary nature to it, which does likewise branch itself into several kinds. For not only the resemblance, but the opposition, of ideas does very often produce wit, as I could show in several little points, turns, and antitheses that I may possibly enlarge upon in some future speculation. JOSEPH ADDISON 39 WOMEN'S MEN AND THEIR WAYS Sed tti simul obligasti Perfidum votis caput, enitescis Pulchrior multo. — Hor. Lib. II Od. viii. 5. -But thou, When once thou hast broke some tender vow All perjur'd, dost more charming grow ? I do not think anything could make a pleasanter entertainment than the history of the reigning favorites among the women from time to time about this town. In such an account we ought to have a faithful confession of each lady for what she liked such and such a man, and he ought to tell us by what par- ticular action or dress he believed he should be most successful. As for my part, I have always made as easy a judgment when a man dresses for the ladies, as when he is equipped for hunting or coursing. The woman's man is a person in his air and be- havior quite different from the rest of our species. His garb is more loose and negligent, his manner more soft and indolent; that is to say, in both these cases there is an apparent endeavor to appear unconcerned and careless. In catching birds the fowl- ers have a method of imitating their voices, to bring them to the snare; and your women's men have always a similitude of the creature they hope to betray in their own conversation. A woman's man is very knowing in all that passes from one family to another, has pretty little officiousnesses, is not at a loss what is good for a cold, and it is not amiss if he has a bottle of spirits in his pocket in case of any sudden indisposition. Curiosity having been my prevailing passion, and indeed the sole entertainment of my life, I have sometimes made it my business to examine the course of intrigues as well as the man- ners and accomplishments of such as have been most successful that way. In all my observation, I never knew a man of good understanding a general favorite; some singularity in his behav- ior, some whim in his way of life, and what would have made him ridiculous among the men, has recommended him to the other sex. I should be very sorry to offend a people so fortu- nate as these of whom I am speaking; but let any one look over the old beaux, and he will find the man of success was remark- able for quarreling impertinently for their sakes, for dressing 40 JOSEPH ADDISON unlike the rest of the world, or passing his days in an insipid assiduity about the fair sex to gain the figure he made amongst them. Add to this, that he must have the reputation of being well with other women, to please any one woman of gallantry; for you are to know that there is a mighty ambition among the light part of the sex to gain slaves from the dominion of others. My friend Will Honeycomb says it was a common bite with him to lay suspicions that he was favored by a lady's enemy, that is, some rival beauty, to be well with herself. A little spite is nat- ural to a great beauty: and it is ordinary to snap up a disagree- able fellow, lest another should have him. That impudent toad Bareface fares well among all the ladies he converses with, for no other reason in the world but that he has the skill to keep them from explanation with one another. Did they know there is not one who likes him in her heart, each would declare her scorn of him the next moment; but he is well received by them because it is the fashion, and opposition to each other brings them insensibly into an imitation of each other. What adds to him the greatest grace is, that the pleasant thief, as they call him, is the most inconstant creature living, has a wonderful deal of wit and humor, and never wants something to say; besides all which, he has a most spiteful dangerous tongue if you should provoke him. To make a woman's man, he must not be a man of sense, or a fool; the business is to entertain, and it is much better to have a faculty of arguing than a capacity of judging right. But the pleasantest of all the women's equipage are your regular visi- tants; these are volunteers in their service, without hopes of pay or preferment. It is enough that they can lead out from a pub- lic place, that they are admitted on a public day, and can be al- lowed to pass away part of that heavy load, their time, in the company of the fair. But commend me above all others to those who are known for your ruiners of ladies; these are the choicest spirits which our age produces. We have several of these irre- sistible gentlemen among us when the company is in town. These fellows are accomplished with the knowledge of the ordi- nary occurrences about court and town, have that sort of good breeding which is exclusive of all morality, and consists only in being publicly decent, privately dissolute. It is wonderful how far a fond opinion of herself can carry a woman, to make her have the least regard to a professed known JOSEPH ADDISON 41 woman's man; but as scarce one of all the women who are in the tour of gallantries ever hears anything of what is the com- mon sense of sober minds, but are entertained with a continual round of flatteries, they cannot be mistresses of themselves enough to make arguments for their own conduct from the be- havior of these men to others. It is so far otherwise, that a general fame for falsehood in this kind is a recommendation; and the coxcomb, loaded with the favors of many others, is re- ceived like a victor that disdains his trophies, to be a victim to the present charmer. If you see a man more full of gesture than ordinary in a public assembly, if loud upon no occasion, if negligent of the company around him, and yet lying in wait for destroying by that negligence, you may take it for granted that he has ruined many a fair one. The woman's man expresses himself wholly in that motion which we call strutting. An elevated chest, a pinched hat, a measurable step, and a sly surveying eye are the marks of him. Now and then you see a gentleman with all these ac- complishments; but, alas, any one of them is enough to undo thousands. When a gentleman with such perfections adds to it suitable learning, there should be public warning of his residence in town, that we may remove our wives and daughters. It hap- pens sometimes that such a fine man has read all the miscellany poems, a few of our comedies, and has the translation of Ovid's (< Epistles * by heart. <( Oh, if it were possible that such a one could be as true as he is charming! But that is too much, the women will share such a dear false man; a little gallantry to hear him talk one would indulge oneself in, let him reckon the sticks of one's fan, say something of the Cupids on it, and then call one so many soft names which a man of his learning has at his fingers' ends. There sure is some excuse for frailty, when attacked by such force against a weak woman. w Such is the so- liloquy of many a lady one might name, at the sight of one of those who make it no iniquity to go on from day to day in the sin of woman-slaughter. It is certain that people are got into a way of affectation, with a manner of overlooking the most solid virtues, and admiring the most trivial excellencies. The woman is so far from expecting to be contemned for being a very injudicious silly animal, that while she can preserve her features and her mien, she knows she is still the object of desire; and there is a sort of secret 42 JOSEPH ADDISON ambition, from reading frivolous books, and keeping as frivolous company, each side to be amiable in perfection, and arrive at the characters of the Dear Deceiver and the Perjured Fair. Complete. From the Spectator of August 29th, 1711. THE POETRY OF THE COMMON PEOPLE Interdum vulgus rectum videt. — Hor. Ep. II. i, 63. Sometimes the vulgar see and judge aright. When I traveled I took a particular delight in hearing the songs and fables that are come from father to son, and are most in vogue among the common people of the countries through which I passed; for it is impossible that any- thing should be universally tasted and approved by a multitude, though they are only the rabble of a nation, which hath not in it some peculiar aptness to please and gratify the mind of man. Human nature is the same in all reasonable creatures; and what- ever falls in with it will meet with admirers amongst readers of all qualities and conditions. Moliere, as we are told by Monsieur Boileau, used to read all his comedies to an old woman who was his housekeeper, as she sat with him at her work by the chimney- corner, and could foretell the success of his play in the theatre from the reception it met at his fireside; for he tells us the audi- ence always followed the old woman, and never failed to laugh in the same place. I know nothing which more shows the essential and inherent perfection of simplicity of thought, above that which I call the Gothic manner in writing, than this, that the first pleases all kinds of palates, and the latter only such as have formed to themselves a wrong artificial taste upon little fanciful authors and writers of epigram. Homer, Virgil, or Milton, so far as the language of their poems is understood, will please a reader of plain common sense, who would neither relish nor comprehend an epigram of Martial, or a poem of Cowley; so, on the contrary, an ordinary song or ballad that is the delight of the common people cannot fail to please all such readers as are not unquali- fied for the entertainment by their affectation of ignorance ; and the reason is plain, because the same paintings of nature which recommend it to the most ordinary reader will appear beautiful to the most refined. JOSEPH ADDISON 43 The old song of w Chevy Chase * is the favorite ballad of the common people of England, and Ben Jonson used to say he had rather have been the author of it than of all his works. Sir Philip Sidney, in his discourse of Poetry, speaks of it in the fol- lowing words : <( I never heard the old song of Percy and Doug- las that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet ; and yet it is sung by some blind crowder with no rougher voice than rude style, which being so evil appareled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindar ? M For my own part, I am so pro- fessed an admirer of this antiquated song, that I shall give my reader a critique upon it without any further apology for so doing. The greatest modern critics have laid it down as a rule that an heroic poem should be founded upon some important precept of morality adapted to the constitution of the country in which the poet writes. Homer and Virgil have formed their plans in this view. As Greece was a collection of many governments, who suffered very much among themselves, and gave the Persian emperor, who was their common enemy, many advantages over them by their mutual jealousies and animosities, Homer, in order to establish among them a union which was so necessary for their safety, grounds his poem upon the discords of the several Grecian princes who were engaged in a confederacy against an Asiatic prince, and the several advantages which the enemy gained by such discords. At the time the poem we are now treating of was written, the dissensions of the barons, who were then so many petty princes, ran very high, whether they quar- reled among themselves or with their neighbors, and produced unspeakable calamities to the country. The poet, to deter men from such unnatural contentions, describes a bloody battle and dreadful scene of death, occasioned by the mutual feuds which reigned in the families of an English and Scotch nobleman. That he designed this for the instruction of his poem we may learn from his four last lines, in which, after the example of the modern tragedians, he draws from it a precept for the benefit of his readers: — <( God save the king, and bless the land In plenty, joy, and peace ; And grant henceforth that foul debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease. w 44 JOSEPH ADDISON The next point observed by the greatest heroic poets hath been to celebrate persons and actions which do honor to their country: thus Virgil's hero was the founder of Rome; Homer's a prince of Greece; and for this reason Valerius Flaccus and Statius, who were both Romans, might be justly derided for hav- ing chosen the expedition of the Golden Fleece and the Wars of Thebes for the subjects of their epic writings. The poet before us has not only found out a hero in his own country, but raises the reputation of it by several beautiful in- cidents. The English are the first who take the field and the last who quit it. The English bring only fifteen hundred to the battle, the Scotch two thousand. The English keep the field with fifty-three, the Scotch retire with fifty-five; all the rest on each side being slain in battle. But the most remarkable circumstance of this kind is the different manner in which the Scotch and English kings receive the news of this fight, and of the great men's deaths who commanded in it: — w This news was brought to Edinburgh, Where Scotland's king did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain. <(< heavy news!* King James did say, ( Scotland can witness be, I have not any captain more Of such account as he. > (< Like tidings to King Henry came, Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slain in Chevy Chase. (( ( Now God be with him,* said our king, n Merry men, in the language of those times, is no more than a cheerful word for companions and fellow-soldiers. A passage in the eleventh book of Virgil's <( iEneid }> is very much to be admired, where Camilla, in her last agonies, instead of weeping over the wound she had received, as one might have expected from a warrior of her sex, considers only, like the hero of whom we are now speaking, how the battle should be continued after her death : — Turn sic exspirans, etc. — Virg. JEn. XI. 820. A gath'ring mist o'erclouds her cheerful eyes; And from her cheeks the rosy color flies, Then turns to her, whom of her female train She trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain: (( Acca, 'tis past! he swims before my sight, Inexorable Death, and claims his right. Bear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed And bid him timely to my charge succeed; Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve: Farewell. » — Dry den. Turnus did not die in so heroic a manner, though our poet seems to have had his eye upon Turnus's speech in the last verse : — (< Lord Percy sees my fall. M Vicisti, et victum tendere ftalmas Ausonii v id ere. — Virg. JEn. XII. 936. The Latin chiefs have seen me beg my life. — Dry den. Earl Percy's lamentation over his enemy is generous, beauti- ful, and passionate. I must only caution the reader not to let the simplicity of the style, which one may well pardon in so old a poet, prejudice him against the greatness of the thought: — «Then leaving life, Earl Percy took The dead man by the hand, And said, ( Earl Douglas, for thy life Would I had lost my land.* JOSEPH ADDISON 47 «<0 Christ! my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure a more renowned knight Mischance did never take.^ That beautiful line, "Taking the dead man by the hand," will put the reader in mind of yEneas's behavior towards Lausus, whom he himself had slain as he came to the resue of his aged father: — At vera ut vultum vidit morientis et or a, Or a modi's Anchisiades pal lent la miris; Ingemuit, miser ans graviter, dextramque tetendit. — Virg. Mvl. X. 821. The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead; He grieved, he wept, then grasped his hand and said, «Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paid To worth so great ? w — Dry den. I shall take another opportunity to consider the other parts of this old song. Complete. From the Spectator. CHEVY CHASE Pendent opera interrupt a. — Virg. 2En. IV. 88. The works unfinished and neglected lie. In my last Monday's paper I gave some general instances of those beautiful strokes which please the reader in the old song of (< Chevy Chase B ; I shall here, according to my promise, be more particular, and show that the sentiments in that ballad are extremely natural and poetical, and full of the majestic simplicity which we admire in the greatest of the an- cient poets: for which reason I shall quote several passages of it, in which the thought is altogether the same with what we meet in several passages of the <( ^Eneid n ; not that I would in- fer from thence that the poet, whoever he was, proposed to him- self any imitation of those passages, but that he was directed to them in general by the same kind of poetical genius and by the same copyings after nature. Had this old song been filled with epigrammatical turns and points of wit, it might perhaps have pleased the wrong taste of 48 JOSEPH ADDISON some readers; but it would never have become the delight of the common people, nor have warmed the heart of Sir Philip Sidney- like the sound of a trumpet; it is only nature that can have this effect, and please those tastes which are the most unprejudiced, or the most refined. I must, however, beg leave to dissent from so great an authority as that of Sir Philip Sidney, in the judg- ment which he has passed as to the rude style and evil apparel of this antiquated song; for there are several parts in it where not only the thought but the language is majestic, and the num- bers sonorous; at least the apparel is much more gorgeous than many of the poets made use of in Queen Elizabeth's time, as the reader will see in several of the following quotations. What can be greater than either the thought or the expres- sion in that stanza : — <( To drive the deer with hound and horn Earl Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborn The hunting of that day! w This way of considering the misfortunes which this battle would bring upon posterity, not only on those who were born immedi- ately after the battle, and lost their fathers in it, but on those also who perished in future battles which took their rise from this quarrel of the two earls, is wonderfully beautiful and con- formable to the way of thinking among the ancient poets. Audiet pugnas vitio parentum Rara jtiventus. — Hor. Od. I. 2, 23. Posterity, thinn'd by their fathers' crimes, Shall read, with grief, the story of their times. What can be more sounding and poetical, or resemble more the majestic simplicity of the ancients, than the following stan- zas? — w The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer's days to take. (< With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well, in time of need, To aim their shafts aright. JOSEPH ADDISON 49 «The hounds ran swiftly through the woods The nimble deer to take, And with their cries the hills and dales An echo shrill did make. w Vocat ingenti clamore Cithceron, Taygetique canes, domitrixque Epidaurus equorum: Et vox assensu nemorum ingeminata remugit. — Virg- Georg. III. 43. Cithaeron loudly calls me to my way: Thy hounds, Taygetus, open, and pursue their prey: High Epidaurus urges on my speed, Famed for his hills, and for his horses' breed: From hills and dales the cheerful cries rebound: For Echo hunts along, and propagates the sound. — Dryden. <( Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, His men in armor bright ; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears, All marching in our sight. (< A11 men of pleasant Tividale, Fast by the river Tweed, etc. The country of the Scotch warrior, described in these two last verses, has a fine romantic situation, and affords a couple of smooth words for verse. If the reader compare the foregoing- six lines of the song with the following Latin verses, he will see how much they are written in the spirit of Virgil : — Adversi campo apparent: hastasque reductis Protendunt longe dextris, et spicula vibrant: — Quique altitm Praneste viri. quiqite arva Gabincz Junonis, gelidumque Anienem, et roscida rivis Hernica saxa colunt : — Qui rosea rura Velini; Qui Tetriccs horrentis rupes, montemque Severtim, Casperiamque colunt, Forulosque et flumen Himelliz : Qui Tyberim Fabarimque bibunt. — Virg. iEn. XI. 605; VII. 682, 712. Advancing in a line they couch their spears Praeneste sends a chosen band, With those who plough Saturnia's Gabine land: Besides the succors which cold Anien yields: The rocks of Hernicus — besides a band That followed from Velinum's dewy land — 1—4 50 JOSEPH ADDISON And mountaineers that from Severas came: And from the craggy cliffs of Tetrica; And those where yellow Tiber takes his way, And where Himella's wanton waters play: Casperia sends her arms, with those that lie By Fabaris, and fruitful Foruli. — Dry den. But to proceed: — « Earl Douglas on a milk-white steed, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of the company, Whose armor shone like gold. w Tumus, ut antevolans tardum pracesserat agmen, etc. Vidisti, quo Turnus equo, quibus ibat in armis Aureus — — Virg, Mn. IX. 47, 269. <( Our English archers bent their bows, Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows sent, Full threescore Scots they slew. (< They closed full fast on ev'ry side, No slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. « With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow.** JEne&s was wounded after the same manner by an unknown hand in the midst of a parley. Has inter voces, media inter talia verba, Ecce viro stridens a/is allapsa sagitta est, Incertum qua pulsa manu — — Virg. JEn. XII. 318. Thus, while he spake, unmindful of defense, A winged arrow struck the pious prince ; But whether from a human hand it came, Or hostile god, is left unknown by fame. — Dry den. But of all the descriptive parts of this song, there are none more beautiful than the four following stanzas, which have a great force and spirit in them, and are filled with very natural circum- stances. The thought in the third stanza was never touched by JOSEPH ADDISON 5 1 any other poet, and is such a one as would have shone in Homer or in Virgil: — «So thus did both these nobles die, Whose courage none could stain ; An English archer then perceived The noble Earl was slain. <( He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree, An arrow of a cloth-yard long Unto the head drew he. « Against Sir Hugh Montgomery So right his shaft he set, The gray-goose wing that was thereon In his heart-blood was wet. <( This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun ; For when they rung the ev'ning bell The battle scarce was done. w One may observe, likewise, that in the catalogue of the slain, the author has followed the example of the greatest ancient poets, not only in giving a long list of the dead, but by diversifying it with little characters of particular persons : — H. 426. Then Ripheus fell in the unequal fight, Just of his word, observant of the right: Heav'n thought not so. — Dryden. 52 JOSEPH ADDISON In the catalogue of the English who fell, Witherington's be- havior is in the same manner particularized very artfully, as the reader is prepared for it by that account which is given of him in the beginning of the battle; though I am satisfied your little buffoon readers, who have seen that passage ridiculed in (< Hudi- bras, w will not be able to take the beauty of it; for which reason I dare not so much as quote it. «Then stept a gallant 'squire forth, Witherington was his name, Who said, ( I would not have it told To Henry our king for shame, « ( That e'er my captain fought on foot, And I stood looking on. )w We meet with the same heroic sentiment in Virgil: — Non pudet, O Rutuli, cunctis pro talibus unam Object are animani? nwnerone an viribus csqut Non sumus? — Virg. JEn. XII. 229. For shame, Rutilians, can you bear the sight Of one exposed for all, in single fight ? Can we before the face of heav'n confess Our courage colder, or our numbers less? — Dryden. What can be more natural, or more moving, than the circum- stances in which he describes the behavior of those women who had lost their husbands on this fatal day ? «Next day did many widows come Their husbands to bewail; They wash'd their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail. « Their bodies bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away; They kiss'd them dead a thousand times, When they were clad in clay. w Thus we see how the thoughts of this poem, which naturally arise from the subject, are always simple, and sometimes ex- quisitely noble; that the language is often very sounding, and that the whole is written with a true poetical spirit. If this song had been written in the Gothic manner, which is the delight of all our little wits, whether writers or readers, it JOSEPH ADDISON 53 would not have hit the taste of so many ages, and have pleased the readers of all ranks and conditions. I shall only beg pardon for such a profusion of Latin quotations, which I should not have made use of, but that I feared my own judgment would have looked too singular on such a subject, had not I supported it by the practice and authority of Virgil. Complete. From the Spectator. THE VISION OF MIRZA Omnem, quce nitnc obducta tuenti Mortales hebetat visits tibi. et humida circtim Caligat, nub em eripiain. — Virg. JEn. II. 604. The cloud, which, intercepting the clear light, Hangs o'er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal sight, I will remove. When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several Oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled "The Visions of Mirza, w which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment for them; and shall begin with the first Vision, which I have translated word for word as follows : — <( On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, < Surely,' said I, ( man is but a shadow, and life a dream. > Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and alto- gether different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the 54 JOSEPH ADDISON impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. (< I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius, and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those trans- porting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversa- tion, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and, by the waving of his hand, directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature ; and, as my heart was entirely subdued by the cap- tivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and, taking me by the hand, < Mirza, > said he, ( I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.' (< He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and, placing me on the top of it, ( Cast thy eyes eastward, 1 said he, ( and tell me what thou seest.* ( I see,* said I, ( a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.* < The valley that thou seest,* said he, ( is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.* ( What is the reason,* said I, ( that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?* ( What thou seest,* said he, ( is that portion of Eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consum- mation. Examine now,* said he, ( this sea that is bounded with dark- ness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.* ( I see a bridge,* said I, ( standing in the midst of the tide.* ( The bridge thou seest,* said he, ( is Human Life; consider it attentively.* Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about a hundred. As I was count- ing the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. ( But tell me further,* said he, ( what thou discoverest on it.* ( I see mul- titudes of people passing over it,* said I, ( and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.* As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and, upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trapdoors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into JOSEPH ADDISON 55 the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of peo- ple no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. « There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. (< I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping un- expectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every- thing that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and danced before them; but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed and down they sunk. In this con- fusion of objects, I observed some with scimiters in their hands, who ran to and fro from the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap- doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them. <( The genius, seeing me indulge myself on this melancholy pros- pect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. ( Take thine eyes off the bridge,* said he, ( and tell me if thou yet seest anything thou dost not comprehend.* Upon looking up, ( What mean,* said I, ( those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many other feathered creatures, sev- eral little winged boys that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.* < These, * said the genius, < are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life.* (< I here fetched a deep sigh, said he, ///-# 'fir '• /' \:f//./i ^LuU*H>/ls jU/> A^ mpanied him thither, and am settled him for same time at his country house, where I intend to ::rm severa e: > :i r.r, - re: ala: as. Sir Roger, who is very humor, lets me rise and go to bed when I please : his own table :r in my chamber, as I think fit. - : s: '1 ana sav r. ::'am - wi:h:u: a me re merrv. When gentl :men of the conntry come to see him, he only shows me ..: .. " s:anc= A? I a 'A'k::.; in his aelds I have :':- served therr. s:ealing a - ght :f me over a hedge, and have heard the knight le siring them not to let me see them, for that I to be stared at I am :he m:re ;.: ease in Sir R:r;er's family, beeav.se i: ::::- ::' s:'rer ana staid persons, for as the knight is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants; and as he is beloved by all about him. his servants never care for lea" him: by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown old JOSEPH ADDISON 81 with their master. You would take his valet de chambre for his brother, his butler is gray-headed, his groom is one of the grav- est men that I have ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy counselor. You see the goodness of the master even in the old housedog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the stable with great care and tenderness out of regard to his past services, though he has been useless for several years. I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the ; y that appeared in the countenances of these ancient dorr, upon my friend's arrival at his country seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master; every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the same time the good old knight, with a mixture of the father and the master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with sev- eral kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and good nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is pleas- ant upon any of them, all his family are in good humor, and none so much as the person whom he diverts himself with: on the contrary, if he cough, or betray any infirmity of old age. it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants. My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as of his particular friend. My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable man who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some learning, of a very regular life, and obliging con- versation ; he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old knight's esteem, so that he lives in the family rather as a relation than a dependent. I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of a humorist; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are as it were tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them particular" y his, and distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders i—6 82 JOSEPH ADDISON his conversation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary colors. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned, and without staying for my answer told me that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table; for which reason he desired a particular friend of his at the university to find him out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that understood a little of back- gammon. (< My friend, B says Sir Roger, <( found me out this gen- tleman, who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the parsonage of the parish; and, because I know his value, have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he out- live me, he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years; and, though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked anything of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not been a law- suit in the parish since he has lived among them; if any dispute arise they apply themselves to him for the decision; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons which have been printed in English, and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pul- pit. Accordingly he has digested them into such a series, that they follow one another naturally, and make a continued system of practical divinity." As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we were talking of came up to us; and upon the knight's asking him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night) told us the Bishop of Saint Asaph in the morning, and Doctor South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year, where I saw with a good deal of pleasure, Archbishop Tillot- son, Bishop Saunderson, Doctor Barrow, Doctor Calamy, with sev- eral living authors who have published discourses of practical divin- ity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved my friend's insisting upon the qualification of a JOSEPH ADDISON 83 good aspect and a clear voice; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with the dis- courses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after this manner is like the composition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor. I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy would follow this example; and, instead of wasting their spirits in labori- ous compositions of their own, would endeavor after a handsome elocution, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what has been penned by greater masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the people. Complete. From the Spectator. WILL WIMBLE IS INTRODUCED Gratis anhelans, multa agendo nihil agens. — Phcedr. Fab. V. 1, 2. Out of breath to no purpose, and very busy about nothing. As I was yesterday morning walking with Sir Roger before his house, a country fellow brought him a huge fish, which, he told him, Mr. William Wimble had caught that very morning; and that he presented it with his service to him, and intended to come and dine with him. At the same time he de- livered a letter, which my friend read to me as soon as the messenger left him. Sir Roger : — I desire you to accept of a jack, which is the best I have caught this season. I intend to come and stay with you a week, and see how the perch bite in the Black River. I observed with some con- cern, the last time I saw you upon the bowling-green, that your whip wanted a lash to it; I will bring half a dozen with me that I twisted last week, which I hope will serve you all the time you are in the country. I have not been out of the saddle for six days last past, having been at Eton with Sir John's eldest son. He takes to his learning hugely. I am, sir, Your humble servant, Will Wimble. This extraordinary letter and message that accompanied it made me very curious to know the character and quality of the gentleman who sent them; which I found to be as follows: Will 84 JOSEPH ADDISON Wimble is younger brother to a baronet, and descended of the ancient family of the Wimbles. He is now between forty and fifty; but being bred to no business and born to no estate, he generally lives with his elder brother as superintendent of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs better than any man in the country', and is very famous for finding out a hare. He is ex- tremely well versed in all the little handicrafts of an idle man. He makes a May fly to a miracle, and furnishes the whole coun- try with angle rods. As he is a good-natured, officious fellow, and very much esteemed upon account of his family, he is a wel- come guest at every house, and keeps up a good correspondence among all the gentlemen about him. He carries a tulip root in his pocket from one to another, or exchanges a puppy between a couple of friends that live perhaps in the opposite sides of the country. Will is a particular favorite of all the young heirs, whom he frequently obliges with a net that he has weaved, or a setting-dog that he has made himself. He now and then pre- sents a pair of garters of his own knitting to their mothers or sisters; and raises a great deal of mirth among them by inquiring as often as he meets them (< how they wear! w These gentleman- like manufactures and obliging little humors make Will the dar- ling of the country. Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of him, when he saw him make up to us with two or three hazel twigs in his hand that he had cut in Sir Roger's woods, as he came through them, on his way to the house. I was very much pleased to ob- serve on one side the hearty and sincere welcome with which Sir Roger received him, and, on the other, the secret joy which his guest discovered at sight of the good old knight. After the first salutes were over, Will desired Sir Roger to lend him one of his servants to carry a set of shuttlecocks he had with him in a little box, to a lady that lived about a mile off, to whom it seems he had promised such a present for above this half year. Sir Roger's back was no sooner turned but honest Will began to tell me of a large cock pheasant that he had sprung in one of the neighboring woods, with two or three other adventures of the same nature. Odd and uncommon characters are the game that I look for, and most delight in; for which reason I was as much pleased with the novelty of the person that talked to me, as he could be for his life with the springing of a pheasant, and there- fore listened to him with more than ordinary attention. JOSEPH ADDISON 85 In the midst of this discourse the bell rung to dinner, where the gentleman I have been speaking of had the pleasure of see- ing the huge jack he had caught served up for the first dish in a most sumptuous manner. Upon our sitting down to it he gave us a long account how he had hooked it, played with it, foiled it, and at length drew it out upon the bank, with several other particulars that lasted all the first course. A dish of wild fowl that came afterwards furnished conversation for the rest of the dinner, which concluded with a late invention of Will's for im- proving the quail-pipe. Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner I was secretly touched with compassion towards the honest gentleman that had dined with us, and could not but consider with a great deal of concern how so good a heart and such busy hands were wholly employed in trifles; that so much humanity should be so little beneficial to others, and so much industry so little advantageous to himself. The same temper of mind and application to affairs might have recommended him to the public esteem, and have raised his fortune in another station of life. What good to his country or himself might not a trader or a merchant have done with such useful though ordinary qualifications! Will Wimble's is the case of many a younger brother of a great family, who had rather see their children starve like gen- tlemen, than thrive in a trade or profession that is beneath their quality. This humor fills several parts of Europe with pride and beggary. It is the happiness of a trading nation like ours, that the younger sons, though incapable of any liberal art or profession, may be placed in such a way of life as may perhaps enable them to vie with the best of their family. Accordingly we find several citizens that were launched into the world with narrow fortunes, rising by an honest industry to greater estates than those of their elder brothers. It is not improbable but Will was formerly tried at divinity, law, or physic; and that finding his genius did not lie that way, his parents gave him up at length to his own inventions. But certainly, however improper he might have been for studies of a higher nature, he was perfectly well turned for the occupations of trade and com- merce. As I think this is a point which cannot be too much inculcated, I shall desire my reader to compare what I have here written with what I have said in my twenty-first speculation. Complete. From the Spectator. 86 JOSEPH ADDISON THE COVERLEY GHOSTS Horror ubique animos, si'mul ipsa silentia lerrent. — Virg. ;£n. II. 755. All things are full of horror and affright, And dreadful ev'n the silence of the night. — Dry den. At a little distance from Sir Roger's house, among the ruins of an old abbey, there is a long walk of aged elms, which are shot up so very high, that when one passes under them, the rooks and crows that rest upon the tops of them seem to be cawing in another region. I am very much delighted with this sort of noise, which I consider as a kind of natural prayer to that Being who supplies the wants of his whole creation, and who, in the beautiful language of the Psalms, feedeth the young ravens that call upon him. I like this retirement the better, be- cause of an ill report it lies under of being haunted; for which reason (as I have been told in the family) no living creature ever walks in it besides the chaplain. My good friend the butler de- sired me with a very grave face not to venture myself in it after sunset, for that one of the footmen had been almost frighted out of his wits by a spirit that appeared to him in the shape of a black horse without a head; to which he added, that about a month ago one of the maids coming home late that way with a pail of milk upon her head, heard such a rustling among the bushes that she let it fall. I was taking a walk in this place last night between the hours of nine and ten, and could not but fancy it one of the most proper scenes in the world for a ghost to appear in. The ruins of the abbey are scattered up and down on every side, and half cov- ered with ivy and elder bushes, the harbors of several solitary birds which seldom make their appearance till the dusk of the evening. The place was formerly a churchyard, and has still several marks in it of graves and burying places. There is such an echo among the old ruins and vaults, that if you stamp but a little louder than ordinary you hear the sound repeated. At the same time the walk of elms, with the croaking of the ravens which from time to time is heard from the tops of them, looks exceeding solemn and venerable. These objects naturally raise seriousness and attention; and when night heightens the awful- JOSEPH ADDISON 87 ness of the place, and pours out her supernumerary horrors upon everything in it, I do not at all wonder that weak minds fill it with spectres and apparitions. Mr. Locke, in his chapter of the (< Association of Ideas, w has very curious remarks to show how, by the prejudice of education, one idea often introduces into the mind a whole set that bear no resemblance to one another in the nature of things. Among sev- eral examples of this kind, he produces the following instance: <( The ideas of goblins and sprites have really no more to do with darkness than light: yet let but a foolish maid inculcate these often in the mind of a child, and raise them there together, pos- sibly he shall never be able to separate them again so long as he lives; but darkness shall ever afterwards bring with it those frightful ideas, and they shall be so joined, that he can no more bear the one than the other. w As I was walking in this solitude, where the dusk of the evening conspired with so many other occasions of terror, I ob- served a cow grazing not far from me, which an imagination that was apt to startle might easily have construed into a black horse without a head: and I dare say the poor footman lost his wits upon some such trivial occasion. My friend Sir Roger has often told me with a great deal of mirth, that at his first coming to his estate he found three parts of his house altogether useless; that the best room in it had the reputation of being haunted, and by that means was locked up; that noises had been heard in his long gallery, so that he could not get a servant to enter it after eight o'clock at night; that the door of one of his chambers was nailed up, because there went a story in the family that a butler had formerly hanged himself in it; and that his mother, who lived to a great age, had shut up half the rooms in the house, in which either her husband, a son, or a daughter had died. The knight seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and himself in a manner shut out of his own house, upon the death of his mother ordered all the apartments to be flung open, and exorcised by his chaplain, who lay in every room one after another, and by that means dissi- pated the fears which had so long reigned in the family. I should not have been thus particular upon these ridiculous horrors, did not I find them so very much prevail in all parts of the country. At the same time I think a person who is thus terrified with the imagination of ghosts and spectres much more 88 JOSEPH ADDISON reasonable than one who, contrary to the reports of all historians, sacred and profane, ancient and modern, and to the traditions of all nations, thinks the appearance of spirits fabulous and ground- less. Could not I give myself up to this general testimony of mankind, I should to the relations of particular persons who are now living, and whom I cannot distrust in other matters of fact. I might here add, that not only the historians, to whom we may join the poets, but likewise the philosophers of antiquity, have favored this opinion. Lucretius himself, though by the course of his philosophy he was obliged to maintain that the soul did not exist separate from the body, makes no doubt of the reality of apparitions, and that men have often appeared after their death. This I think very remarkable; he was so pressed with the matter of fact, which he could not have the confidence to deny, that he was forced to account for it by one of the most absurd unphilosophical notions that was ever started. He tells us that the surfaces of all bodies are perpetually flying off from their respective bodies, one after another; and that these surfaces or thin cases that included each other whilst they were joined in the body like the coats of an onion, are sometimes seen entire when they are separated from it; by which means we often be- hold the shapes and shadows of persons who are either dead or absent. I shall dismiss this paper with a story out of Josephus, not so much for the sake of the story itself as for the moral reflec- tions with which the author concludes it, and which I shall here set down in his own words : <( Glaphyra, the daughter of King Archelaus, after the death of her two first husbands (being mar- ried to a third, who was brother to her first husband, and so passionately in love with her that he turned off his former wife to make room for this marriage), had a very odd kind of dream. She fancied that she saw her first husband coming towards her, and that she embraced him with great tenderness; when, in the midst of the pleasure which she expressed at the sight of him, he reproached her after the following manner: Glaphyra,* says he, ( thou hast made good the old saying that women are not to be trusted. Was not I the husband of thy virginity ? Have I not children by thee ? How couldst thou forget our loves so far as to enter into a second marriage, and after that into a third, — nay to take for thy husband a man who has so shamelessly crept into the bed of his brother ? However, for the sake of our JOSEPH ADDISON 89 past loves, I shall free thee from thy present reproach, and make thee mine forever. > n Glaphyra told this dream to several women of her acquaintance, and died soon after. I thought this story might not be impertinent in this place, wherein I speak of those kings. Besides, that the example deserves to be taken notice of, as it contains a most certain proof of the immortality of the soul, and of Divine Providence. If any man think these facts incredible, let him enjoy his own opinion to himself, but let him not endeavor to disturb the belief of others, who, by in- stances of this nature, are excited to the study of virtue. Complete from the Spectator. SUNDAY WITH SIR ROGER 'ABavarovQ jxev rrpura #eot)f, vSfio) ug dtaaeiTal, Ttfxa — Pythag. First, in obedience to thy country's rites, Worship th' immortal gods. I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institu- tion, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people Would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard as a citizen does upon the 'Change, the whole parish politics being generally discussed in that place either after sermon or before the bell ringfs. My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. 9y ; upon which his cloak bag was fixed in the seat of the coach, and the captain himself, according to a frequent, though invidious behavior of military men, ordered his man to look sharp, that none but one of the ladies should have the place he had taken fronting the coach box. We were in some little time fixed in out seats, and sat with that dislike which people not too good-natured usually conceive of each other at first sight. The coach jumbled us insensibly into some sort of familiarity; and we had not moved above two JOSEPH ADDISON 93 miles, when the widow asked the captain what success he had in his recruiting. The officer, with a frankness he believed very graceful, told her, <( that, indeed, he had but very little luck, and had suffered much by desertion, therefore should be glad to end his warfare in the service of her or her fair daughter. In a word," continued he, The captain was so little out of humor, and our company was so far from being soured by this little ruffle, that Ephraim and he took a particular delight in being agreeable to each other for the future, and assumed their different provinces in the conduct of the company. Our reckonings, apartments, and accommoda- tion fell under Ephraim; and the captain looked to all disputes upon the road, as the good behavior of our coachman, and the right we had of taking place, as going to London, of all vehicles coming from thence. The occurrences we met with were ordi- nary, and very little happened which could entertain by the re- lation of them; but when I considered the company we were in, I took it for no small good fortune that the whole journey was not spent in impertinences, which to one part of us might be an entertainment, to the other a suffering. What, therefore, Ephraim said when we were almost arrived at London had to me an air, not only of good understanding, but good breeding. Upon the young lady's expressing her satisfaction in the journey, and de- claring how delightful it had been to her, Ephraim declared him- self as follows : <( There is no ordinary part of human life which expresseth so much a good mind and a right inward man as his behavior upon meeting with strangers, especially such as may seem the most unsuitable companions to him; such a man, when he falleth in the way with persons of simplicity and innocence, however knowing he may be in the ways of men, will not vaunt himself thereof, but will the rather hide his superiority to them, that he may not be painful unto them. My good friend, w con- tinued he, turning to the officer, (< thee and I are to part by and by, and peradventure we may never meet again; but be advised by a plain man: modes and apparel are but trifles to the real man, therefore do not think such a man as thyself terrible for thy garb, nor such a one as me contemptible for mine. When two such as thee and I meet, with affections as we ought to have towards each other, thou shouldst rejoice to see my peace- able demeanor, and I should be glad to see thy strength and ability to protect me in it. 8 Complete. From the Spectator. JOSEPH ADDISON 95 SIR ROGER AGAIN IN LONDON JEvo rarissima nostro Simplicitas. —Ovid. Ars Amator Lib. I. 241. Most rare is now our old simplicity. — Dry den. Iwas this morning surprised with a great knocking at the door, when my landlady's daughter came up to me and told me that there was a man below desired to speak with me. Upon my asking her who it was, she told me it was a very grave elderly person, but that she did not know his name. I immedi- ately went down to him, and found him to be the coachman of my worthy friend Sir Roger de Coverley. He told me that his master came to town last night, and would be glad to take a turn with me in Gray's Inn Walks. As I was wondering in my- self what had brought Sir Roger to town, not having lately re- ceived any letter from him, he told me that his master was come up to get a sight of Prince Eugene, and that he desired I would immediately meet him. I was not a little pleased with the curiosity of the old knight, though I did not much wonder at it, having heard him say more than once in private discourse that he looked upon Prince Eu- genio (for so the knight always calls him) to be a greater man than Scanderbeg. I was no sooner come into Gray's Inn Walks, but I heard my friend upon the terrace hemming twice or thrice to himself with great vigor, for he loves to clear his pipes in good air (to make use of his own phrase), and is not a little pleased with any one who takes notice of the strength which he still exerts in his morning hems. I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the good old man, who before he saw me was engaged in conversation with a beggar man that had asked an alms of him. I could hear my friend chide him for not finding out some work; but at the same time saw him put his hand in his pocket and give him sixpence. Our salutations were very hearty on both sides, consisting of many kind shakes of the hand, and several affectionate looks which we cast upon one another. After which the knight told me my good friend his chaplain was very well, and much at my service, and that the Sunday before he had made a most incom- parable sermon out of Doctor Barrow. <( I have left, * says he, 96 JOSEPH ADDISON (< all my affairs in his hands, and, being willing to lay an obliga- tion upon him, have deposited with him thirty marks, to be dis- tributed among his poor parishioners. M He then proceeded to acquaint me with the welfare of Will Wimble. Upon which he put his hand into his fob and presented me in his name with a tobacco stopper, telling me that Will had been busy all the beginning of the winter, in turning great quantities of them; and that he made a present of one to every gentleman in the country who has good principles, and smokes. He added, that poor Will was at present under great tribulation, for that Tom Touchy had taken the law of him for cutting some hazel sticks out of one of his hedges. Among other pieces of news which the knight brought from his country seat, he informed me that Moll White was dead, and that about a month after her death the wind was so very high that it blew down the end of one of his barns. <( But for my own part, * says Sir Roger, <( I do not think that the old woman had any hand in it. w He afterwards fell into an account of the diversions which had passed in his house during the holidays, for Sir Roger, after the laudable custom of his ancestors, always keeps open house at Christmas. I learned from him that he had killed eight fat hogs for the season, that he had dealt about his chines very liberally amongst his neighbors, and that in particular he had sent a string of hogs-puddings with a pack of cards to every poor fam- ily in the parish. (< I have often thought, w says Sir Roger, <( it happens very well that Christmas should fall out in the middle of the winter. It is the most dead uncomfortable time of the year, when the poor people would suffer very much from their poverty and cold, if they had not good cheer, warm fares, and Christmas gambols to support them. I love to rejoice their poor hearts at this season, and to see the whole village merry in my great hall. I allow a double quantity of malt to my small beer, and set it a running for twelve days to every one that calls for it. I have always a piece of cold beef and a mince pie upon the table, and am wonderfully pleased to see my tenants pass away a whole evening in playing their innocent tricks, and smutting one another. Our friend Will Wimble is as merry as any of them, and shows a thousand roguish tricks upon these occasions. w I was very much delighted with the reflection of my old friend, which carried so much goodness in it. He then launched JOSEPH ADDISON 97 out into the praise of the late Act of Parliament for securing the Church of England, and told me with great satisfaction that he believed it already began to take effect, for that a rigid Dis- senter, who chanced to dine at his house on Christmas day, had been observed to eat very plentifully of his plum porridge. After having dispatched all our country matters, Sir Roger made several inquiries concerning the club, and particularly of his old antagonist Sir Andrew Freeport. He asked me with a kind of smile whether Sir Andrew had not taken advantage of his absence to vent among them some of his republican doctrines; but soon after, gathering up his countenance into a more than ordinary seriousness, (< Tell me truly,* says he, "don't you think Sir Andrew had a hand in the Pope's Procession ? n — but with- out giving me time to answer him, — "Well, well, says he, "I know you are a wary man, and do not care to talk of public matters. ° The knight then asked me if I had seen Prince Eugenio, and made me promise to get him a stand in some convenient place where he might have a full sight of that extraordinary man, whose presence does so much honor to the British nation. He dwelt very long on the praises of this great general, and I found that, since I was with him in the country, he had drawn many observations together out of his reading in Baker's "Chronicle, and other authors, who always lie in his hall window, which very much redound to the honor of this prince. Having passed away the. greatest part of the morning in hear- ing the knight's reflections, which were partly private, and partly political, he asked me if I would smoke a pipe with him over a dish of coffee at Squire's. As I love the old man, I take delight in complying with everything that is agreeable to him, and accordingly waited on him to the coffeehouse, where his venerable figure drew upon us the eyes of the whole room. He had no sooner seated himself at the upper end of the high table, but he called for a clean pipe, a paper of tobacco, a dish of coffee, a wax candle, and the Supplement, with such an air of cheerfulness and good-humor, that all the boys in the coffee- room (who seemed to take pleasure in serving him) were at once employed on his several errands, insomuch that nobody else could come at a dish of tea till the knight had got all his conven- iences about him. Complete. From the Spectator. 1—7 98 JOSEPH ADDISON SIR ROGER IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY Ire tanien rest at, Nunia quo devenit et Ancus. — Hor. Ep. vi., Lib. I. 27. With Ancus and with Numa, kings of Rome, We must descend into the silent tomb. My friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me t'other night, that he had been reading my paper upon Westminster Abbey, in which, says he, there are a great many ingenious fan- cies. He told me at the same time, that he observed I had promised another paper upon the tombs, and that he should be glad to go and see them with me, not having visited them since he had read history. I could not imagine how this came into the knight's head, till I recollected that he had been very busy all last summer upon Baker's <( Chronicle, * which he has quoted several times in his disputes with Sir Andrew Freeport since his last coming to town. Accordingly I promised to call upon him the next morning, that we might go together to the abbey. I found the knight under his butler's hands, who always shaves him. He was no sooner dressed than he called for a glass of the widow Truby's water, which he told me he always drank before he went abroad. He recommended to me a dram of it at the same time, with so much heartiness, that I could not for- bear drinking it. As soon as I had got it down, I found it very unpalatable; upon which the knight, observing that I had made several wry faces, told me that he knew I should not like it at first, but that it was the best thing in the world against the stone or gravel. I could have wished indeed that he had acquainted me with the virtues of it sooner; but it was too late to complain, and I knew what he had done was out of good-will. Sir Roger told me further, that he looked upon it to be very good for a man whilst he stayed in town, to keep off infection, and that he got together a quantity of it upon the first news of the sickness being at Dantzick; when of a sudden turning short to one of his servants, who stood behind him, he bid him call a hackney coach, and take care it was an elderly man that drove it. He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Truby's water, tell- ing me that the widow Truby was one who did more good than all the doctors and apothecaries in the country; that she distilled JOSEPH ADDISON 99 every poppy that grew within five miles of her; that she distrib- uted her water gratis among all sorts of people: to which the knight added that she had a very great jointure, and that the whole country would fain have it a match between him and her; «and truly, * says Sir Roger, (< if I had not been engaged, per- haps I could not have done better. M His discourse was broken off by his man's telling him he had called a coach. Upon our going to it, after having cast his eye upon the wheels, he asked the coachman if his axletree was good; upon the fellow's telling him he would warrant it, the knight turned to me, told me he looked like an honest man, and went in without further ceremony. We had not gone far, when Sir Roger, popping out his head, called the coachman down from his box, and, upon his presenting himself at the window, asked him if he smoked. As I was con- sidering what this would end in, he bid him stop by the way at any good tobacconist's and take in a roll of their best Vir- ginia. Nothing material happened in the remaining part of our journey, till we were set down at the west end of the abbey. As we went up the body of the church, the knight pointed at the trophies upon one of the new monuments, and cried out, (< A brave man, I warrant him ! }> Passing afterwards by Sir Clouds- ley Shovel, he flung his hand that way and cried, (< Sir Cloudsley Shovel! a very gallant man!" As we stood before Busby's tomb, the knight uttered himself again after the same manner: <( Doctor Busby! a great man: he whipped my grandfather; a very great man ! I should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead: a very great man! >} We were immediately conducted into the little chapel on the right hand. Sir Roger, planting himself at our historian's elbow, was very attentive to everything he said, particularly to the ac- count he gave us of the lord who had cut off the king of Moroc- co's head. Among several other figures, he was very well pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his knees; and, concluding them all to be great men, was conducted to the figure which represents that martyr to good housewifery who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our interpreter's telling us that she was a maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth, the knight was very inquisitive into her name and family; and, after having regarded her finger for some time, (< I wonder, w says he, (< that Sir Richard Baker said nothing of her in his ( Chronicled B ioo JOSEPH ADDISON We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs, where my old friend, after having heard that the stone underneath the most ancient of them, which was brought from Scotland, was called Jacob's Pillar, sat himself down in the chair, and, looking like the figure of an old Gothic king, asked our interpreter what authority they had to say that Jacob had ever been in Scotland. The fellow, instead of returning him an answer, told him that he hoped his honor would pay his forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger a little ruffled upon being thus trepanned; but our guide not insisting upon his demand, the knight soon recovered his good humor, and whispered in my ear, that if Will Wimble were with us, and saw those two chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco stopper out of one or t'other of them. Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward the Third's sword, and, leaning upon the pommel of it, gave us the whole history of the Black Prince, concluding that, in Sir Richard Baker's opinion, Edward III. was one of the greatest princes that ever sat upon the English throne* We were then shown Edward the Confessor's tomb, upon which Sir Roger acquainted us that he was the first who touched for the evil; and afterwards Hemy the Fourth's, upon which he shook his head and told us there was fine reading in the casual- ties of that reign. Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is the figure of one of our English kings without a head ; and upon giving us to know that the head, which was of beaten silver, had been stolen away several years since, — (< Some whig, I'll warrant you, w says Sir Roger; (< you ought to lock up your kings better; they will carry off the body too, if you don't take care. w The glorious names of Henry V. and Queen Elizabeth gave the knight great opportunities of shining, and of doing justice to Sir Richard Baker, who, as our knight observed with some sur- prise, had a great many kings in him whose monuments he had not seen in the abbey. For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the knight show such an honest passion for the glory of his country, and such a respectful gratitude to the memory of its princes. I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good old friend, which flows out towards every one he converses with, made him very kind to our interpreter, whom he looked upon as an extraor- dinary man : for which reason he shook him by the hand at part- JOSEPH ADDISON IOI ing, telling' him that he should be very glad to see him at his lodgings in Norfolk buildings, and talk over these matters with him more at leisure. Complete from the Spectator. SIR ROGER'S VIEWS ON BEARDS Stolidam prccbet tibi vellere barbam. — Pers. Sat. II. 28. He holds his foolish beard for thee to pluck. When I was last with my friend Sir Roger in Westminster Abbey, I observed that he stood longer than ordinary before the bust of a venerable old man. I was at a loss to guess the reason of it; when, after some time, he pointed to the figure, and asked me if I did not think that our forefathers looked much wiser in their beards than we do without them. <( For my part, B says he, (< when I am walking in my gallery in the country, and see my ancestors, who many of them died be- fore they were of my age, I cannot forbear regarding them as so many old patriarchs, and at the same time looking upon my- self as an idle smock-faced young fellow. I love to see your Abrahams, your Isaacs, and your Jacobs, as we have them in old pieces of tapestry, with beards below their girdles, that cover half the hangings. w The knight added, if I would recommend beards in one of my papers, and endeavor to restore human faces to their ancient dignity, that, upon a month's warning, he would undertake to lead up the fashion himself in a pair of whiskers. I smiled at my friend's fancy; but, after we parted, could not forbear reflecting on the metamorphosis our faces have under- gone in this particular. The beard, conformable to the notion of my friend, Sir Roger, was for many ages looked upon as the type of wisdom. Lucian more than once rallies the philosophers of his time, who endeav- ored to rival one another in beard; and represents a learned man, who stood for a professorship in philosophy, as unqualified for it by the shortness of his beard. ^Elian, in his account of Zoilus, the pretended critic, who wrote against Homer and Plato, and thought himself wiser than all who had gone before him, tells us that this Zoilus had a very long beard that hung down upon his breast, but no hair upon his head, which he always kept close shaved, regarding, it seems, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA COLLEGE LIBRARY 102 JOSEPH ADDISON the hairs of his head as so many suckers, which, if they had been suffered to grow, might have drawn away the nourishment from his chin, and by that means have starved his beard. I have read somewhere that one of the popes refused to ac- cept an edition of a saint's works, which was presented to him, because the saint, in his effigies before the book, was drawn with- out a beard. We see by these instances what homage the world has form- erly paid to beards; and that a barber was not then allowed to make those depredations on the faces of the learned, which have been permitted him of later years. Accordingly several wise nations have been so extremely jeal- ous of the least ruffle offered to their beard, that they seem to have fixed the point of honor principally in that part. The Spaniards were wonderfully tender in this particular. Don Que- vedo, in his third vision on the last judgment, has carried the humor very far, when he tells us that one of his vainglorious countrymen, after having received sentence, was taken into cus- tody by a couple of evil spirits ; but that his guides happening to disorder his mustaschoes, they were forced to recompose them with a pair of curling irons, before they could get him to file off. If we look into the history of our own nation, we shall find that the beard flourished in the Saxon heptarchy, but was very much discouraged under the Norman line. It shot out, however, from time to time, in several reigns under different shapes. The last effort it made seems to have been in Queen Mary's days, as the curious reader may find if he please to peruse the figures of Cardinal Pole and Bishop Gardiner; though, at the same time, I think it may be questioned, if zeal against popery has not in- duced our Protestant painters to extend the beards of these two persecutors beyond their natural dimensions, in order to make them appear the more terrible. I find but few beards worth taking notice of in the reign of King James I. During the civil wars there appeared one, which makes too great a figure in story to be passed over in silence: I mean that of the redoubted <( Hudibras," an account of which Butler has transmitted to posterity in the following lines : — (( His tawny beard was th' equal grace Both of his wisdom and his face; JOSEPH ADDISON 103 In cut and dye so like a tile, A sudden view it. would beguile; The upper part thereof was whey, The nether orange mixt with gray. w The whisker continued for some time among us after the ex- piration of beards; but this is a subject which I shall not here enter upon, having discussed it at large- in a distinct treatise, which I keep by me in manuscript, upon the mustaschoe. If my friend Sir Roger's project of introducing beards should take effect, I fear the luxury of the present age would make it a very expensive fashion. There is no question but the beaux would soon provide themselves with false ones of the lightest colors and the most immoderate lengths. A fair beard, of the tapestry size Sir Roger seems to approve, could not come under twenty guineas. The famous golden beard of zEsculapius would hardly be more valuable than one made in the extravagance of the fashion. Besides, we are not certain that the ladies would not come into the mode, when they take the air on horseback. They al- ready appear in hats and feathers, coats and periwigs, and I see no reason why we should not suppose that they would have their riding beards on the same occasion. Complete. From the Spectator. SIR ROGER AT THE PLAY Respicere exemplar vittz moruntque jubebo Doctum imitatorem et veras June ducere voces. — Hor. Ars Poet. 327. Keep Nature's great original in view, And thence the living images pursue. — Francis. My friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met together at the club, told me that he had a great mind to see the new tragedy [The Distrest Mother] with me, assuring me at the same time that he had not been at a play these twenty years. "The last I saw," said Sir Roger, (( was * The Committee, * which I should not have gone to neither, had not I been told beforehand that it was a good Church of 104 JOSEPH ADDISON England comedy. " He then proceeded to inquire of me who this distrest mother was; and upon hearing that she was Hector's widow, he told me that her husband was a brave man, and that when he was a schoolboy he had read his life at the end of the dictionary. My friend asked me in the next place, if there would not be some danger in coming home late, in case the Mohocks should be abroad. tt I assure you," says he, (( I thought I had fallen into their hands last night ; for I observed two or three lusty black men that followed me half way up Fleet-street, and mended their pace behind me, in pro- portion as I put on to get away from them. You must know," continued the knight with a smile, (< I fancied they had a mind to hunt me, for I remember an honest gentleman in my neigh- borhood, who was served such a trick in King Charles the Sec- ond's time, for which reason he has not ventured himself in town ever since. I might have shown them very good sport, had this been their design; for, as I am an old fox-hunter, I should have turned and dodged, and have played them a thousand tricks they had never seen in their lives before." Sir Roger added that (< if these gentlemen had any such intention, they did not succeed very well in it; for I threw them out," says he, <( at the end of Norfolk-street, where I doubled the corner, and got shelter in my lodgings before they could imagine what was become of me. However," says the knight, <( if Captain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow night, and you will both of you call upon me about four o'clock, that we may be at the house before it is full, I will have my own coach in readiness to attend you, for John tells me he has got the fore-wheels mended." The captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the ap- pointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he had put on the same sword which he made use of at the battle of Steenkirk. Sir Roger's servants, and among the rest my old friend the but- ler, had, I found, provided themselves with good oaken plants, to attend their master upon this occasion. When we had placed him in his coach, with myself at his left hand, the captain before him, and his butler at the head of his footmen in the rear, we convoyed him in safety to the playhouse, where, after having marched up the entry in good order, the captain and I went in with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit. As soon as the house was full, and the candles lighted, my old friend stood up, and looked about him with that pleasure which a mind seasoned JOSEPH ADDISON 105 with humanity naturally feels in itself at the sight of a multitude of people who seem pleased with one another, and partake of the same common entertainment. I could not but fancy to my- self, as the old man stood up in the middle of the pit, that he made a very proper centre to a tragic audience. Upon the en- tering of Pyrrhus, the knight told me that he did not believe the king of France himself had a better strut. I was, indeed, very attentive to my old friend's remarks, because I looked upon them as a piece of natural criticism, and was well pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of almost every scene, telling me that he could not imagine how the play would end. One while he appeared much concerned for Andromache; and in a little while after as much for Hermione, and was extremely puzzled to think what would become of Pyrrhus. When Sir Roger saw Andromache's obstinate refusal to her lover's importunities, he whispered me in the ear that he was sure she would never have him; to which he added, with a more than ordinary vehemence, <( You can't imagine, sir, what it is to have to do with a widow. B Upon Pyrrhus's threatening after- wards to leave her, the knight shook his head and muttered to himself: <( Aye, do if you can. }) This part dwelt so much upon my friend's imagination that at the close of the third act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered me in my ear: <( These widows, sir, are the most perverse creatures in the world. But pray, w says he, <( you that are a critic, is the play according to your dramatic rules, as you call them ? Should your people in tragedy always talk to be understood ? Why, there is not a single sentence in this play that I do not know the meaning of. " The fourth act very luckily began before I had time to give the old gentleman an answer. "Well, says the knight, sitting down with great satisfaction, (< I suppose we are now to see Hec- tor's ghost. w He then renewed his attention, and, from time to time fell a-praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mis- take as to one of her pages, whom at his first entering he took for Astyanax, but quickly set himself right in that particular, though, at the same time, he owned he should have been very glad to have seen the little boy, who, says he, must needs be a very fine child by the account that is given of him. Upon Her- mione's going off with a menace to Pyrrhus, the audience gave a loud clap, to which Sir Roger added: (< On my word, a notable young baggage ! * 106 JOSEPH ADDISON As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness in the audience during the whole action, it was natural for them to take the opportunity of the intervals between the acts to express their opinion of the players, and of their respective parts. Sir Roger, hearing a cluster of them praise Orestes, struck in with them, and told them that he thought his friend Pylades was a very sensible man. As they were afterwards applauding Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a second time. <( And let me tell you, w says he, <( though he speaks but little, I like the old fellow in whis- kers as well as any of them." Captain Sentry, seeing two or three wags who sat near us lean with an attentive ear towards Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should smoke the knight, plucked him by the elbow, and whispered something in his ear, that lasted till the opening of the fifth act. The knight was wonder- fully attentive to the account which Orestes gives of Pyrrhus's death, and at the conclusion of it told me it was such a bloody piece of work that he was glad it was not done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in his raving fit, he grew more than ordinarily serious, and took occasion to moralize (in his way) upon an evil conscience, adding that Orestes, in his madness, looked as if he saw something. As we were the first that came into the house, so we were the last that went out of it, being resolved to have a clear pas- sage for our old friend, whom we did not care to venture among the justling of the crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied with his entertainment, and we guarded him to his lodging in the same manner that we brought him to the playhouse, being highly pleased for my own part, not only with the performance of the excellent piece which had been presented, but with the satisfaction which it had given to the old man. Complete. From the Spectator. JOSEPH ADDISON 107 DEATH OF SIR ROGER Heu fiietas ! heu prisca fides ! — Virg. iEn. VI. 878. Mirror of ancient faith! Undaunted worth ! Inviolable truth ! — Dry den. [With the punctuation, spelling, and capitalization of the original Spectator.] We last Night received a Piece of ill News at our Club which very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my Readers themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no longer in Suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead. He departed this Life at his House in the Country after a few Weeks Sickness. Sir Andrew Freeport has a Letter from one of his Correspondents in those Parts, that informs him the old Man caught a Cold at the County Sessions, as he was very warmly promoting an Address of his own penning, in which he succeeded according to his Wishes. But this Partic- ular comes from a Whig-Justice of Peace, who was always Sir Roger's Enemy and Antagonist. I have Letters both from the Chaplain and Captain Sentry which mention nothing of it, but are filled with many Particulars to the Honour of the good old Man. I have likewise a Letter from the Butler, who took so much Care of me last Summer when I was at the Knight's House. As my Friend the Butler mentions, in the Simplicity of his Heart, sev- eral Circumstances the others have passed over in Silence, I shall give my Reader a Copy of his Letter without any Alteration or Diminution: — Honoured Sir: — Knowing that you was my old Master's good Friend, I could not forbear sending you the melancholy News of his Death, which has afflicted the whole Country, as well as his poor Servants, who loved him, I may say, better than we did our Lives. I am afraid he caught his Death at the last County Sessions, where he would go to see Justice done to a poor Widow Woman, and her Fatherless Children, that had been wronged by a neighbouring Gentleman ; for you know, Sir, my good Master was always the poor Man's Friend. Upon his coming home, the first Complaint he made was, that he had lost his Roast- Beef Stomach, not being able to touch a Sirloin, which was served ioS JOSEPH ADDISON up according to Custom; and you know he used to take great Delight in it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse, but still kept a good Heart to the last. Indeed, we were once in great Hope of his Recovery, upon a kind Message that was sent him from the Widow Lady whom he had made love to the Forty last Years of his Life; but this only proved a Light'ning before Death. He has be- queathed to this Lady, as a token of his Love, a great Pearl Neck- lace, and a Couple of Silver Bracelets set with Jewels, which belonged to my good old Lady his Mother: He has bequeathed the fine white Gelding, that he used to ride a hunting upon, to his Chaplain, be- cause he thought he would be kind to him, and has left you all his Books. He has, moreover, bequeathed to the Chaplain a very pretty Tenement with good Lands about it. It being a very cold Day when he made his Will, he left for Mourning, to every Man in the Parish, a great Frize-Coat, and to every Woman a black Riding-hood. It was a most moving Sight to see him take leave of his poor Servants, commending us all for our Fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak a Word for weeping. As we most of us are grown Gray-headed in our Dear Master's Service, he has left us Pensions and Legacies, which we may live very comfortably upon, the remaining part of our Days. He has bequeath'd a great deal more in Charity, which is not yet come to my Knowledge, and it is peremptorily said in the Parish, that he has left Mony to build a Steeple to the Church ; for he was heard to say some time ago, that if he lived two Years longer, Cov- erly Church should have a Steeple to it. The Chaplain tells every body that he made a very good End, and never speaks of him with- out Tears. He was buried, according to his own Directions, among the Family of the Coverly's, on the Left Hand of his father Sir Arthur. The Coffin was carried by Six of his Tenants, and the Pall held up by Six of the Quorum : The whole Parish follow'd the Corps with heavy Hearts, and in their Mourning Suits, the Men in Frize, and the Women in Riding-Hoods. Captain Sentry, my Master's Nephew, has taken Possession of the Hall-House and the whole Estate. When my old Master saw him a little before his Death, he shook him by the Hand, and wished him Joy of the Estate which was fall- ing to him, desiring him only to make good Use of it, and to pay the several Legacies, and the Gifts of Charity which he told him he had left as Quitrents upon the Estate. The Captain truly seems a courteous Man, though he says but little. He makes much of those whom my Master loved, and shows great Kindness to the old House- dog, that you know my poor Master was so fond of. It would have gone to your Heart to have heard the Moans the dumb Creature made on the Day of my Master's Death. He has ne'er joyed himself JOSEPH ADDISON 109 since; no more has any of us. 'Twas the melancholiest Day for the poor People that ever happened in Worcestershire. This being all from, Honoured Sir, Your most Sorrowful Servant, Edward Biscuit. P. S. My Master desired, some Weeks before he died, that a Book which comes up to you by the Carrier should be given to Sir Andrew Freeport, in his Name. This Letter, notwithstanding the poor Butler's Manner of writing it, gave us such an Idea of our good old Friend, that upon the reading of it there was not a dry Eye in the Club. Sir Andrew opening the Book, found it to be a Collection of Acts of Parliament. There was in particular the Act of Uni- formity, w r ith some Passages in it marked by Sir Roger's own Hand. Sir Andrew found that they related to two or three Points, which he had disputed with Sir Roger the last time he appeared at the Club. Sir Andrezv, who would have been merry at such an Incident on another Occasion, at the sight of the old Man's Hand-writing burst into Tears, and put the Book into his Pocket. Captain Sentry informs me, that the Knight has left Rings and Mourning for every one in the Club. Complete. From the Spectator. no JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ (1807-1873) |he idea which gives Agassiz his distinct individuality as a thinker belongs to the highest poetry of science. He sug- gests it in his essays on Classification by expressing his belief in the existence in every animal «of an immaterial principle similar to that which by its excellence and superior endowments places man so much above animals. » (< The principle exists unques- tionably, w he adds, (< and whether it be called soul, reason, or instinct, it presents in the whole range of organized beings a series of phe- nomena closely linked together and upon it are based not only the higher manifestations of the mind, but the permanence of the specific differences which characterize every organism. * This is the logical antithesis of the Darwinian hypothesis against which Agassiz was one of the few great scientists of Darwin s gener- ation whose protest was unqualified. He made no concessions to it, declaring it inconceivable that any force of mere physical heredity supposable as innate in matter could transmit the life and the traits of one individual of a species to another. He was the son of a Swiss clergyman, and was born May 28th, 1807, in his father's parish of Motier. Educated at Lausanne, Zurich, Heidelberg, and Munich, he took his degree in medicine only to abandon that profession for the scientific research to which he de- voted his life. His greatest work was as a specialist in the study of ichthyology, and some of his most far-reaching generalizations on the governing laws of life in all its forms are directly suggested by his study of turtles. After such researches had made him one of the most famous men of Europe, he came to the United States in 1846 to deliver a series of lectures at the Lowell Institute. He held pro- fessorships at Harvard and in Charlestown. The museum of natural history at Cambridge is a monument of his American work. His <( Contributions to the Natural History of the United States w are among the most interesting of his numerous publications, and the essays on Classification which they embody show a faculty of clear statement and succinct generalization, suggesting the best work of Aristotle. He died December 14th, 1873. One of his sayings should be forever memorable in America and in the world. Tempted with lucrative employment which would have called him away from his scientific work, he answered: <( I have no time to make money. 8 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ. After a Design from an Approved Photograph, Wilson &* Co. JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ in RELATIONS BETWEEN ANIMALS AND PLANTS AND THE SURROUNDING WORLD Every animal and plant stands in certain definite relations to the surrounding world, some, however, like the domestic animals and cultivated plants, being - capable of adapting themselves to various conditions more readily than others; but even this pliability is a characteristic feature. These relations are highly important in a systematic point of view, and deserve the most careful attention, on the part of naturalists. Yet, the direction zoological studies have taken since comparative anatomy and embryology began to absorb almost entirely the attention of naturalists, has been very unfavorable to the investigation of the habits of animals, in which their relations to one another and to the conditions under which they live are more especially ex- hibited. We have to go back to the authors of the preceding century for the most interesting accounts of the habits of ani- mals, as among modern writers there are few who have devoted their chief attention to this subject. So little, indeed, is its im- portance now appreciated, that the students of this branch of natural history are hardly acknowledged as peers by their fellow investigators, the anatomists and physiologists, or the systematic zoologists. And yet, without a thorough knowledge of the habits of animals, it will never be possible to ascertain with any degree of precision the true limits of all those species which descriptive zoologists have of late admitted with so much confidence in their works. And after all, what does it matter to science that thou- sands of species more or less should be described and entered in our systems, if we know nothing about them ? A very com- mon defect of the works relating to the habits of animals has no doubt contributed to detract from their value and to turn the attention in other directions: their purely anecdotic character, or the circumstance that they are too frequently made the occasion for narrating personal adventures. Nevertheless, the importance of this kind of investigation can hardly be overrated; and it would be highly desirable that naturalists should turn again their attention that way, now that comparative anatomy and physi- ology, as well as embryology, may suggest so many new topics of inquiry, and the progress of physical geography has laid such a broad foundation for researches of this kind. Then we may 112 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ learn with more precision how far the species described from isolated specimens are founded in nature, or how far they may be only a particular stage of growth of other species; then we shall know, what is yet too little noticed, how extensive the range of variations is among animals, observed in their wild state, or rather how much individuality there is in each and all living beings. So marked, indeed, is this individuality in many families, — and that of Turtles affords a striking example of this kind, — that correct descriptions of species can hardly be drawn from isolated specimens, as is constantly attempted to be done. I have seen hundreds of specimens of some of our Chelonians, among which there were not two identical. And truly, the limits of this variability constitute one of the most important characters of many species; and without precise information upon this point for every genus, it will never be possible to have a solid basis for the distinction of species. Some of the most per- plexing questions in zoology and paleontology might long ago have been settled, had we had more precise information upon this point, and were it better known how unequal in this respect different groups of the animal kingdom are, when compared with one another. While the individuals of some species seem all dif- ferent, and might be described as different species, if seen iso- lated or obtained from different regions, those of other species appear all as cast in one and the same mold. It must be, therefore, at once obvious, how different the results of the com- parison of one fauna with another may be, if the species of one have been studied accurately for a long period by resident natu- ralists, and the other is known only from specimens collected by chance travelers; or, if the fossil representatives of one period are compared with living animals, without both faunas having first been revised according to the same standard. Section XVI of essays on (( Classification, » complete. RELATIONS OF INDIVIDUALS TO ONE ANOTHER The relations in which individuals of the same species of ani- mals stand to one another are not less determined and fixed than the relations of species to the surrounding elements, which we have thus far considered. The relations which indi- vidual animals bear to one another are of such a character, that JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 113 they ought long ago to have been considered as proof sufficient that no organized being could ever have been called into exist- ence by another agency than the direct intervention of a reflect- ive mind. It is in a measure conceivable that physical agents might produce something like the body of the lowest kinds of animals or plants, and that under identical circumstances the same thing may have been produced again and again, by the repetition of the same process; but that upon closer analysis of the possibilities of the case, it should not have at once appeared how incongruous the further supposition is, that such agencies could delegate the power of reproducing what they had just called into existence, to those very beings, with such limitations that they could never reproduce anything but themselves, I am at a loss to understand. It will no more do to suppose that from simpler structures such a process may end in the produc- tion of the most perfect, as every step implies an addition of possibilities not even included in the original case. Such a dele- gation of power can only be an act of intelligence; while be- tween the production of an indefinite number of organized beings, as the result of a physical law, and the reproduction of these same organized beings by themselves, there is no necessary con- nection. The successive generations of any animal or plant can- not stand, as far as their origin is concerned, in any causal relation to physical agents, if these agents have not the power of delegating their own action to the full extent to which they have already been productive in the first appearance of these beings; for it is a physical law that the resultant is equal to the forces applied. If any new being has ever been produced by such agencies, how could the successive generations enter, at the time of their birth, into the same relations to these agents, as their ancestors, if these beings had not in themselves the facalty of sustaining their character, in spite of these agents ? Why, again, should animrds and plants at once begin to decompose un- der the very influence of all those agents which have been sub- servient to the maintenance of their life, as soon as life ceases, if life is limited or determined by them ? There exist between individuals of the same species relations far more complicated than those already alluded to, which go still further to disprove any possibility of causal dependence of organized beings upon physical agents. The relations upon which the maintenance of species is based, throughout the animal king- 1—8 114 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ dom, in the universal antagonism of sex, and the infinite divers- ity of these connections in different types, have really nothing to do with external conditions of existence; they indicate only rela- tions of individuals to individuals, beyond their connections with the material world in which they live. How, then, could these relations be the result of physical causes, when physical agents are known to have a specific sphere of action, in no way bearing upon this sphere of phenomena ? For the most part, the relations of individuals to individuals are unquestionably of an organic nature, and, as such, have to be viewed in the same light as any other structural feature; but there is much, also, in these connections that partakes of a psy- chological character, taking this expression in the widest sense of the word. When animals fight with one another, when they associate for a common purpose, when they warn one another in danger, when they come to the rescue of one another, when they display pain or joy, they manifest impulses of the same kind as are consid- ered among the moral attributes of man. The range of their passions is even as extensive as that of the human mind, and I am at a loss to perceive a difference of kind between them, how- ever much they may differ in degree and in the manner in which they are expressed. The gradations of the moral facul- ties among the higher animals and man are, moreover, so imper- ceptible, that to deny to the first a certain sense of responsibility and consciousness would certainly be an exaggeration of the dif- ference between animals and man. There exists, besides, as much individuality, within their respective capabilities, among animals as among men, as every sportsman, or every keeper of menageries, or every farmer and shepherd can testify who has had a large experience with wild, or tamed, or domesticated animals. This argues strongly in favor of the existence in every animal of an immaterial principle similar to that which, by its excellence and superior endowments, places man so much above animals. Yet the principle exists unquestionably, and whether it be called soul, reason, or instinct, it presents in the whole range of organ- ized beings a series of phenomena closely linked together; and upon it are based not only the higher manifestations of the mind, but the very permanence of the specific differences which characterize every organism. Most of the arguments of philosophy JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 115 in favor of the immortality of man apply equally to the perma- nency of this principle in other living- beings. May I not add that a future life, in which man should be deprived of that great source of enjoyment and intellectual and moral improvement which result from the contemplation of the harmonies of an or- ganic world, would involve a lamentable loss, and may we not look to a spiritual concert of the combined worlds and all their inhabitants in presence of their Creator as the highest conception of Paradise ? Section XVII of essays on « Classification, M complete. MUTUAL DEPENDENCE OF THE ANIMAL AND VEGETABLE KINGDOMS Though it had long been known, by the experiments of De Saussure, that the breathing processes of animals and plants are very different, and that while the former inhale atmos- pheric air, and exhale carbonic acid gas, the latter appropriate carbon and exhale oxygen, it was not until Dumas and Bousin- gault called particularly the attention of naturalists to the sub- ject, that it was fully understood how direct the dependence is of the animal and vegetable kingdoms one upon the other, in that respect, or rather how the one consumes what the other produces, and vice versa, thus tending to keep the balance which either of them would singly disturb to a certain degree. The common agricultural practice of manuring exhibits from another side the dependence of one kingdom upon the other: the undigested par- ticles of the food of animals return to the ground, to fertilize it for fresh production. Again, the whole animal kingdom is either directly or indirectly dependent upon the vegetable kingdom for its sustenance, as the herbivorous animals afford the needful food for the carnivorous tribes. We are too far from the time when it could be supposed that worms originated in the decay of fruits and other vegetable substances, to need here repetition of what is known respecting the reproduction of these animals. Ncr can it be necessary to show how preposterous the assumption would be that physical agents produced plants first, in order that from these, animals might spring forth. Who could have taught the physical agents to make the whole animal world dependent upon the vegetable kingdom ? 116 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ On the contrary, such general facts as those above alluded to show, more directly than any amount of special disconnected facts could do, the establishment of a well-regulated order of things, considered in advance; for they exhibit well-balanced conditions of existence, prepared long beforehand, such as only an intelli- gent being could ordain. Section XXIX of essays on « Classification, » complete. ii7 AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT (1799-1888) |mos Bronson Alcott, one of the founders of the celebrated <( Concord School of Philosophy, was the son of a Connecti- cut farmer of limited means. He was born in 1799, and a part of his extensive though irregular educational training was a journey through Virginia made as a peddler. Returning to New England, he taught school in Boston, and afterwards settled at Con- cord to engage in the philosophical studies which did so much to make that village famous. In 1842 he visited England, bringing back with him on his return Charles Lane and H. G. Wright, with whom he founded an unsuccessful ideal community near Harvard, Massachusetts. After its failure, he delivered lectures and held tt con- versations B on a range of subjects <( extending from divinity to cookery." Among his published works are (< Concord Days," <( Orphic Sayings, " and (< Table-Talk. * The essays of "Concord Days," if they show sometimes those intellectual peculiarities he took no pains to conceal, show also that he had thought as deeply on many things as the greatest thinkers of his day, and that his thought was often not mere literary reflection, but the compulsory con- clusions of his own deep experience. He died in 1888. One of his most attractive (C hobbies," his love of children and his belief in their nearness to God, seems to be related in equal measure to the theories of Froebel and to the Scriptural suggestion that the mind of childhood must be retained or regained by all who wish to take hold on truth. THE AGE OF IRON AND BRONZE Ours can hardly claim to be the Golden Age, but of Bronze and Iron rather. If ideas are in the ascendant, still mind is fettered by mechanism. We scale the heavens to grade the spaces. Messrs. Capital & Co. transact our business for us the globe over. Was it in the Empire News that I read the company's advertisement for supplying mankind with gas at a penny per diem annually ? And then, proceeding to say, (< that considering the old-time monopoly in the heavenly luminary, the Il8 AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT corporation has constructed at fabulous cost their Brazen Cope to shut down upon the horizon at daybreak punctually, and so graduate to each customer's tube his just allowance, else dark- ness for delinquents the year round. w Certainly a splendid conception for distributing sunbeams by the Globe Corporation, if the solar partner consent to the specu- lation. Had Hesiod the enterprise in mind when he sung, — (< Seek virtue first, and after virtue, coin M ? Or Saint Paul, when writing concerning labor and capital : <( For I would not, w he says, <( that other men should be eased and you burdened, but by an equality that now at the time your abun- dance may be a supply for their want, that their abundance may also be a supply for your want, that there may be an equality, as it is written, He that had gathered much, had nothing over, and he that had gathered little, had no lack. If any man will not work, neither shall he eat." Any attempt to simplify and supply one's wants by abstinence and self-help is in the most hopeful direction, and serviceable to the individual whether his experiment succeed or not, the prac- tice of most, from the beginning, having been to multiply rather than diminish one's natural wants, and thus to become poor at the cost of becoming rich. <( Who has the fewest wants, M said Socrates, (< is most like God. w <( Who wishes, wants, and whoso wants is poor. B Our (< Fruitlands w was an adventure undertaken in good faith for planting a Family Order here in New England, in hopes of enjoying a pastoral life with a few devoted men and women, smitten with sentiments of the old heroism and love of holiness and of humanity. But none of us were prepared to actualize practically the ideal life of which we dreamed. So we fell apart, some returning to the established ways, some soured by the trial, others postponing the fulfillment of his dream to a more propi- tious future. I certainly esteem it an inestimable privilege to have been bred to outdoor labors, the use of tools, and to find myself the owner of a garden, with the advantage of laboring sometimes besides my faithful Irishman, and comparing views of men and things with him. I think myself the greater gainer of the AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT 119 two by this intercourse. Unbiased by books, and looking at things as they stand related to his senses and simple needs, I learn naturally what otherwise I should not have known so well, if at all. The sympathy and sincerity are the best part of it. One sees the more clearly his social relations and duties; sees the need of beneficent reforms in the economics of labor and capital by which the working classes shall have their just claims allowed, the products of hand and brain to be more equi- tably distributed, a finer sympathy and wiser humanity prevail in the disposition of affairs. No true man can be indifferent to that great productive multitude, without whose industry capital- ists would have nothing in which to invest; the callings and the professions lack bread and occupation alike. Heads and hands best co-operate in this interplay of services. Every gift, besides enriching its owner, should enrich the whole community; oppor- tunities be opened for the free exercise of all; the golden rule stand for something beside an idle text. Every one is entitled to a competence, provided he employ his gifts for the common good. It seems but right that the gifted should return to the common treasury in the ratio of their endowments; be taxed at a higher rate than those to whom like advantages have been de- nied. Indeed, it is questionable whether the man who is poor by no fault of his should be taxed at all; give him citizenship rather as an inborn right, as a man, not as a mere producer. Men are loyal from other considerations than self-interest. One would not check the spirit of accumulation, but the monopoly of the gift for the sole benefit of the oppressor. A competence, includ- ing every comfort, and even harmless luxuries, is what all men need, all desire, all might have, were there a fair distribution of the avails of labor, opportunities for labor of head or hand for all, — the right to be educated and virtuous included, as the most important. The poor man cannot compete, practically, success- fully, with the rich man, the laborer with the capitalist, the igno- rant with the instructed, — all are placed at unequal odds, the victims of circumstances which they did not create, and which those who do may use to their injury if they choose. The la- borer is broken on the wheel his necessities compel him to drive, feeling the while the wrong done him by those whom he has enriched by his toil. No tradition assigns a beginning to justice, but only to injus- tice. Before the Silver, the Brazen, the Iron, comes the Golden 120 AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT Age, when virtue is current, and man at his highest value. It is when man is degraded that virtue and justice are dishonored, and labor deemed disreputable. Poverty may be the philosopher's ornament. Too rich to need, and too self-respecting to receive benefits, save upon terms which render the receiver the nobler giver, he revenges upon fortune by possessing a kingdom superior to mischance and in- cumbrance. <( The gold alone but gold can buy, Wisdom's the sterling currency. w Complete. From « Concord Days.» Copyright Roberts Brothers 1888. HAWTHORNE Hawthorne was of the darker temperament and tendencies. His sensitiveness and sadness were native, and he culti- vated them apparently alike by solitude and the pursuits and studies in which he indulged, till he became almost fated to know gayer hours only by stealth. By disposition friendly, he seemed the victim of his temperament, as if he sought distance, if not his pen, to put himself in communication, and possible sympathy with others, — with his nearest friends, even. His re- serve and imprisonment were more distant and close, while the desire for conversation was livelier than any one I have known. There was something of strangeness even in his cherished in- timacies, as if he set himself afar from all and from himself with the rest; the most diffident of men, as coy as a maiden, he could, only be won by some cunning artifice, — his reserve was so habitual, his isolation so entire, the solitude so vast. How distant people were from him, the world they lived in, how he came to know so much about them, by what stratagem he got into his own house or left it, was a marvel. Fancy fixed, he was not to be jostled from himself for a moment, his mood was so per- sistent. There he was in the twilight, there he stayed. Was he some damsel imprisoned in that manly form pleading always for release, sighing for the freedom and companionships denied her ? Or was he some Assyrian ill at ease afar from the olives and the East ? Had he strayed over with William the Conqueror, and, true to his Norman nature, was the baron still in republican AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT 121 America, secure in his castle, secure in his tower, whence he could defy all invasion of curious eyes? What neighbor of his ever caught him on the highway, or ventured to approach his threshold ? (< His bolted Castle gates, what man should ope, Unless the Lord did will To prove his skill, And tempt the fates hid in his horoscope ? w Yet if by chance admitted, welcome in a voice that a woman might own for its hesitancy and tenderness; his eyes telling the rest: — (< For such the noble language of his eye, That when of words his lips were destitute, Kind eyebeams spake while yet his tongue was mute." Your intrusion was worth the courage it cost; it emboldened to future assaults to carry this fort of bashfulness. During all the time he lived near me, our estates being separated only by a gate and shaded avenue, I seldom caught sight of him; and when I did it was but to lose it the moment he suspected he was visi- ble; oftenest seen on his hilltop screened behind the shrubbery and disappearing like a hare into the bush when surprised. I remember of his being in my house but twice, and then he was so ill at ease that he found excuse for leaving politely forthwith, — (( the stove was so hot, w (( the clock ticked so loud." Yet he once complained to me of his wish to meet oftener, and dwelt on the delights of fellowship, regretting he had so little. I think he seldom dined from home; nor did he often entertain any one, — once, an Englishman, when I was also his guest; but he preserved his shrinking taciturnity, and left to us the conver- sation. Another time I dined with a Southern sruest at his table. The conversation turning on the war after dinner, he hid him- self in the corner, as if a distant spectator, and fearing there was danger even there. It was due to his guest to hear the human side of the question of slavery, since she had heard only the best the South had to plead in its favor. I never deemed Hawthorne an advocate of Southern ideas and institutions. He professed democracy, not in the party sense, but in the large sense of equality. Perhaps he loved England too well to be quite just to his native land, — was more the Old English- man than the New. He seemed to regret the transplanting, as if 122 AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT reluctant to fix his roots in our soil. His book on England, en- titled <( Our Old Home," intimates his filial affection for that and its institutions. If his themes were American, his treatment of them was foreign, rather. He stood apart as having no stake in home affairs. While calling himself a democrat, he sympathized apparently with the absolutism of the old countries. He had not full faith in the people; perhaps feared republicanism because it had. Of our literary men, he least sympathized with the North, and was tremulously disturbed, I remember, at the time of the New York mob. It is doubtful if he ever attended a political meeting or voted on any occasion throughout the long struggle with slavery. He stood aloof, hesitating to take a responsible part, true to his convictions, doubtless, strictly honest, if not patriotic. He strove by disposition to be sunny and genial, traits not native to him. Constitutionally shy, recluse, melancholy, only by shafts of wit and flow of humor could he deliver himself. There was a soft sadness in his smile, a reserve in his glance, telling how isolate he was. Was he ever one of his company while in it ? There was an aloofness, a besides, that refused to affiliate himself with himself, even. His readers must feel this, while unable to account for it, perhaps, or express it adequately. A believer in transmitted traits needs but read his pedigree to find the genesis of what characterized him distinctly, and made him and his writings their inevitable sequel. Everywhere you will find persons of his type and complexion similar in cast of char- acter and opinions. His associates mostly confirm the observa- tion. Complete. Copyright Roberts Brothers 1888. SLEEP AND DREAMS (< When sleep hath closed our eyes the mind sees well, For Fate by daylight is invisible. w Things admirable for the admirable hours. The morning for thought, the afternoon for recreation, the evening for com- pany, the night for rest. Having drunk of immortality all night, the genius enters eagerly upon the day's task, impatient of any impertinences jogging the full glass. The best when we are at our best; and who so buoyant as to be always rider of the wave? Sleep, and see; wake, and report the nocturnal spec- AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT 1 23 tacle. Sleep, like travel, enriches, refreshes, by varying the day's perspective, showing us the night side of the globe we traverse day by day. We make transits too swift for our wakeful senses to follow; pass from solar to lunar consciousness in a twinkling, lapse from forehead and face to occupy our lower parts, and re- cover, as far as permitted, the keys of genesis and of the fore- worlds. "All truth, }> says Porphyry, <( is latent; but this the soul sometimes beholds when she is a little liberated by sleep from the employments of the body. And sometimes she extends her sight, but never perfectly reaches the objects of her vision. Hence, when she beholds, she does not see it with a free and direct light, but through an intervening veil, which the folds of darkening nature draw over her eye. This veil, when in sleep it admits the light to extend as far as truth, is said to be of horn, whose nature is such, from its tenuity, that it is pervious to the light. But when it dulls the sight and repels its vision of truth, it is said to be of ivory, which is a body so naturally dense, that, however thin it may be scraped, it cannot be penetrated by the visual rays. w Homer says: — <( Our dreams descend from Jove, w that is, from the seat of intellect, and declare their import when our will sleeps. Then are they of weighty and reliable import, yet require the like suppression of our will to make plain their significance. Only so is the oracle made reliable. The good alone dream divinely. Our dreams are characteristic of our waking thoughts and states; we are never out of character; never quite another, even when fancy seeks to* metamorphose us entirely. The Person is One in all the manifold phases of the Many through which we transmigrate, and find ourself perpetually, because we cannot lose ourself personally, in the mazes of the many. 'Tis the one soul in manifold shapes, ever the old friend of the mir- ror in other faces, old and new, yet one in endless revolution and metamorphosis, suggesting a common relationship of forms at their base, with divergent types as these range wider and farther from their central archetype, including all concrete forms in nature, each returning into other, and departing therefrom in endless revolution. <( I catch myself philosophizing most eloquently, w wrote Thoreau, "when first returning to consciousness in the night or morning. 124 AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT I make the truest observations and distinctions then when the will is yet wholly asleep, and mind works like a machine without friction. I was conscious of having in my sleep transcended the limits of the individual, and made observations and carried on conversations which in my waking hours I can neither recall nor appreciate. As if, in sleep, our individual fell into the infinite mind, and at the moment of awakening we found ourselves on the confines of the latter. On awakening, we resume our enter- prise, take up our bodies, and become limited minds again. We meet and converse with those bodies which we have previously animated. There is a moment in the dawn when the darkness of the night is dissipated, and before the exhalations of the day begin to rise, when we see all things more truly than at any other time. The light is more trustworthy, since our senses are pure and the atmosphere is less gross. By afternoon, all objects are seen in mirage.* All men are spiritualists in finer or coarser manners, as tem- perament and teaching dictate and determine, — the spiritual world revealing itself accordingly. Speculation has in all ages delighted itself in this preternatural realm from whence have risen the ghosts of realities too unsubstantial and fugitive for ordinary senses to apprehend. Whatever the facts, they receive interpre- tation according to the spirit and intelligence of the believer. The past is full of such prodigies and phenomena, for whose so- lution all learning, sacred and profane, is revived in its turn. It appears that like opinions have their rounds to run, like theories with their disciples, reappearing in all great crises of thought, and reaching a fuller solution at each succeeding period. A faith, were such possible, destitute of an element of preternat- uralism, or of mysticism, pure or mixed, could not gain general acceptance. Some hold on the invisible connects the known with unknown, yet leaving the cupola to be divined. We define it on our lips when we pronounce the word Person, and so approach, as near as we may, to the <( I Am w of things. (< Unseen our spirits move, are svich ; So eager they to clasp, they feel, they touch ; While yet our bodies linger, cannot speed; The distance that divides, confines their need." Complete. Copyright by Roberts Brothers 188S. The foregoing essays of Alcott are from « Concord Days,» by permission of Little, Brown & Co., suc- cessors to Roberts Brothers, Boston. i 2 5 WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER (1822-) Ihe Introduction to the <( Poetry of the East," published by Wil- liam Rounseville Alger in 1856, made it possible for Ameri- can readers to suspect in advance of the general circulation of Fitzgerald's translation of Omar Khayyam something of the ex- traordinary quality of Persian poetry. Fitzgerald's masterpiece, first published in 1859, did not achieve its greatest popularity until nearly twenty years later. As a poet, Fitzgerald is much Alger's superior, but those who think, as many have done, that they are more indebted to the modern Caucasian than to the Persian spirit for the distinctive quality of Fitzgerald's work will find material in Alger's versions of Persian lyric poetry for correcting their opinions. It shows insight which is rarely found in like measure in classical poets later than Homer, and, in spite of its extravagances, it is likely to do much for the poetry of the twentieth century, especially in redeeming it from the matter-of-fact quality of intellect incident to an age of criticism. Alger was born at Freetown, Massachusetts, December 30th, 1822. Besides his works on Oriental Poetry, he published (( The Friendships of Women, w etc. He was by profession a Unitarian clergyman. THE LYRIC POETRY OF PERSIA As we enter the realm of Persian lyric poetry, we approach the most intoxicating- cordials and the daintiest viands any- where furnished at the world banquet of literature. The eye is inebriate at the sight of ruby vases rilled with honey, and crystal goblets brimmed with thick-purpled wine, and golden baskets full of sliced pomegranates. The flavor of nectarines, tamarinds, and figs is on the tongue. If we lean from the bal- cony for relief, a breeze comes wafted over acres of roses, and the air is full of the odor of cloves and precious gums, sandal- wood and cedar, frankincense forests, and cinnamon groves. A Persian poet of rich genius, who wrote but little, being asked why he did not produce more, replied : <( I intended, as soon as I should reach the rose trees, to fill my lap and bring presents for 126 WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER my companions; but when I arrived there the fragrance of the roses so intoxicated me that the skirt of my robe slipped from my hands." The true Persian poet, as Mirza Schaffy declares, in his songs burns sun, moon, and stars as sacrifice on the altar of beauty. Every kiss the maidens plant on his lips springs up as a song in his mouth. One describes a battlefield looking as if the earth were covered over with crimson tulips. The evening star is a moth, and the moon a lamp. A devotee in a dream heard the cherubs in heaven softly singing the poetry of Saadi, and saying, (< This couplet of Saadi is worth the hymns of angel worship for a whole year." Upon awakening he went to Saadi and found him reverently reciting the following lines: — (< To pious minds each verdant leaf displays A volume teeming with the Almighty's praise. w The Persian seems born with a lyre in his hand and a song on his tongue. It is related of the celebrated poet, Abderrhaman, son of Hissan, that when an infant, being stung by a wasp, he ran to his father, crying in spontaneous verse: — (< Father, I have been stung by an insect I know not ; but his breast With white and yellow spots is covered, like the border of my vest." The tones of the Persian harp are extremely tender and pa- thetic. They seem to sigh, Wherever sad Memory walks in the halls of the past, her step wakes the echoes of long-lost joys. They frequently accord with a strain like this : — (< I saw some handfuls of the rose in bloom, With bands of grass suspended from a dome. I said, ( What means this worthless grass, that it Should in the rose's fairy circle sit?* (< Then wept the grass, and said : { Be still ! and know The kind their old associates ne'er forego. Mine is no beauty, hue, or fragrance, true ! But in the garden of my Lord I grew ! > w Among the epic poets of Persia, Firdousi is chief; among the romantic poets, Nisami; among the moral-didactic, Saadi; among the purely lyric, Hafiz; among the religious, Ferideddin Attar. In their respective provinces these indisputably and unapproached bear the palm. WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER I 27 There are three objects as famous in Persian poetry as the Holy Grail in the legends of King- Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. One is Jemschid's cup. This was a magic goblet with seven circling lines dividing it into seven compart- ments, corresponding to the seven worlds. Filling it with wine, Jemschid had only to look in it and behold all the events of the creation, past, present, and future : — (< It is that goblet round whose wondrous rim The enrapturing secrets of creation swim.** Firdousi has described Jemschid upon a certain occasion con- sulting this cup: — (( The vessel in his hand revolving shook, And earth's whole surface glimmered on his look: Nor less the secrets of the starry sphere, The what, and when, and how, depicted clear: From orbs celestial to the blade of grass, All nature floated in the magic glass. }> Another is Solomon's signet ring. Such were the incredible virtues of this little talisman, that the touch of it exorcised all evil spirits, commanded the instant presence and services of the Genii, laid every secret bare, and gave its possessor almost un- limited powers of knowledge, dominion, and performance. The third is Iskander's mirror. By looking on this the future was revealed, unknown climes brought to view, and whatever its owner wished was made visible. By means of this glass, Alex- ander — for the Oriental "Iskander" is no other — accomplished the expedition to Paradise, so celebrated in the mythic annals of the East. There is scarcely an end to the allusions and anec- dotes referring to these three wondrous objects. . . . Furthermore, there are five standard allegories of hapless love which the poets of Persia have wrought out in innumerable forms of passionate imagery and beauteous versification. The constant Nightingale loves the Rose, and when she perishes, his laments pain the evening air and fill grove and garden with heart- breaking melodies: — (< The bulbul wanders to and fro ; His wing is weak, his note is low; In vain he wakes his song, Since she he wooed so long 128 WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER No more sheds perfume on the air around : Her hundred leaves lie scattered on the ground; Or if one solitary bud remain, The bloom is past, and only left the stain. Where once amidst the blossoms was his nest, Thorns raise their daggers at his bleeding breast. B The Lily loves the Sun, and opens the dazzling white of her bosom to his greeting smile as he rises; and when he sets, covers her face and droops her head, forlorn, all night. The Lotus loves the Moon; and soon as his silver light gilds the waters she lifts her snowy neck above the tide and sheds the per- fume of her amorous breath over the waves, till shaming day ends her dalliance. The Ball loves the Bat, and still solicitingly returns, flying to meet him, however oft and cruelly repulsed and spurned. The Moth and the Taper are two fond lovers separated by the fierce flame. He draws her with resistless in- vitation: she flies with reckless resolve; the merciless flame de- vours her, and melts him away. From this rapid glance at the wealth of the Iranian bards, let us now turn, for a moment, to the Sufis. The circulating life- sap of Sufism is piety, its efflorescence is poetry, which it yields in spontaneous abundance of brilliant bloom. The Sufis are a sect, of comparatively modern origin, which sprouted from the trunk of Mohammedanism, where the mysticism of India was grafted into it, and was nourished in the passionate sluggishness of Eastern reverie by the soothing dreams and fanatic fires of that wondrous race and clime. They flourished chiefly in Persia, but rightfully claimed as virtual members of their sect the most distinguished religionists, philosophers, and poets of the whole Orient for thousands of years; because all these agreed with them in the fundamental principles of their system of thought, rules of life, and aims of aspiration. A detailed account of the Sufis may be found in Sir John Malcolm's <( History of Persia, B and a good sketch of their dogmas is presented in Tholuck's <( Sufism B ; but the best exposition of their experience and liter- ary expression is afforded by Tholuck's (< Anthology from the Oriental Mystics. B The Sufis are a sect of meditative devotees, whose absorption in spiritual contemplations and hallowed rap- tures is unparalleled, whose piety penetrates to a depth where the mind gropingly staggers among the bottomless roots of be- ing, in mazes of wonder and delight, and reaches to a height WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER 129 where the soul loses itself among the roofless immensities of glory in a bedazzled and boundless ecstasy. As a specimen, read The Successful Search (< I was ere a name had been named upon earth, — Ere one trace yet existed of aught that has birth, — When the locks of the Loved One streamed forth for a sign, And being was none save the Presence Divine ! Ere the veil of the flesh for Messiah was wrought, To the Godhead I bowed in prostration of thought! I measured intently, I pondered with heed, (But ah, fruitless my labor!) the Cross and its Creed. To the Pagod I rushed, and the Magian's shrine, But my eye caught no glimpse of a glory divine! The reins of research to the Caaba I bent, Whither hopefully thronging the old and young went, Candahar and Herat searched I wistfully through, Nor above nor beneath came the Loved One to view! I toiled to the summit, wild, pathless, and lone, Of the globe-girding Kaf, but the Phoenix had flown. The seventh earth I traversed, the seventh heaven explored, But in neither discerned I the Court of the Lord! I questioned the Pen and the Tablet of Fate, But they whispered not where He pavilions his state. My vision I strained, but my God-scanning eye No trace that to Godhead belongs could descry. But when I my glance turned within my own breast, Lo! the vainly sought Loved One, the Godhead confessed! In the whirl of its transport my spirit was tossed Till each atom of separate being I lost: And the bright sun of Tauriz a madder than me, Or a wilder, hath never yet seen, nor shall see." Their aim is a union with God so intimate that it becomes identity, wherein thought is an involuntary intuitive grasp and fruition of universal truth; and wherein feeling is a dissolving and infinite delirium filled with the perfect calmness of unfathom- able bliss. For the gradual training of the soul unto the win- ning of this incomparable and last attainment, they have devised a system of means whose simplicity and complication, adapted completeness, — regular stages of initiation and gradations of ex- perience, spiritual frictions and magnetisms, stimulants for some 1—9 130 WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER faculties, soporifics for others, diversified disciplines and educa- tions for all, — are astonishingly fitted to lead the disciple regu- larly on to the marvelous result they desire. And it could scarcely fail of effect, if faithfully tried, even in the colder airs and on the more phlegmatic natures of the West. How finely drawn the subtle experience and beautiful thought in the follow- ing anecdote of Rabia, the celebrated Mohammedan saint! We give it as told after Tholuck by James Freeman Clarke. The Three Stages of Piety (< Rabia, sick upon her bed, By two saints was visited, Holy Malik, Hassan wise, — Men of mark in Moslem eyes. Hassan says, ( Whose prayer is pure Will God's chastisements endure. } Malik from a deeper sense Uttered his experience: ( He who loves his Master's choice Will in chastisement rejoice. > Rabia saw some selfish will In their maxims lingering still, And replied, l O men of grace ! He who sees his Master's face Will not in his prayer recall That he is chastised at all. ))> The passage through the classified degrees of attainment in the mystic life they call (< the traveling by steps up to heaven. 1 * The Sufi poets are innumerable, but their universally acknowl- edged head and master is the celebrated Mewlana Dschelaleddin Rumi, the greatest mystic poet of the whole Orient, the oracle of the devotees, the nightingale of the contemplative life, the lawgiver in piety, the founder of the principal order of Der- vishes, and author of the (( Mesnavi. B The <( Mesnavi * is a vast and famous double-rhymed ascetic poem, an inexhaustible coffer of Sufi lore and gems. From the banks of the Ganges to the Bosporus it is the handbook of all Sufis, the law book and ritual of all the mystics. From this work, says Von Hammer, this volcanic eruption of inspiration breaks forth the inmost peculiar- ity of Oriental mysticism, a solitary self- direction towards the loftiest goal of perfection over the contemplative way of Divine WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER 131 Love. On the wings of the highest religious inspiration, which rises far beyond all outer forms of positive religion, adoring the Eternal Essence, in its completest abstraction from everything earthly, as the purest fountain of eternal light, soars Dschelaled- din, above suns and moons, above time and space, above creation and fate, beyond the piimeval decrees of destiny, beyond the sentence of the last judgment, forth into infinitude, where he melts into unity with the Endless Being as endless worshiper, and into the Boundless Love as boundless lover, ever forgetful of himself, having the Absolute in view; and, instead of closing his poems, like other great poets, with his own name, he always makes the name of his mystic master the keystone to the dia- mond arch of his fire ghazels. The Sufi turns inward for his aims and joys, with a scornful superiority to all visible rituals. He says that one hour of secret meditation and silent love is of more avail than seventy thou- sand years of outward worship. When, with great toils and suf- ferings, Rabia had effected the pilgrimage to Mecca, and saw the people praying around the Caaba, she beat her breast and cried aloud : — (< O heart ! weak follower of the weak, That thou shouldst traverse land and sea, In this far place that God to seek Who long ago had come to thee ! B When a knowledge of the Supreme has been attained, there is no need of ceremonies; when a soft, refreshing breeze blows from the south, there is no need of a fan. As an illustration of this phase may be perused the following fine poem trans- lated by Professor Falconer. It may be fitly entitled: — The Religion of the Heart <( Beats there a heart within that breast of thine ? Then compass reverently its sacred shrine: For the true spiritual Caaba is the heart, And no proud pile of perishable art. When God ordained the pilgrim rite, that sign Was meant to lead thy thought to things divine. A thousand times he treads that round in vain Who e'en one human heart would idly pain. Leave wealth behind; bring God thy heart, — best light To guide thy wavering steps through life's dark night. 132 WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER God spurns the riches of a thousand coffers, And says, ( My chosen is he his heart who offers. Nor gold nor silver seek I, but above All gifts the heart, and buy it with my love ; Yea, one sad, contrite heart, which men despise, More than my throne and fixed decree I prize. * Then think not lowly of thy heart, though lowly, For Holy is it, and there dwells the Holy. God's presence chamber is the human breast; Ah, happy he whose heart holds such a guest ! w Every consistent Sufi is an optimist, one who denies the real- ity of evil. In his poems he mingles the fighting limits of light and darkness, dissolves the rocky boundaries of right and wrong, and buries all clamorous distinctions beneath the level sea of pantheistic unity. All drops, however driven forth, scalded in deserts or frozen on mountains, belong to the ocean, and, by omnipotent attractions, will finally find their way home, to re- pose and flow with the tidal uniformity of the all-embracing deep. Vice and virtue, purity and corruption, birth and decay, cruelty and tenderness, — all antagonistic elements and processes are equally the manifestations and workings of God. From him all spirits proceeded, and to him they are ever returning; or in the temple, or on the gibbet, groaning in sinks of degraded sensuality and want, or exulting in palaces of refinement and splendor, they are equally climbing by irresistible affinities and propulsions towards their native seat in Deity. <( Yet spake yon purple mountain, Yet said yon ancient wood, That night or day, that love or crime, Leads all souls to the good. w t> v This optimist denial of the reality of evil is frequently brought out by the Sufi, with a sudden emphasis, an unflinching thorough- ness, in forms and guises of mystic reason, wondrous beauty, and bewildering subtlety, which must astound a Christian moralist. The Sufi's brain is a magazine of transcendent mysteries and prodigious conceits, his faith an ocean of dusky bliss, his illu- minated tenderness a beacon of the Infinite Light. An important trait of the Sufi belief is contained in the idea, zealously held by them all, and suffusing most of their poetry, that death is ecstasy. WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER 133 * A lover on his deathbed lay, and o'er his face the while, Though anguish racked his wasted frame, there swept a fitful smile : A flush his sunken cheek o'erspread, and to his faded eye Came light that less spoke earthly bliss than heaven-breathed ec- stasy. And one that weeping o'er him bent, and watched the ebbing breath, Marveled what thought gave mastery o'er that dread hour of death. ( Ah! when the Fair, adored through life, lifts up at length, ' he cried, ( The veil that sought from mortal eye immortal charms to hide, 'Tis thus true lovers, fevered long with that sweet mystic fire, Exulting meet the Loved One's gaze, and in that glance expire ! > }> Death plunges the heated, weary, thirsting soul into a flood of delicious relief and repose, the unalloyed and ceaseless fruition of a divine delight. The past was one sweet ocean of Divinity; the future is another; the present interposes, a blistering and dreary strand, between. To their hushed ear * Some Seraph whispers from the verge of space : ( Make not these hollow shores thy resting place ; Born to a portion in thy Maker's bliss, Why linger idly in a waste like this? >w From their heavenly yearning breaks the exclamation : <( Oh, the bliss of that day when I shall depart from this desolate mansion, and my soul shall find rest, and I shall follow the traces of my Beloved ! * From their exhilarating anticipation of pleasure and glory yet untasted and unglimpsed behind the veil, rises the re- joiceful cry. — <( Blest time that frees me from the bonds of clay, To track the Lost One through his airy course: Like motes exulting in their parent ray, My kindling spirit rushes to its Source!* There are thoughts and sentiments in these poems which ought, however suggested, and wherever recognized, to smite us with subduing wonder, and to fill us with sympathetic longing; which ought magnetically to strike with opening life and desire that side of our souls which looks upon infinity and eternity, and wherethrough, in favored hours, we thrill to the visiting influences 134 WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER of boundless Mystery and nameless Love, with a rapture of calm- ness, a vision of heaven, a perfect communion of the Father con- fessing with electric shudders of awe and joy the motions of the Spirit, as God's hand wanders solemnly among the chords of the heart. In conclusion, I will specify the principal traits which belong in a distinctive degree to Oriental poetry. The first one that at- tracts notice is an airy, winged, exultant liberty of spirit, an un- impeded largeness and ease of movement, and intense enthusiasm. This gives birth to extravagance. Compare in this respect the (< Arabian Nights' Entertainments * with the (< Waverley Novels. w Its lower form is a revelling or deliberate fancy, abounding in law- less conceits, sometimes puerile, sometimes amazing. <( The bird of understanding hath fled from the nest of my brain. B (< The sun in the zenith is a golden falcon hovering over his azure nest." The higher form of this trait is the spontaneous trans- port of an inspired and free imagination, producing the most stupendous conceptions, infusing a divine soul through all dead substance, melting everything into its own molds, filling a new universe with new marvels of beauty and delight. From the « Poetry of the East.» »35 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON (1792-1867) |t is said by one of the biographers of Sir Archibald Alison that between 1842, when his "History of Europe M was com- pleted, and 1867, five hundred and forty-seven thousand vol- umes of the work had been sold in versions representing the principal languages of Europe as well as Arabic and Hindustani. If his essays, of which three volumes were collected in 1859, do not fully explain this popularity of his history, they show that with his strong con- servative prejudices he had an intellect which no prejudice could confine. Though himself an opponent of Democracy for England, his prophecy of its results in America, published in 1835 as a review of De Tocqueville, can be read in the last year of the nineteenth century with admiration for the clearness of its foresight. Alison was willing to concede limitless possibilities to (< democratic vigor duly coerced by patrician power, B and in his own edition of the essay he italicized the qualifying clause. He was born December 29th, 1792, from a distinguished Scottish family, his father, Rev. Archibald Alison, author of " The Nature and Principles of Taste, w being an author of wide reputation in his own generation. Educated at Edinburgh University, the younger Alison showed there the taste for the great Greek poets which ap- pears in his essay on (< Homer, Dante, and Michael Angelo. w He was admitted to the bar, and in 1822 became one of the four "advocates depute }> for Scotland. His essays on the <( Criminal Law of Scotland B won him the admiration and patronage of Sir Robert Peel. After the appearance of his history Lord Derby made him a baronet. He died May 23d, 1867. Besides his essays and his "History of Europe, B he published "The Principles of Population, B in opposition to Malthus, and other works on historical and political subjects. THE FUTURE OF AMERICA If we examine the history of the world with attention, we shall find that amidst great occasional variations produced by sec- ondary and inferior causes, two great powers have been at work from the earliest times; and, like the antagonist expansive 136 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON and compressing force in physical nature, have, by their mutual and counteracting influence, produced the greatest revolutions and settlements in human affairs. These opposing forces are north- ern conquest and civilized democracy. Their agency appears clear and forcible at the present times, and the spheres of their action are different; but mighty ultimate results are to attend their irresistible operation in the theatres destined by nature for their respective operation. We, who have, for eighteen years, so invariably and resolutely opposed the advances of democracy, and that equally when it raised its voice aloft on the seat of government, as when it lurked under the specious guise of free trade or liberality, will not be accused of being blinded in favor of its effects. We claim, therefore, full credit for sincerity, and deem some weight due to our opinion, when we assert that it is the great moving power in human affairs, — the source of the greatest efforts of human genius, — and, when duly restrained from running into excess, the grand instrument of human advancement. It is not from ignorance of, or insensibility to, its prodigious effects, that we have proved ourselves so resolute in resisting its undue ex- pansion: it is, on the contrary, from a full appreciation of them, from a thorough knowledge of the vast results, whether for good or evil, which it invariably produces. It is the nature of the democratic passion to produce an inex- tinguishable degree of vigor and activity among the middling classes of society — to develop an unknown energy among their widespread ranks — to fill their bosoms with insatiable and often visionary projects of advancement and amelioration, and inspire them with an ardent desire to raise themselves individually and collectively in the world. Thence the astonishing results — some- times for good, sometimes for evil — which it produces. Its grand characteristic is energy, and energy not rousing the exertions merely of a portion of society, but awakening the dormant strength of millions; not producing merely the chivalrous valor of the high-bred cavalier, but drawing forth (< the might that slumbers in a peasant's arm." The greatest achievements of genius, the noblest efforts of heroism, that have illustrated the history of the species, have arisen from the efforts of this princi- ple. Thence the fight of Marathon and the glories of Salamis — the genius of Greece and the conquests of Rome — the heroism of Sempach and the devotion of Haarlem — the paintings of SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON 137 Raphael and the poetry of Tasso — the energy which covered with a velvet carpet the slopes of the Alps, and the industry which bridled the stormy seas of the German Ocean — the burn- ing passions which carried the French legions to Cadiz and the Kremlin, and the sustained fortitude which gave to Britain the dominion of the waves. Thence, too, in its wider and unre- strained excesses, the greatest crimes which have disfigured the dark annals of human wickedness — the massacres of Athens and the banishments of Florence — the carnage of Marius and the proscriptions of the Triumvirate — the murders of Cromwell and the bloodshed of Robespierre. As the democratic passion is thus a principle of such vital and searching energy, so it is from it, when acting under due regulation and control, that the greatest and most durable ad- vances in social existence have sprung. Why are the shores of the Mediterranean the scene to which the pilgrim from every quarter of the globe journeys to visit at once the cradles of civ- ilization, the birthplace of arts, of arms, of philosophy, of poetry, and the scenes of their highest and most glorious achievements ? Because freedom spread along its smiling shores; because the ruins of Athens and Sparta, of Rome and Carthage, of Tyre and Syracuse, lie on its margin; because civilization, advancing with the white sails which glittered on its blue expanse, pierced, as if impelled by central heat, through the dark and barbarous regions of the Celtic race who peopled its shores. What gave Rome the empire of the world and brought the venerable ensigns bearing the words, <( Senatus populusque Romanus* to the wall of Anton- inus and the foot of the Atlas, the waters of the Euphrates and the Atlantic Ocean? Democratic vigor! Democratic vigor, be it observed, duly coerced by patrician power; the insatiable ambition of successive consuls, guided by the wisdom of the senate; the unconquerable and inexhaustible bands which, for centuries, issued from the Roman Forum. What has spread the British dominions over the habitable globe, and converted the ocean into a peaceful lake for its internal carriage, and made the winds the instruments of its blessings to mankind, and spread its race in vast and inex- tinguishable multitudes through the new world ? Democratic ambition; democratic ambition, restrained and regulated at home by an adequate weight of aristocratic power; a government which, guided by the stability of the patrician, but invigorated by the activity of the plebeian race, steadily advanced in conquest, 138 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON renown, and moral ascendency, till its fleets overspread the sea, and it has become a matter of certainty, that half the globe must be peopled by its descendants. The continued operation of this undying vigor and energy is still more clearly evinced in the Anglo-American race, which originally sprung from the stern Puritans of Charles the First's age, which have developed all the peculiarities of the democratic character in unrestrained profusion amidst the boundless wastes which lie open to their enterprise. M. Tocqueville has described, with equal justice and eloquence, the extraordinary activity of these principles in the United States : — (< The inhabitants of the United States are never fettered by the axioms of their profession; they escape from all the prejudices of their present station; they are not more attached to one line of oper- ation than to another; they are not more prone to employ an old method than a new one ; they have no rooted habits, and they easily shake off the influence which the habits of other nations might exer- cise upon their minds, from a conviction that their country is unlike any other, and that its situation is without a precedent in the world. America is a land of wonders, in which everything is in constant motion, and every movement seems an improvement. The idea of novelty is there indissolubly connected with the idea of amelioration. No natural boundary seems to be set to the efforts of man; and what is not yet done is only what he has not yet attempted to do. M From a review of De Tocqueville. HOMER, DANTE, AND MICHAEL ANGELO Never did artist work with more persevering vigor than Michael Angelo. He himself said that he labored harder for fame than ever poor artist did for bread. Born of a noble family, the heir to considerable possessions, he took to the arts from his earliest years from enthusiastic passion and conscious power. Dur- ing a long life of ninety years, he prosecuted them with the ardent zeal of youth. He was consumed by the thirst for fame, the de- sire of great achievements, the invariable mark of heroic minds; and which, as it is altogether beyond the reach of the great bulk of mankind, so is the feeling of all others which to them is most incomprehensible. Nor was that noble enthusiasm without its reward. It was his extraordinary good fortune to be called to MICHAEL ANGELO AND POPE JULIUS II VIEWING THE APOLLO BEL VIDE RE. After the Painting by C. Becker. hie Apollo Belvidere was dug up near Antium at the close of the fifteenth century. Pope Julius II., who had purchased it when a cardinal, allowed Michael Angelo to place it in the Belvidere of the Vatican, where it stood until the French removed it in 1797. It was re- stored in 1815. The statue is supposed to be a copy from a Greek original now lost. Becker's painting shows the Pope and his Court which included Michael Angelo and Raphael inspecting the statue after it had been placed on its pedestal. SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON 139 form, at the same time, the <( Last Judgment n on the wall of the Sistine Chapel, the glorious dome of St. Peter's, and the group of "Notre Dame de PitieV* which now adorns the chapel of the Crucifix, under the roof of that august edifice. The <( Holy Fam- ily s in the Palazzo Pitti at Florence, and the <( Three Fates ° in the same collection, give an idea of his powers in oil painting; thus he carried to the highest perfection, at the same time, the rival arts of architecture, sculpture, fresco, and oil painting. He may truly be called the founder of Italian painting, as Homer was of the ancient epic, and Dante of the great style in modern poetry. None but a colossal mind could have done such things. Raphael took lessons from him in painting, and professed through life the most unbounded respect for his great preceptor. None have attempted to approach him in architecture; the cupola of St. Peter's stands alone in the world. But notwithstanding all this, Michael Angelo had some defects. He created the great style in painting, a style which has made modern Italy as immortal as the arms of the legions did the an- cient. But the very grandeur of his conceptions, the vigor of his drawing, his incomparable command of bone and muscle, his lofty expression and impassioned mind, made him neglect, and perhaps despise, the lesser details of his art. Ardent in the pursuit of expression, he often overlooked execution. When he painted the <( Last Judgment w or the (< Fall of the Titans }) in fresco, on the ceiling and walls of the Sistine Chapel, he was incomparable ; but that gigantic style was unsuitable for lesser pictures or rooms of ordinary proportions. By the study of his masterpieces, subse- quent painters have often been led astray; they have aimed at force of expression to the neglect of delicacy in execution. This defect is, in an especial manner, conspicuous in Sir Joshua Rey- nolds, who worshiped Michael Angelo with the most devoted fervor; and through him it has descended to Lawrence, and nearly the whole modern school of England. When we see Sir Joshua's noble glass window in Magdalen College, Oxford, we behold the work of a worthy pupil of Michael Angelo; we see the great style of painting in its proper place, and applied to its appropri- ate object: but when we compare his portraits, or imaginary pieces, in oil, with those of Titian, Velasquez, or Vandyke, the inferiority is manifest. It is not in the design, but the finishing; not in the conception, but the execution. The colors are fre- quently raw and harsh; the details or distant parts of the piece 140 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON ill-finished or neglected. The bold neglect of Michael Angelo is very apparent. Raphael, with less original genius than his im- mortal master, had more taste and much greater delicacy of pen- cil; his conceptions, less extensive and varied, are more perfect; his finishing is always exquisite. Unity of emotion was his great object in design ; equal delicacy of finishing in execution. Thence he has attained by universal consent the highest place in painting. (( Nothing, }) says Sir Joshua Reynolds, (( is denied to well- directed labor; nothing is to be attained without it. B (< Excellence in any department, w says Johnson, (< can now be attained only by the labor of a lifetime; it is not to be purchased at a lesser price. B These words should ever be present to the minds of all who aspire to rival the great of former days; who feel in their bosoms a spark of the spirit which led Homer, Dante, and Michael Angelo to immortality. In a luxurious age, comfort or station is deemed the chief good of life; in a commercial community, money becomes the universal object of ambition. Thence our acknowledged deficiency in the fine arts; thence our growing weakness in the higher branches of literature Talent looks for its reward too soon. Genius seeks an immediate recompense; long protracted exertions are never attempted; great things are not done because great efforts are not made. None will work now without the prospect of an immediate return. Very possibly it is so; but then let us not hope or wish for immortality. w Present time and future/* says Sir Joshua Reynolds, (< are rivals; he who solicits the one must expect to be discountenanced by the other. }y It is not that we want genius; what we want is the great and heroic spirit which will devote itself, by strenuous efforts, to great things, without seeking any reward but their accomplishment. Nor let it be said that great subjects for the painter's pencil, the poet's muse, are not to be found — that they are exhausted by former efforts, and nothing remains to us but imitation. Na- ture is inexhaustible; the events of men are unceasing, their variety is endless. Philosophers were mourning the monotony of time, historians were deploring the sameness of events, in the years preceding the French Revolution — on the eve of the Reign of Terror, the flames of Moscow, the retreat from Rus- sia. What was the strife around Troy to the battle of Leipsic ? The contests of Florence and Pisa to the Revolutionary War ? What ancient naval victory to that of Trafalgar ? Rely upon it, SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON 141 subjects for genius are not wanting; genius itself, steadily and per- severingly directed, is the thing required. But genius and energy alone are not sufficient; courage and disinterestedness are needed more than all. Courage to withstand the assaults of envy, to de- spise the ridicule of mediocrity — disinterestedness to trample un- der foot the seductions of ease, and disregard the attractions of opulence. A heroic mind is more wanted in the library or the studio than in the field. It is wealth and cowardice that ex- tinguish the light of genius, and dig the grave of literature as of nations. From an essay in Blackwood's for January, 1845. 142 GRANT ALLEN (1 848-1 899) [rant Allen, one of the most popular scientific essayists of his day, was born at Kingston, Canada, February 24th, 1848. His sponsors christened him (< Charles Grant Blairfindie M Allen, but, as a result of his well-deserved international celebrity, this has been shortened to <( Grant. w As "Cecil Powers w and <( J. Arbuth- not Wilson w he has done no inconsiderable work as a novelist and miscellaneous writer, but it is on his scientific essays, published in English periodicals, that his enduring reputation will rest. Except in the late Prof. R. A. Proctor, he has had no rival in popularizing science, and in the lightness of his touch he surpasses Proctor. His sense of humor is delicate, and, while it appears in such works as his essay on the <( Scientific Aspects of Falling in Love,* he does not al- low it to discredit him or to lower him in the eyes of the reader from the plane of the scientist to that of the humorist. His uncollected essays published during the last twenty years are numbered by the score. The article on (< Apparitions w in the current edition of the British Encyclopaedia is from his pen. He died in London, October 25th, 1899. SCIENTIFIC ASPECTS OF FALLING IN LOVE An ancient and famous human institution is in pressing dan- ger. Sir George Campbell has set his face against the time-honored practice of Falling in Love. Parents innu- merable, it is true, have set their faces against it already from immemorial antiquity; but then they only attacked the particular instance, without venturing to impugn the institution itself on general principles. An old Indian administrator, however, goes to work in all things on a different pattern He would always like to regulate human life generally as a department of the India Office; and so Sir George Campbell would fain have hus- bands and wives selected for one another (perhaps on Doctor John- son's principle, by the Lord Chancellor) with a view to the future GRANT ALLEN 143 development of the race, in the process which he not very felici- tously or elegantly describes as (< man-breeding. n (< Probably, w he says, as reported in Nature, <( we have enough physiological knowledge to effect a vast improvement in the pairing of indi- viduals of the same or allied races, if we could only apply that knowledge to make fitting marriages, instead of giving way to foolish ideas about love and the tastes of young people, whom we can hardly trust to choose their own bonnets, much less to choose in a graver matter in which they are most likely to be influenced by frivolous prejudices. a He wants us, in other words, to discard the deep-seated inner physiological promptings of in- herited instinct, and to substitute for them some calm and dis- passionate but artificial selection of a fitting partner as the father or mother of future generations. Now this is of course a serious subject, and it ought to be treated seriously and reverently. But, it seems to me, Sir George Campbell's conclusion is exactly the opposite one from the con- clusion now being forced upon men of science by a study of the biological and psychological elements in this very complex prob- lem of heredity. So far from considering love as a <( foolish idea, w opposed to the best interests of the race, I believe most competent physiologists and psychologists, especially those of the modern evolutionary school, would regard it rather as an essen- tially beneficent and conservative instinct, developed and main- tained in us by natural causes, for the very purpose of insuring just those precise advantages and improvements which Sir George Campbell thinks he could himself effect by a conscious and de- liberate process of selection. More than that, I believe, for my own part (and I feel sure most evolutionists would cordially agree with me), that this beneficent inherited instinct of Falling in Love effects the object it has in view far more admirably, subtly, and satisfactorily, on the average of instances, than any clumsy human selective substitute could possibly effect it. In short, my doctrine is simply the old-fashioned and confiding belief that marriages are made in heaven, with the further cor- ollary that heaven manages them, one time with another, a great deal better than Sir George Campbell. Let us first look how Falling in Love affects the standard of human efficiency and then let us consider what would be the probable result of any definite conscious attempt to substitute for it some more deliberate external agency. 144 GRANT ALLEN Falling in Love, as modern biology teaches us to believe, is nothing more than the latest, highest, and most involved exem- plification, in the human race, of that almost universal selective process which Mr. Darwin has enabled us to recognize through- out the whole long series of the animal kingdom. The butterfly that circles and eddies in his aerial dance around his observant mate is endeavoring to charm her by the delicacy of his coloring, and to overcome her coyness by the display of his skill. The peacock that struts about in imperial pride under the eyes of his attentive hens is really contributing to the future beauty and strength of his race by collecting to himself a harem through which he hands down to posterity the valuable qualities which have gained the admiration of his mates in his own person. Mr. Wallace has shown that to be beautiful is to be efficient; and sexual selection is thus, as it were, a mere lateral form of natural selection, — a survival of the fittest in the guise of mutual attract- iveness and mutual adaptability, producing on the average a maximum of the best properties of the race in the resulting off- spring. I need not dwell here Upon this aspect of the case, be- cause it is one with which, since the publication of the (( Descent of Man," all the world has been sufficiently familiar. In our own species, the selective process is marked by all the features common to selection throughout the whole animal king- dom; but it is also, as might be expected, far more specialized, far more individualized, far more cognizant of personal traits and minor peculiarities. It is furthermore exerted to a far greater extent upon mental and moral as well as physical peculiarities in the individual. We cannot fall in love with everybody alike. Some of us fall in love with one person, some with another. This instinctive and deep-seated differential feeling we may regard as the out- come of complementary features, mental, moral, or physical, in the two persons concerned; and experience shows us that, in nine cases out of ten, it is a reciprocal affection, that is to say, in other words, an affection roused in unison by varying qualities in the respective individuals. Of its eminently conservative and even upward tendency, very little doubt can be reasonably entertained. We do fall in love, taking us in the lump, with the young, the beautiful, the strong, and the healthy; we do ?iot fall in love, taking us in the lump, with the aged, the ugly, the feeble, and the sickly. The prohibi- GRANT ALLEN 145 tion of the Church is scarcely needed to prevent a man from marrying his grandmother. Moralists have always borne a special grudge to pretty faces; but as Mr. Herbert Spencer admirably put it (long before the appearance of Darwin's selective theory), tt the saying that beauty is but skin-deep is itself but a skin-deep saying. }> In reality, beauty is one of the very best guides we can possibly have to the desirability, so far as race preservation is concerned, of any man or any woman as a partner in mar- riage. What we all fall in love with, then, as a race, is in most cases efficiency and ability. What we each fall in love with individu- ally is, I believe, our moral, mental, and physical complement. Not our like, nor our counterpart, quite the contrary; within healthy limits, our unlike and our opposite. That this is so has long been more or less a commonplace of ordinary conversation; that it is scientifically true, one time with another, when we take an extended range of cases, may, I think, be almost demonstrated by sure and certain warranty of human nature. In minor matters, it is of course universally admitted that short men, as a rule, prefer tall women, while tall men admire little women. Dark pairs by preference with fair; the common- place often runs after the original. People have long noticed that this attraction toward one's opposite tends to keep true the standard of the race; they have not, perhaps, so generally ob- served that it also indicates roughly the existence in either individual of a desire for its own natural complement. It is dif- ficult here to give definite examples, but everybody knows how, in the subtle psychology of Falling in Love, there are involved innumerable minor elements, physical and mental, which strike us exactly because of their absolute adaptation to form with our- selves an adequate union. Of course we do not definitely seek out and discover such qualities, — instinct works far more intuitively than that; but we find at last, by subsequent observation, how true and how trustworthy were its immediate indications. That is to say, those men do so who were wise enough or fortunate enough to follow the earliest promptings of their own hearts, and not to be ashamed of that divinest and deepest of human intuitions, love at first sight. How very subtle this intuition is, we can only guess in part by the apparent capriciousness and incomprehensibility of its oc- casional action. We know that some men and women fall in 1— 10 146 GRANT ALLEN love easily, while others are only moved to love by some very special and singular combination of peculiarities. We know that one man is readily stirred by every pretty face he sees, while another man can only be roused by intellectual qualities or by moral beauty. We know that sometimes we meet people possess- ing every virtue and grace under heaven, and yet for some un- known and incomprehensible reason we could no more fall in love with them than we could fall in love with the Ten Com- mandments. I don't, of course, for a moment accept the silly romantic notion that men and women fall in love only once in their lives, or that each one of us has somewhere on earth his or her exact Affinity, whom we must sooner or later meet, or else die unsatisfied. Almost every healthy normal man and woman has probably fallen in love over and over again in the course of a lifetime (except in case of very early marriage), and could easily find dozens of persons with whom they would be capable of falling in love again if due occasion offered. We are not all created in pairs, like the Exchequer tallies, exactly intended to fit into one another's minor idiosyncrasies. Men and women as a rule very sensibly fall in love with one another in the par- ticular places and the particular societies they happen to be cast among. A man at Ashby-de-la-Zouch does not hunt the world over to find his pre-established harmony at Paray-le- Monial or at Denver, Colorado. But among the women he act- ually meets, a vast number are purely indifferent to him: only one or two, here and there, strike him in the light of possible wives, and only one in the last resort (outside Salt Lake City) approves herself to his inmost nature as the actual wife of his final selection. Now this very indifference to the vast mass of our fellow- countrymen or fellow-countrywomen, this extreme pitch of selec- tive preference in the human species, is just one mark of our extraordinary specialization, one stamp and token of our high su- premacy. The brutes do not so pick and choose. Though even there, as Darwin has shown, selection plays a large part (for the very butterflies are coy, and must be wooed and won) ; it is only in the human race itself that selection descends into such minute, such subtle, such indefinable discriminations. Why should a uni- versal and common impulse have in our case these special limits ? Why should we be by nature so fastidious and so diversely affected ? Surely for some good and sufficient purpose. No deep-seated want GRANT ALLEN 147 of our complex life would be so narrowly restricted without a law and a meaning. Sometimes we can in part explain its conditions. Here, we see that beauty plays a great role; there, we recognize the importance of strength, of manner, of grace, of moral quali- ties. Vivacity, as Mr. Galton justly remarks, is one of the most powerful among human attractions, and often accounts for what might otherwise seem unaccountable preferences. But after all is said and done, there remains a vast mass of instinctive and inexplicable elements: a power deeper and more marvelous in its inscrutable ramifications than human consciousness. "What on earth," we say, "could So-and-so see in So-and-so to fall in love with ? • This very inexplicability I take to be the sign and seal of a profound importance. An instinct so conditioned, so curious, so vague, so unfathomable, as we may guess by analogy with all other instincts, must be Nature's guiding voice within us, speaking for the good of the human race in all future genera- tions. On the other hand, let us suppose for a moment (impossible supposition ! ) that mankind could conceivably divest itself of "these foolish ideas about love and the tastes of young people," and could hand over the choice of partners for life to a commit- tee of anthropologists, presided over by Sir George Campbell. Would the committee manage things, I wonder, very much bet- ter than the Creator has managed them ? Where would they obtain that intimate knowledge of individual structures and func- tions and differences which would enable them to join together in holy matrimony fitting and complementary idiosyncrasies ? Is a living man, with all his organs, and powers, and faculties, and dispositions, so simple and easy a problem to read that anybody else can readily undertake to pick out offhand a helpmeet for him ? I trow not ! . . . I do not doubt that, as the world goes on, a deeper sense of moral responsibility in the matter of marriage will grow up among us. But it will not take the false direction of ignoring these our profoundest and holiest instincts. Marriage for money may go; marriage for rank may go; marriage for position may go; but marriage for love, I believe and trust, will last forever. Men in the future will probably feel that a union with their cousins or near relations is positively wicked; that a union with those too like them in person or disposition is at least undesira- ble; that a union based upon considerations of wealth or any 148 GRANT ALLEN other consideration save considerations of immediate natural im- pulse, is base and disgraceful. But to the end of time they will continue to feel, in spite of doctrinaires, that the voice of nature is better far than the voice of the Lord Chancellor or the Royal Society; and that the instinctive desire for a particular helpmate is a surer guide for the ultimate happiness, both of the race and of the individual, than any amount of deliberate consultation. It is not the foolish fancies of youth that will have to be got rid of, but the foolish, wicked, and mischievous interference of par- ents or outsiders. From an essay in the Fortnightly Review. 149 WASHINGTON ALLSTON (i 779- 1 843) *ne of the first painters of assured genius developed in the United States, Washington Allston lacks nothing except the quantity of his literary work to give him, as an essayist on art, the same high rank he attained by expressing his intellect with his brush. He is governed by the same reverence for nature, the same belief in its supernatural origin and in the possibility of learn- ing more from it than can be expressed in words, which governed Sir Joshua Reynolds and Ruskin. He was born near Georgetown, South Carolina, November 5th, 1779. After graduating at Harvard, he sold his estate in South Carolina and went to Europe that he might devote himself wholly to art. He spent nearly eighteen years in London, Paris, and Rome, and, on his return to America, took up his residence in Massachusetts, where he painted many of his best pictures, notably (( The Angel Uriel in the Sun tt and the unfinished <( Belshazzar's Feast. ® Besides his essays and lectures on art, he published a volume of poems which were in- cluded in the collection edited after his death by Richard H. Dana, Junior. He died July 9th, 1843, at Cambridge, Massachusetts. HUMAN ART AND INFINITE TRUTH As to what some have called <( our creative powers, w we take it for granted that no correct thinker has ever applied such expressions literally. Strictly speaking, we can make noth- ing; we can only construct. But how vast a theatre is here laid open to the constructive powers of the finite creature; where the physical eye is permitted to travel for millions and millions of miles, while that of the mind, swifter than light, may follow out the journey, from star to star, till it falls back on itself with the humbling conviction that the measureless journey is then but begun! It is needless to dwell on the immeasurable mass of materials which a world like this may supply to the Artist. The very thought of its vastness darkens into wonder. Yet how much deeper the wonder, when the created mind looks into 150 WASHINGTON ALLSTON itself, and contemplates the power of impressing its thoughts on all things visible; nay, of giving the likeness of life to things inanimate; and, still more marvelous, by the mere combination of words or colors, of evolving into shape its own Idea, till some unknown form, having no type in the actual, is made to seem to us an organized being. When such is the result of any unknown combination, then it is that we achieve the Possible. And here the realizing principle may strictly be said to prove itself. That such an effect should follow a cause which we know to be purely imaginary, suppose, as we have said, something in ourselves which holds, of necessity, a predetermined relation to every object either outwardly existing or projected from the mind, which we thus recognize as true. If so, then the Possible and the Ideal are convertible terms, having their existence, ab initio, in the nature of the mind. The soundness of this infer- ence is also supported negatively, as just observed, by the op- posite result, as in the case of those fantastic combinations, which we sometimes meet with both in Poetry and Painting, and which we do not hesitate to pronounce unnatural, that is, false. And here we would not be understood as implying the pre- existence of all possible forms, as so many patterns, but only of that constructive Power which imparts its own Truth to the un- seen real, and under certain conditions reflects the image or semblance of its truth on all things imagined, and which must be assumed in order to account for the phenomena presented in the frequent coincidence of effect between the real and the feigned. Nor does the absence of consciousness in particular individuals, as to this Power in themselves, fairly affect its universality, at least potentially; since by the same rule there would be equal ground for denying the existence of any faculty of the mind which is of slow or gradual development. All that we may rea- sonably infer in such cases is that the whole mind is not yet revealed to itself. In some of the greatest artists the inventive powers have been of late development; as in Claude, and the sculptor Falconet. And can any one believe that while the latter was hewing his master's marble, and the former making pastry, either of them was conscious of the"»sublime Ideas which afterwards took form for the admiration of the world ? When Raphael, then a youth, was selected to execute the noble works which now live on the walls of the Vatican, <( he had done little or nothing, w says Reynolds, (< to justify so high a trust. w Nor WASHINGTON ALLSTON 151 could he have been certain, from what he knew of himself, that he was equal to the task. He could only hope to succeed; and his hope was no doubt founded on his experience of the progres- sive development of his mind in former efforts, rationally con- cluding that the originally seeming blank from which had arisen so many admirable forms was still teeming with others that only wanted the occasion, or excitement, to come forth at his bidding. To return to that which, as the interpreting medium of his thoughts and conceptions, connects the artist with his fellowmen, we remark that only on the ground of some self-realizing power, like what we have termed Poetic Truth, could what we call the Ideal ever be intelligible. That some such power is inherent and fundamental in our nature, though differenced in individuals by more or less activity, seems more confirmed in this latter branch of the subject, where the phenomena presented are exclusively of the Possible. Indeed, we cannot conceive how without it there could ever be such a thing as true Art; for what might be received as such in one age might also be overruled in the next, — as we know to be the case with most things depending on opinion. But, happily for Art, if once established on this immutable base, there it must rest, — and rest unchanged, amidst the endless fluctuations of man- ners, habits, and opinions; for its truth of a thousand years is as the truth of yesterday. Hence the beings described by Homer, Shakespeare, and Milton are as true to us now as the recent characters of Scott. Nor is it the least characteristic of this im- portant Truth, that the only thing needed for its full reception is simply its presence, — being its own evidence. How otherwise could such a being as Caliban ever be true to us ? We have never seen his race ; nay, we knew not that such a creature could exist, until he started upon us from the mind of Shakespeare. Yet who ever stopped to ask if he were a real being? His existence to the mind is instantly felt; not as a matter of faith, but of fact, and a fact, too, which the imagination cannot get rid of if it would, but which must ever remain there, verifying itself, from the first to the last moment of conscious- ness. From whatever point we view this singular creature, his reality is felt. His very language, his habits, his feelings, when- ever they recur to us, are all issues from a living thing, acting upon us, nay, forcing the mind, in some instances, even to specu- late on his nature, till it finds itself classing him in the chain of 152 WASHINGTON ALLSTON being as the intermediate link between man and the brute. And this we do, not by an ingenious effort, but almost by involuntary induction; for we perceive speech and intellect, and yet without a soul. What but an intellectual brute could have uttered the imprecations of Caliban ? They would not be natural in man, whether savage or civilized. Hear him in his wrath against Prospero and Miranda: — (< A wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed With raven's feather from unwholesome fen, Light on you both ! }> The wild malignity of this curse, fierce as it is, yet wants the moral venom, the devilish leaven, of a consenting spirit; it is all but human. In this we may add a similar example, from our own art, in the "Puck,* or and £, they are the same with terminations in o, vdxu, yovu, dopu, aero. The neuter terminate in these two last-mentioned vowels, and in v and a 3e BvfjT lybovTO zd npiv pdSov dOdvar ehat^ Ziopd re Ttpiv anprjTa^ i. e. (Things, before immortal, Mortal became, and mixed before unmixed, Their courses changed.) 5. To ambiguity, as in Tzapw^Kev «5e nXicov vb$, where the word TtXiiov is ambiguous. 6. To customary speech: thus, wine mixed with water, or whatever is poured out to drink as wine, is called ofvoc, wine; hence Ganymede is said, A\\ olvo^ozbttv, to <( pour the wine to Jove, * though wine is not the liquor of the gods. This, however, may also be defended by metaphor. Thus, again, artificers in iron are called Xa^tc, literally, braz- iers. Of this kind is the expression of the poet, — Kv^c veoremrou Kaa} But a whole poem of that quality Burns cannot make; the rest, in the (< Farewell to Nancy, w is verbiage. We arrive best at the real estimate of Burns, I think, by con- ceiving his work as having truth of matter and truth of manner, but not the accent or the poetic virtue of the highest masters. MATTHEW ARNOLD 237 His genuine criticism of life, when the sheer poet in him speaks, is ironic; it is not: — w Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here firm I rest, they must be best Because they are Thy will ! ° It is far rather: "Whistle owre the lave o't! w Yet we may say of him as of Chaucer, that of life and the world, as they come before him, his view is large, free, shrewd, benignant — truly poetic, therefore; and his manner of rendering what he sees is to match. But we must note, at the same time, his great differ- ence from Chaucer. The freedom of Chaucer is heightened, in Burns, by a fiery, reckless energy; the benignity of Chaucer deepens, in Burns, into an overwhelming sense of the pathos of things — of the pathos of human nature, the pathos, also, of non- human nature. Instead of the fluidity of Chaucer's manner, the manner of Burns has spring, bounding swiftness. Burns is by far the greater force, though he has perhaps less charm. The world of Chaucer is fairer, richer, more significant than that of Burns; but when the largeness and freedom of Burns get full sweep, as in <( Tam o' Shanter," or still more in that puissant and splendid production, (< The Jolly Beggars, w his world may be what it will, his poetic genius triumphs over it. In the world of (( The Jolly Beggars w there is more than hideousness and squalor, there is bestiality; yet the piece is a superb poetic suc- cess. It has a breadth, truth, and power which make the famous scene in Auerbach's cellar, of Goethe's <( Faust, w seem artificial and tame beside it, and which are only matched by Shakespeare and Aristophanes. Here, where his largeness and freedom serve him so admira- bly, and also in those poems and songs, where to shrewdness he adds infinite archness and wit, and to benignity infinite pathos, where his manner is flawless, and a perfect poetic whole is the result — in things like the address to the mouse whose home he had ruined, in things like (( Duncan Gray," (< Tarn Glen, w (< Whis- tle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad, w « Auld Lang Syne » (the list might be made much longer) — here we have the genuine Burns, of whom the real estimate must be high indeed. Not a classic, nor with the excellent axoudaiozT^ of the great classics, nor with a verse rising to a criticism of life and a virtue like theirs; but 238 MATTHEW ARNOLD a poet with thorough truth of substance and an answering truth of style, giving us a poetry sound to the core. We all of us have a leaning toward the pathetic, and may be inclined perhaps to prize Burns most for his touches of piercing, sometimes almost intolerable, pathos; for verse like: <( We twa hae paidl't i' the burn From mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin auld lang syne . . . w where he is as lovely as he is sound. But perhaps it is by the perfection of soundness of his lighter and archer masterpieces that he is poetically most wholesome for us. For the votary misled by a personal estimate of Shelley, as so many of us have been, are, and will be, — of that beautiful spirit building his many-colored haze of words and images <( Pinnacled dim in the intense inane, w — no contact can be wholesomer than the contact with Burns at his archest and soundest. Side by side with the (< On the brink of the night and the morning My coursers are wont to respire, But the Earth has just whispered a warning That their flight must be swifter than fire * of <( Prometheus Unbound, B how salutary, how very salutary, to place this from <( Tarn Glen w : — <( My minnie does constantly deave me And bids me beware o' young men ; They natter, she says, to deceive me; But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen ? B But we enter on burning ground as we approach the poetry of times so near to us, poetry like that of Byron, Shelley, and Wordsworth, of which the estimates are so often not only per- sonal, but personal with passion. For my purpose, it is enough to have taken the single case of Burns, the first poet we come to of whose work the estimate formed is evidently apt to be per- sonal, and to have suggested how we may proceed, using the poetry of the great classics, as a sort of touchstone, to correct this estimate, as we had previously corrected by the same means the historic estimate where we met with it. MATTHEW ARNOLD 239 « SWEETNESS AND LIGHT » The disparagers of culture make its motive curiosity; some- times, indeed, they make its motive mere exclusiveness and vanity. The culture which is supposed to plume itself on a smattering of Greek and Latin is a culture which is begotten by nothing so intellectual as curiosity; it is valued either out of sheer vanity and ignorance or else as an engine of social and class distinction, separating its holder, like a badge or title, from other people who have not got it. No serious man would call this culture, or attach any value to it, as culture at all. To find the real ground for the very different estimate which serious people will set upon culture, we must find some motive for culture in the terms of which may lie a real ambiguity; and such a motive the word curiosity gives us. I have before now pointed out that we English do not, like the foreigners, use this word in a good sense as well as in a bad sense. With us the word is always used in a somewhat disap- proving sense. A liberal and intelligent eagerness about the things of the mind may be meant by a foreigner when he speaks of curiosity, but with us the word always conveys a certain no- tion of frivolous and unedifying activity. In the Quarterly Re- view, some little time ago, was an estimate of the celebrated French critic, M. Sainte-Beuve, and a very inadequate estimate of it in my judgment it was. And its inadequacy consisted chiefly in this: that in our English way it left out of sight the double sense really involved in the word curiosity, thinking enough was said to stamp M. Sainte-Beuve with blame, if it was said that he was impelled in his operations as a critic by curiosity, and omit- ting either to perceive that M. Sainte-Beuve himself, and many other people with him, would consider that this was praiseworthy and not blameworthy, or to point out why it ought really to be accounted worthy of blame and not of praise. For as there is a curiosity about intellectual matters which is futile, and merely a disease, so there is certainly a curiosity, — a desire after the things of the mind simply for their own sakes and for the pleas- ure of seeing them as they are, — which is, in an intelligent being, natural and laudable. Nay, and the very desire to see things as they are implies a balance and regulation of mind which is not often attained without fruitful effort, and which 240 MATTHEW ARNOLD is the very opposite of the blind and diseased impulse of mind which is what we mean to blame when we blame curiosity. Montesquieu says : <( The first motive which ought to impel us to study is the desire to augment the excellence of our nature, and to render an intelligent being yet more intelligent. w This is the true ground to assign for the genuine scientific passion, however manifested, and for culture, viewed simply as a fruit of this pas- sion; and it is a worthy ground, even though we let the term curiosity stand to describe it. But there is of culture another view, in which not solely the scientific passion, the sheer desire to see things as they are, nat- ural and proper in an intelligent being, appears as the ground of it. There is a view in which all the love of our neighbor, the impulses toward action, help, and beneficence, the desire for removing human error, clearing human confusion, and diminish- ing human misery, the noble aspiration to leave the world better and happier than we found it, — motives eminently such as are called social, — come in as part of the grounds of culture, and the main and pre-eminent part. Culture is then properly de- scribed not as having its origin in curiosity, but as having its origin in the love of perfection; it is a study of perfection. It moves by the force, not merely or primarily of the scientific pas- sion for pure knowledge, but also of the moral and social passion for doing good. As, in the first view of it, we took for its worthy motto Montesquieu's words : <( To render an intelligent being yet more intellieent ! w so, in the second view of it, there is no bet- ter motto which it can have than these words of Bishop Wilson: } WHAT MEN FIGHT ABOUT MOST I do not think that any of you are ignorant, my friends, that the greatest wars have taken place on account of women: — the Trojan War on account of Helen; the plague which took place in it was on account of Chryseis; the anger of Achilles was excited about Briseis; and the war called the Sacred War, on ac- count of another wife (as Duris relates in the second book of his (( History w ), who was a Theban by birth, by name Theano, and who was carried off by some Phocian. And this war also lasted ten years, and in the tenth year was brought to an end by the co-operation of Philip; for by his aid the Thebans took Phocis. The war, also, which is called the Crissaean War (as Callis- thenes tells us in his account of the Sacred War), when the Crissaeans made war upon the Phocians, lasted ten years; and it was excited on this account, — because the Crissaeans carried off Megisto, the daughter of Pelagon the Phocian, and the daughters of the Argives, as they were returning from the Pythian temple; and in the tenth year Crissa was taken. And whole families ATHEN^EUS 273 also have been ruined owing to women; — for instance, that of Philip, the father of Alexander, was ruined on account of his marriage with Cleopatra; and Hercules was ruined by his mar- riage with Iole, the daughter of Eurytus; and Theseus on account of his marriage with Phaedra, the daughter of Minos; and Atha- mas on account of his marriage with Themisto, the daughter of Hypseus; and Jason on account of his marriage with Glauce, the daughter of Creon; and Agamemnon on account of Cassandra. And the expedition of Cambyses against Egypt (as Ctesias re- lates) took place on account of a woman; for Cambyses, having heard that Egyptian women were far more attractive than other women, sent to Amasis, the king of the Egyptians, asking for one of his daughters in marriage. But he did not give him one of his own daughters, thinking that she would not be honored as a wife, but only treated as a mistress; but he sent him Nitetis, the daughter of Apries. And Apries had been deposed from the sovereignty of Egypt, because of the defeats which had been re- ceived by him from the Cyreneans; and afterwards he had been put to death by Amasis. Accordingly, Cambyses, being much pleased with Nitetis, and being very violently in love with her, learned the whole circumstance of the case from her; and she entreated him to avenge the murder of Apries, and persuaded him to make war upon the Egyptians. But Dinon, in his <( His- tory of Persia, w and Lynceas of Naucratis, in the third book of his "History of Egypt, w say that it was Cyrus to whom Nitetis was sent by Amasis, and that she was the mother of Cambyses, who made this expedition against Egypt to avenge the wrongs of his mother and her family. But Duris the Samian says that the first war carried on by two women was that between Olym- pias and Eurydice; in which Olympias advanced something in the manner of a Bacchanalian, with drums beating; but Eurydice came forward armed like a Macedonian soldier, having been al- ready accustomed to war and military habits at the court of Cynnane the Illyrian. Now, after this conversation, it seemed good to the philoso- phers who were present to say something themselves about love and about beauty; and so a great many philosophical sentiments were uttered; among which, some quoted some of the songs of the dramatic philosopher, Euripides, — some of which were these: — (( Love, who is Wisdom's pupil gay, To virtue often leads the way; 1— 18 274 ATHENyEUS And this great god Is of all others far the best for man; For with his gentle nod He bids them hope, and banishes all pain. May I be ne'er mixed up with those who scorn To own his power, and live forlorn, Cherishing habits all uncouth. I bid the youth Of my dear country ne'er to flee from Love, But welcome him, and willing subjects prove. B And some one else quoted from Pindar : — <( Let it be my fate always to love, And to obey Love's will in proper season. * And some one else added the following lines from Euripides: — <( But you, O mighty Love, of gods and men The sovereign ruler, either bid what's fair To seem no longer fair; or else bring aid To hapless lovers whom you've caused to love, And aid the labors you yourself have prompted. If you do this, the gods will honor you; But if you keep aloof, you will not even Retain the gratitude which now they feel For having learnt of you the way to love. w And Pontianus said that Zeno the Cittiaean thought that Love was the god of friendship and liberty, and also that he was the great author of concord among men, but that he had no other office. On which account, he says in his (< Polity, w that Love is a god, being one who co-operates in securing the safety of the city. And the philosophers, also, who preceded him considered Love a venerable Deity, removed from everything discreditable; and this is plain from their having set up holy statues in his honor in their gymnasia, along with those of Mercury and Hercules — the one of whom is the patron of eloquence, and the other of valor. And when these are united, friendship and unanimity are en- gendered; by means of which the most perfect liberty is secured to those who excel in these practices. But the Athenians were so far from thinking that love presided over the gratification of the mere sensual appetites, that, though the academy was mani- festly consecrated to Minerva, they yet erected in that place also a statue of Love, and sacrificed to it. . . . ATHEN^EUS 275 I am a great admirer of beauty myself. For in the contests (at Athens) for the prize of manliness, they select the handsomest and give them the post of honor to bear the sacred vessels at the festivals of the gods. And at Elis there is a contest as to beauty, and the conqueror has the vessels of the goddess given to him to carry; and the next handsomest has the ox to lead; and the third places the sacrificial cakes on the head of the vic- tim. But Heraclides Lembus relates that in Sparta the hand- somest man and the handsomest woman have special honors conferred on them; and Sparta is famous for producing the handsomest women in the world. On which account they tell a story of King Archidamus, that when one wife was offered to him who was very handsome, and another who was ugly but rich, and he chose the rich one, the ephori imposed a fine upon him, saying that he preferred begetting kinglings rather than kings for Spartans. And Euripides has said — (< Her very mien is worthy of a kingdom. B And in Homer the old men among the people marveling at the beauty of Helen are represented as speaking thus to one another: — w They cried, ( No wonder such celestial charms For nine long years have set the world in arms; — What winning graces! what majestic mien! She moves a goddess, and she looks a queen. >w From the « Deipnosophists. 9 276 FRANCIS ATTERBURY (1662-1732) ^rancis Atterbury, celebrated as a controversialist in politics and theology and immortalized by his dispute with Richard Bentley, was born in Buckinghamshire, England, in 1662. He was educated at Christ Church, Oxford, and, taking orders in the Church of England, he rose to be Bishop of Rochester and Dean of Westminster. Being detected in correspondence with the exiled Stu- arts, he was banished. Much of his subsequent life was spent at the court of the Pretender in Rome or Paris. He died in France in 1732 still under sentence for treason. His classical scholarship has never been conceded by the partisans of Bentley in his day or our own. They admit his wit, his brilliancy, the extraordinary quality of his English style, and everything else except his knowledge of the sub- ject in dispute, — the <( Epistles" of Phalaris, which are not worth dis- cussing at all now, even if they were then. There can be no real question of Bentley's scholarship, and it may be true, as has been said of Atterbury, that a schoolboy knowing so little of the class- ics as he and pretending to know so much would have (( deserved to be flogged — not refuted. * But there is no question of his power as a writer of English prose. In this respect at least he was no unworthy associate of Pope, Swift, and Addison, whose friend he was in the golden age of English essay-writing. HARMONY AND THE PASSIONS Such is our nature, that even the best things, and most worthy of our esteem, do not always employ and detain our thoughts, in proportion to their real value, unless they be set off and greatened by some outward circumstances, which are fitted to raise admiration and surprise in the breasts of those who hear or behold them. And this good effect is wrought in us by the power of sacred music. To it we, in good measure, owe the dignity and solemnity of our public worship; which else, I fear, in its natural simplicity and plainness, would not so strongly strike, or so deeply affect, the minds, as it ought to do. FRANCIS ATTERBURY 277 of the sluggish and inattentive, that is, of the far greater part of mankind. But when voices and instruments are skillfully adapted to it, it appears to us in a majestic air and shape, and gives us very awful and reverent impressions; which, while they are upon us, it is impossible for us not to be fixed and composed to the utmost. We are then in the same state of mind that the devout patriarch was, when he awoke from his holy dream, and ready with him to say to ourselves: Surely the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not. How dreadful is this place ! This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of Heaven. Further, the availableness of harmony to promote a pious disposition of mind will appear, from the great influence it nat- urally has on the passions, which, when well directed and rightly applied, are the wings and sails of the mind, that speed its pas- sage to perfection, and are of particular and remarkable use in the offices of devotion. For devotion consists in an ascent of the mind towards God, attended with holy breathings of soul, and a divine exercise of all the passions and powers of the mind. These passions the melody of sounds serves only to guide and elevate towards their proper object; these it first calls forth and encourages, and then gradually raises and inflames. This it does to all of them, as the matter of the hymns sung gives an occasion for the employing them; but the power of it is chiefly seen in advancing that most heavenly passion of love, which reigns always in pious breasts, and is the surest and most insep- arable mark of true devotion; which recommends what we do in virtue of it to God, and makes it relishing to ourselves; and without which, all our spiritual offerings, our prayers, and our praises, are both insipid and unacceptable. At this our religion begins, and at this it ends; it is the sweetest companion and im- provement of it here upon earth, and the very earnest and fore- taste of heaven; of the pleasure of which nothing further is revealed to us, than that they consist in the practice of holy music and holy love; the joint enjoyment of which (we are told) is to be the happy lot of all pious souls to endless ages. And observable therefore it is, that that Apostle, in whose breast this divine quality seems most to have abounded, has also spoken the most advantageously of vocal and instrumental harmony, and afforded us the best argument for the lawful use of it; for such I account the description which he has given us of the devotions of angels and blessed spirits performed by harps and hymns in 278 FRANCIS ATTERBURY the Apocalypse. A description which, whether real or metaphor- ical, yet, belonging to the evangelical state, certainly implies thus much, that whatever is there said to be made use of, may now, under the Gospel, be warrantably and laudably employed. And in his steps trod the holy martyr Ignatius, who probably saw Saint John in the flesh, and learned that lesson of divine love from him, which, after his example, he inculcated every- where in his Epistles; and together with it instills into the churches he writes to a love of holy harmony, by frequent allu- sions and comparisons drawn from that science, which recur oftener in his writings than in those of any other ancient what- ever, and seem to intimate to us that the devotions of the church were set off with some kind of melody, even in those early times, notwithstanding we usually place the rise of the institution much lower. Would we then have love at these assemblies ? Would we have our spirit softened and enlarged, and made fit for the il- lapses of the Divine Spirit ? Let us, as often as we can, call into our aid the assistances of music, to work us up into this heavenly temper. All selfishness and narrowness of mind, all rancor and peevishness, vanish from the heart, where the love of divine harmony dwells; as the evil spirit of Saul retired be- fore the harp of David. The devotional, as well as the active, part of religion is (we know) founded in good nature; and one of the best signs and causes of good nature is, I am sure, to delight in such pious entertainments. From the text of Craik [Macmillan & Co.]. JOHN JAMES AUDUBON. After the Portrait by F. Crui/c shank, Engraved by C. Turner, A.R.A. Jhis portrait of Audubon has a rank so high as a work of art that it ) has hardly been surpassed during the century. The face it pre- ^||A|y§ scnts might stand for the ideal of intellectual beauty. 279 JOHN JAMES AUDUBON (1780-1851) |udubon, the first great student of nature born in North Amer- ica, had a delicate sense of the beautiful, and he gave it expression in semi-poetical prose which is often excellent as literature, in spite of the obvious influence Dr. Samuel Johnson and his school were then exercising on American prose. In spite of their Latinisms, such sketches and essays as those on « The Mock- ing Bird," «The Humming Bird," and « The Wood Thrush » are not likely to lose the popularity they have long enjoyed. Audubon was born near New Orleans, May 4th, 1780. Educated in France, he studied art under the celebrated painter David, gaining thus the skill which gave a world-wide and enduring celebrity to his <( Birds of America, » the greatest achievement of its kind in the history of scientific research. His "Ornithological Biography, » which was published from 1831 to 1839 in five volumes, is the source of much from his pen that has gained general circulation. His « Birds of America " — the result of his explorations of a continent which everywhere, except on the Atlantic coast, was then almost a wilder- ness — was published (1827-39) by subscription at $1,000 a copy. He died at New York, January 27th, 1851. (< The Quadrupeds of Amer- ica," the final sheets of which were printed in 1854, is not wholly his work. THE HUMMING BIRD AND THE POETRY OF SPRING No sooner has the returning sun again introduced the vernal season, and caused millions of plants to expand their leaves and blossoms to his genial beams, than the little Humming Bird is seen advancing on fairy wings, carefully visiting every opening flower-cup, and, like a curious florist, removing from each the injurious insects that otherwise would ere long cause their beauteous petals to droop and decay. Poised in the air, it is observed peeping cautiously, and with sparkling eyes, into their innermost recesses, whilst the ethereal motions of its pinions, so rapid and so light, appear to fan and cool the flower without injuring its fragile texture, and produce a delightful murmuring 280 JOHN JAMES AUDUBON sound well adapted for lulling insects to repose. Then is the moment for the Humming Bird to secure them. Its long, delicate bill enters the cup of the flower, and the protruded double-tubed tongue, delicately sensitive, and imbued with glutinous saliva, touches each insect in succession and draws it from its lurking place to be instantly swallowed. All this is done in a moment, and the bird, as it leaves the flower, sips so small a portion of its liquid honey, that the theft, we may suppose, is looked upon with a grateful feeling by the flower, which is thus kindly re- lieved from the attacks of her destroyers. The prairies, the fields, the orchards, and gardens, nay, the deepest shades of the forests, are all visited in their turn, and everywhere the little bird meets with pleasure and with food. Its gorgeous throat in beauty and brilliancy baffles all competi- tion. Now it glows with a fiery hue, and again it is changed to the deepest velvety black. The upper parts of its delicate body are of resplendent changing green; and it throws itself through the air with a swiftness and vivacity hardly conceivable. It moves from one flower to another like a gleam of light, upwards, down- wards, to the right, and to the left. In this manner it searches the extreme northern portions of our country, following with great precaution the advances of the season, and retreating with equal care at the approach of autumn. I wish it were in my power at this moment to impart to you, kind reader, the pleasures which I have felt whilst watching the movements, and viewing the manifestation of feelings displayed by a single pair of these most favored little creatures, when en- gaged in the demonstration of their love to each other: — how the male swells his plumage and throat, and, dancing on the wing, whirls around the delicate female; how quickly he dives towards a flower, and returns with a loaded bill, which he offers to her to whom alone he feels desirous of being united; how full of ecstasy he seems to be when his caresses are kindly re- ceived; how his little wings fan her, as they fan the flowers, as he transfers to her bill the insect and the honey which he has procured with a view to please her; how these attentions are re- ceived with apparent satisfaction; how, soon after, the blissful compact is sealed; how, then, the courage and care of the male are redoubled; how he even dares to give chase to the tyrant fly-catcher, hurries the bluebird and the martin to their boxes; and how, on sounding pinions, he joyously returns to the side of JOHN JAMES AUDUBON 281 his lovely mate. Reader, all these proofs of the sincerity, fidel- ity, and courage, with which the male assures his mate of the care he will take of her while sitting on her nest, may be seen, and have been seen, but cannot be portrayed or described. Could you, kind reader, cast a momentary glance on the nest of the Humming Bird, and see, as I have seen, the newly hatched pair of young, little larger than humblebees, naked, blind, and so feeble as scarcely to be able to raise their little bills to receive food from the parents; and could you see those parents, full of anxiety and fear, passing and repassing within a few inches of your face, alighting on a twig not more than a yard from your body, waiting the result of your unwelcome visit in a state of the utmost despair, — you could not fail to be impressed with the deepest pangs which parental affection feels on the unexpected death of a cherished child. Then how pleasing is it, on your leaving the spot, to see the returning hope of the parents, when, after examining the nest, they find their nurslings untouched! You might then judge how pleasing it is to a mother of another kind, to hear the physician who has attended her sick child assure her that the crisis is over and that her babe is saved. These are the scenes best fitted to enable us to partake of sor- row and joy, and to determine every one who views them to make it a study to contribute to the happiness of others, and to refrain from wantonly or maliciously giving them pain. LIFE IN THE WOODS The adventures and vicissitudes which have fallen to my lot, instead of tending to diminish the fervid enthusiasm of my nature, have imparted a toughness to my bodily constitution, naturally strong, and to my mind, naturally buoyant, an elasticity such as to assure me that though somewhat old, and considerably denuded in the frontal region, I could yet perform on foot a journey of any length, were I sure that I should thereby add materially to our knowledge of the ever-interesting creatures which have for so long a time occupied my thoughts by day, and filled my dreams with pleasant images. Nay, reader, had I a new lease of life presented to me, I should choose for it the very occupations in which I have been engaged. 282 JOHN JAMES AUDUBON And, reader, the life which I have led has been in some re- spects a singular one. Think of a person, intent on such pur- suits as mine have been, aroused at early dawn from his rude couch on the alder-fringed brook of some northern valley, or in the midst of some yet unexplored forest of the West, or perhaps on the soft and warm sands of the Florida shores, and listening to the pleasing melodies of songsters innumerable saluting the magnificent orb, from whose radiant influence the creatures of many worlds receive life and light. Refreshed and reinvigorated by healthful rest, he starts upon his feet, gathers up his store of curiosities, buckles on his knapsack, shoulders his trusty firelock, says a kind word to his faithful dog, and recommences his pur- suit of zoological knowledge. Now the morning is spent, and a squirrel or a trout affords him a repast. Should the day be warm, he reposes for a time under the shade of some tree. The wood- land choristers again burst forth into song, and he starts anew to wander wherever his fancy may direct him, or the objects of his search may lead him in pursuit. When evening approaches, and the birds are seen betaking themselves to their retreats, he looks for some place of safety, erects his shed of green boughs, kindles his fire, prepares his meal, and as the widgeon or blue-winged teal, or perhaps the breast of a turkey or a steak of venison, sends its delicious perfumes abroad, he enters into his parchment- bound journal the remarkable incidents and facts that have oc- curred in the course of the day. Darkness has now drawn her sable curtain over the scene; his repast is finished, and, kneeling on the earth, he raises his soul to heaven, grateful for the pro- tection that has been granted to him, and the sense of the divine presence in this solitary place. Then wishing a cordial good night to all the dear friends at home, the American woodsman wraps himself up in his blanket, and, closing his eyes, soon falls into that comfortable sleep which never fails him on such occa- sions. THE MOCKING BIRD It is where the great magnolia shoots up its majestic trunk, crowned with evergreen leaves, and decorated with a thou- sand beautiful flowers, that perfume the air around; where the forests and fields are adorned with blossoms of every hue; where the golden orange ornaments the gardens and groves; JOHN JAMES AUDUBON 283 where bignonias of various kinds interlace their climbing stems around the white-flowered stuartia, and, mounting still higher, cover the summits of the lofty trees around, accompanied with innumerable vines that here and there festoon the dense foliage of the magnificent woods, lending to the vernal breeze a slight portion of the perfume of their clustered flowers; where a genial warmth seldom forsakes the atmosphere; where berries and fruits of all descriptions are met with at every step; — in a word, it is where Nature seems to have paused, as she passed over the earth, and, opening her stores, to have strewed with unsparing hand the diversified seeds from which have sprung all the beau- tiful and splendid forms which I should in vain attempt to de- scribe, that the Mocking Bird should have fixed its abode, — there only that its wondrous song should be heard. But where is that favored land ? It is in that great conti- nent to whose distant shores Europe has sent forth her adven- turous sons, to wrest for themselves a habitation from the wild inhabitants of the forest, and to convert the neglected soil into fields of exuberant fertility. It is, reader, in Louisiana that these bounties of nature are in the greatest perfection. It is there that you should listen to the love song of the Mocking Bird, as I at this moment do. See how he flies round his mate, with motions as light as those of the butterfly! His tail is widely ex- panded, he mounts in the air to a small distance, describes a circle, and, again alighting, approaches his beloved one, his eyes gleaming with delight, for she has already promised to be his and his only. His beautiful wings are gently raised, he bows to his love, and, again bouncing upwards, opens his bill and pours forth his melody, full of exultation at the conquest he has made. They are not the soft sounds of the flute or the hautboy that I hear, but the sweeter notes of nature's own music. The mel- lowness of the song, the varied modulations and gradations, the extent of its compass, the great brilliancy of execution, are un- rivaled. There is probably no bird in the world that possesses all the musical qualifications of this king of song, who has derived all from nature's self. Yes, reader, all! No sooner has he again alighted, and the conjugal contract has been sealed, than, as if his breast were about to be rent with delight, he again pours forth his notes with more softness and richness than before. He now soars higher, glancing around with a vigilant eye, to assure himself that none has witnessed 284 JOHN JAMES AUDUBON his bliss. When these love scenes are over, he dances through the air, full of animation and delight, and, as if to convince his lovely mate that to enrich her hopes he has much more love in store, he that moment begins anew, and imitates all the notes which nature has imparted to the other songsters of the grove. The musical powers of this bird have often been taken notice of by European naturalists, and persons who find pleasure in listening to the song of different birds whilst in confinement or at large. Some of these persons have described the notes of the nightingale as occasionally fully equal to those of our bird. I have frequently heard both species in confinement, and in the wild state, and, without prejudice, have no hesitation in pronounc- ing the notes of the European philomel equal to those of a soubrette of taste, which, could she study under a Mozart, might perhaps in time become very interesting in her way. But to compare her essays to the finished talent of the Mocking Bird, is, in my opinion, quite absurd. THE WOOD THRUSH This bird is my greatest favorite of the feathered tribes of our woods. To it I owe much. How often has it revived my drooping spirits, when I have listened to its wild notes in the forest, after passing a restless night in my slender shed, so feebly secured against the violence of the storm as to show me the futility of my best efforts to rekindle my little fire, whose uncertain and vacillating light had gradually died away under the destructive weight of the dense torrents of rain that seemed to involve the heavens and the earth in one mass of fearful murki- ness, save when the red streaks of the flashing thunderbolt burst on the dazzled eye, and, glancing along the huge trunk of the stateliest and noblest tree in my immediate neighborhood, were instantly followed by an uproar of crackling, crashing, and deaf- ening sounds, rolling their volumes in tumultuous eddies far and near, as if to silence the very breathings of the unformed thought! How often, after such a night, when far from my dear home, and deprived of the presence of those nearest to my heart, wearied, hungry, drenched, and so lonely and desolate as almost to question myself why I was thus situated; when I have seen JOHN JAMES AUDUBON 285 the fruits of my labors on the eve of being destroyed, as the water, collected into a stream, rushed through my little camp, and forced me to stand erect, shivering in a cold fit like that of a severe ague; when I have been obliged to wait with the pa- tience of a martyr for the return of day, silently counting over the years of my youth, doubting perhaps if ever again I should return to my home, and embrace my family ! — how often, as the first glimpses of morning gleamed doubtfully amongst the dusky masses of the forest trees, has there come upon my ear, thrilling along the sensitive cords which connect that organ with the heart, the delightful music of this harbinger of day! — and how fervently, on such occasions, have I blessed the Being who formed the Wood Thrush, and placed it in those solitary forests, as if to console me amidst my privations, to cheer my depressed mind, and to make me feel, as I did, that man never should despair, whatever may be his situation, as he can never be cer- tain that aid and deliverance are not at hand. The Wood Thrush seldom commits a mistake after such a storm as I have attempted to describe; for no sooner are its sweet notes heard than the heavens gradually clear, the bright refracted light rises in gladdening rays from beneath the distant horizon, the effulgent beams increase in their intensity, and the great orb of day at length bursts on the sight. The gray vapor that floats along the ground is quickly dissipated, the world smiles at the happy change, and the woods are soon heard to echo the joyous thanks of their many songsters. At that moment all fears vanish, giving place to an inspiriting hope. The hunter prepares to leave his camp. He listens to the Wood Thrush, while he thinks of the course which he ought to pursue, and as the bird approaches to peep at him, and learn somewhat his in- tentions, he raises his mind toward the Supreme Disposer of events. Seldom, indeed, have I heard the song of this Thrush, without feeling all that tranquillity of mind to which the se- cluded situation in which it delights is so favorable. The thick- est and darkest woods always appear to please it best. The borders of murmuring streamlets, overshadowed by the dense foliage of the lofty trees growing on the gentle declivities, amidst which the sunbeams seldom penetrate, are its favorite resorts. There it is, that the musical powers of this hermit of the woods must be heard, to be fully appreciated and enjoyed. From the « Ornithological Biography. » 2 86 SAINT AUGUSTINE (354-430 A. D.) 'aint Augustine's celebrated work, w The City of God," or (< De Civitate Dei,*' is a collection of essays loosely joined by a thread of argument connecting one (< book w with another. Although he was essentially a Latinist, his style as an essayist is much more closely related to the English of Addison than to the more ora- torical style of Cicero. As a theologian he is conceded to have been the greatest of the Latin Fathers, and his Chapter iii., Book IV., « De Civitate Dei.» 288 SAINT AUGUSTINE KINGDOMS WITHOUT JUSTICE LIKE UNTO THIEVISH PUR- CHASES Set justice aside, and what are kingdoms but fair thievish pur- chases? because what are thieves' purchases but little king- doms ? for in thefts the hands of the underlings are directed by the commander, the confederacy of them is sworn together, and the pillage is shared by the law amongst them. And if those ragamuffins grow but to be able enough to keep up forts, build habitations, possess cities, and conquer adjoining nations, then their government is no more called thievish, but graced with the eminent name of a kingdom, given and gotten, not be- cause they have left their practices, but because that now they may use them without danger of law; for elegant and excellent was that pirate's answer to the great Macedonian Alexander, who had taken him; the king asking him how he durst molest the seas so, he replied with a free spirit, <( How darest thou molest the whole world ? But because I do it with a little ship only, I am called a thief; thou doing it with a great navy, art called an emperor. w Chapter iv., Book IV., «De Civitate Dei.» DOMESTIC MANIFESTATIONS OF THE ROMAN SPIRIT OF CONQUEST When Marius, being imbrued with his countrymen's blood and having slain many of his adversaries, was at length foiled and forced to fly the city, that now got time to take a little breath; presently (to use Tully's words) upon the sudden Cinna and Marius began to be conquerors again. And then out went the heart bloods of the most worthy men, and the lights of all the city. But soon after came Sylla, and revenged this barbarous massacre; but with what damage to the state and city it is not my purpose to utter; for that this revenge was worse than if all the offenses that were punished had been left un- punished. Let Lucan testify, in these words : — <( Excessit medicina modum, nimiumque secuta est Qua morbi duxere manus; periere nocentes Sed cum jam soli possent superesse nocentes Tunc data libertas odiis resolutaque legum Fretiis ira ru/t. r> SAINT AUGUSTINE 289 <( The medicine wrought too sore, making the cure Too cruel for the patient to endure; The guilty fell; but none yet such remaining, Hate riseth at full height, and wrath, disdaining Laws' reins, brake out. For in that war of Sylla and Marius (besides those that fell in the field), the whole city, streets, market places, theatres, and temples were filled with dead bodies; that it was a question whether the conquerors slaughtered so many to attain the con- quest, or because they had already attained it. In Marius's first victory, as his return from exile besides infinite other slaughters, Octavius's head (the consul's) was polled up in the pleading place; Csesar and Fimbra were slain in their houses, the two Crassi, father and son, killed in one another's sight; Bebius and Numitorius trailed about upon hooks till death; Catullus poisoned himself to escape his enemies: and Menula, the jovial Flamine, cut his own veins and so bled himself out of their danger, Marius having given order for the killing of all them whom he did not re-salute, or proffer his hand unto. Chapter xvii., Book III., «De Civitate Dei.» 1— 19 290 MARCUS AURELIUS (Marcus Aurelius Antoninus) {c. 121-180 A. D.) js a horse when he has run, a dog when he has tackled the game, a bee when it has made honey, so a (good) man when he has done a good act does not call out to others to come and see, but goes on to another act as a vine goes on to produce again its grapes in season. w This is Long's translation of what is perhaps the most remarkable sentence in the writings of Marcus Aurelius. To the question of what is the highest good, the greatest happiness possible for life, the Stoics answered (< tranquillity, — the peaceful repose in itself of the mind great enough to be superior to the inevitable at its worst. But in this sentence the Stoic who has been called (< the noblest of the pa- gans, the crown and flower of Stoicism," clearly proposes efficiency as the object of life. To work as the vine bears its fruit and then, with- out stopping for praise or blame, to prepare for new bearing as the natural object and reward of existence, — this is an ideal higher than that of self-repression, for it involves self-expression, the develop- ment of all that is positive and noble at the expense of the evil and merely negative forces of life. That the highest possible efficiency is ever to be attained except through the deliberate sacrifice, for the work's sake, of the peace of a mind at rest in itself, — this is not to be believed for human nature at its average, though it is not to be denied as a possibility. If Polycarp or any martyr who died in the persecutions under Aurelius, died not merely to win a <( martyr's crown, w but for the work's sake, — for the sake of the efficiency of those after him who, taught by him, were to build, more wisely than they knew, the fabric of the coming centuries, then his loss of per- sonal tranquillity was not important to the sum of things. The always increasing satisfaction of always increasing efficiency, obtained at the expense of all manner of intellectual disturbance and physical discomfort, — this is what Aurelius, in the definitions of his fourth book, seems to contemplate as the highest good. (< Dost thou not see the little plants, the little birds, the ants, the spiders, the bees, work- ing together to put in order their several parts of the universe ? And art thou unwilling to do the work of a human being, and dost MARCUS AURELIUS 291 thou not make haste to do that which is according to thy nature ? B This is his question and it involves a higher thought than any possi- ble for the Stoicism of self-suppression. It is the idea of education, of the evolution of the good in a universe where bee and bird, flower and fruit, men and gods, are vehicles of a universal force of bene- ficent activity, making for universal goodness and eternal improve- ment. Marcus Annius Verus, as Marcus Aurelius was named originally, was born at Rome April 20th, 121 A. D., from a family of senatorial rank which succeeded to the imperial dignity by Hadrian's adoption of Antoninus Pius. When Antoninus Pius, the uncle of Aurelius, died in 161 A. D., after succeeding Hadrian on the throne, Aurelius succeeded him, reigning until his own death March 17th, 180 A. D. He did not neglect his work as (< Imperator B of the armies of Rome because of his philosophy; and when he died, it was the death of a veteran soldier in camp at Vindobona (now Vienna), far from the comforts of Roman civilization. He has been reproached with perse- cuting the Christians and defended on the ground that he thought them dangerous anarchists, whose theories were irreconcilable with the authority of his government. It has been asserted also that his wife, the Empress Faustina, was very dissolute, and while this has been denied, it is undeniable that his son, Commodus, for whom the (< Meditations w are said to have been written, was one of the weak- est and worst of Roman tyrants. While this has been dwelt on with some satisfaction by those who are disposed to condemn the philoso- phy of Marcus Aurelius, it leaves him still <( a pagan saint w whose intellect, elevated, pure, and strong, remains to us in his <( Medita- tions M as one of the great and permanent forces of civilization. W. V. B. MEDITATIONS ON THE HIGHEST USEFULNESS In the morning when thou risest unwillingly, let this thought be present, — I am rising to the work of a human being. Why then am I dissatisfied if I am going to do the things for which I exist and for which I was brought into the world ? Or have I been made for this, to lie in the bedclothes and keep myself warm ? But this is more pleasant. Dost thou exist then to take thy pleasure, and not at all for action or exertion ? Dost thou not see the little plants, the little birds, the ants, the spiders, the bees working together to put in order their several parts of the universe ? And art thou unwilling to do the work of a hu- man being, and dost thou not make haste to do that which is 292 MARCUS AURELIUS according to thy nature ? But it is necessary to take rest also. It is necessary. However, Nature has fixed boivnds to this too: she has fixed bounds to eating and drinking, and yet thou goest beyond these bounds, beyond what is sufficient; yet in thy acts it is not so, but thou stoppest short of what thou canst do. So thou lovest not thyself, for if thou didst thou wouldst love thy nature and her will. But those who love their several arts ex- haust themselves in working at them unwashed and without food ; but thou valuest thy own nature less than the turner values the turning art, or the dancer the dancing art, or the lover of money values his money, or the vainglorious man his little glory. And such men, when they have a violent affection to a thing, choose neither to eat nor to sleep rather than to perfect the things which they care for. But are the acts which concern society more vile in thy eyes and less worthy of thy labor ? How easy it is to repel and to wipe away every impression which is troublesome or unsuitable, and immediately to be in all tranquillity. Judge every word and deed which are according to nature to be fit for thee; and be not diverted by the blame which follows from any people, nor by their words, but if a thing is good to be done or said, do not consider it unworthy of thee. For those persons have their peculiar leading principle and follow their peculiar movement; which things do not thou regard, but go straight on, following thy own nature and the common nature; and the way of both is one. I go through the things which happen according to nature until I shall fall and rest, breathing out my breath into that element out of which I daily draw it in, and falling upon that earth out of which my father collected the seed, and my mother the blood, and my nurse the milk; out of which during so many years I have been supplied with food and drink; which bears me when I tread on it and abuse it for so many purposes. Thou sayest, Men cannot admire the sharpness of thy wits. Be it so; but there are many other things of which thou canst not say, I am not formed from them by nature. Show those qualities, then, which are altogether in thy power, sincerity, grav- ity, endurance of labor, aversion to pleasure, contentment with thy portion and with few things, benevolence, frankness, no love of superfluity, freedom from trifling, magnanimity. Dost thou not see how many qualities thou art immediately able to exhibit, MARCUS AURELIUS 293 in which there is no excuse of natural incapacity and unfitness, and yet thou still remainest voluntarily below the mark ? or art thou compelled through being defectively furnished by nature to murmur, and to be stingy, and to flatter, and to find fault with thy poor body, and to try to please men, and to make great dis- play, and to be so restless in thy mind? No, by the gods; but thou mightest have been delivered from these things long ago. Only if in truth thou canst be charged with being rather slow and dull of comprehension, thou must exert thyself about this also, not neglecting it nor yet taking pleasure in thy dullness. One man, when he has done a service to another, is ready to set it down to his account as a favor conferred. Another is not ready to do this, but still in his own mind he thinks of the man as his debtor, and he knows what he has done. A third in a manner does not even know what he has done, but he is like a vine which has produced grapes, and seeks for nothing more after it has once produced its proper fruit. As a horse when he has run, a dog when he has tackled the game, a bee when it has made the honey, so a man when he has done a good act does not call out for others to come and see, but he goes on to another act, as a vine goes on to produce again the grapes in season. Must a man then be one of these, who in a manner act thus without observing it ? Yes. But this very thing is neces- sary, the observation of what a man is doing; for, it may be said, it is characteristic of the social animal to perceive that he is working in a social manner, and indeed to wish that his social partner also should perceive it. It is true that thou sayest, but thou dost not rightly understand what is now said: and for this reason thou wilt become one of those of whom I spoke before, for even they are misled by a certain show of reason. But if thou wilt choose to understand the meaning of what is said, do not fear that for this reason thou wilt omit any social act. A prayer of the Athenians: Rain, rain, O dear Zeus, down on the ploughed fields of the Athenians and on the plains. In truth we ought not to pray at all, or we ought to pray in this simple and noble fashion. Just as we must understand when it is said that yEsculapius prescribed to this man horse-exercise, or bathing in cold water, or going without shoes, so we must understand it when it is said that the nature of the universe prescribed to this man disease, or mutilation, or loss, or anything else of the kind. For 294 MARCUS AURELIUS in the first case prescribed means something like this: he pre- scribed this for this man as a thing adapted to procure health; and in the second case it means that which happens to (or suits) ever} 7 man is fixed in a manner for him suitably to his destiny. For this is what we mean when we say that things are suitable to us, as the workmen say of squared stones in walls or the pyramids, that they are suitable, when they fit them to one another in some kind of connection. For there is altogether one fitness (harmony). And as the universe is made up out of all bodies to be such a body as it is, so out of all existing causes necessity (destiny) is made up to be such a cause as it is. And even those who are completely ignorant understand what I mean; for they say, It (necessity, destiny) brought this to such a per- son. This then was brought and this was prescribed to him. Let us then receive these things, as well as those which ^Escu- lapius prescribes. Many as a matter of course even among his prescriptions are disagreeable, but we accept them in the hope of health. Let the perfecting and accomplishment of the things which the common nature judges to be good, be judged by thee to be of the same kind as thy health. And so accept everything which happens, even if it seem disagreeable, because it leads to this, to the health of the universe and to the prosperity and felicity of Zeus (the universe). For he would not have brought on any man what he has brought, if it were not useful for the whole. Neither does the nature of anything, whatever it may be, cause anything which is not suitable to that which is directed by it. For two reasons then it is right to be content with that which happens to thee; the one, because it was done for thee and prescribed for thee, and in a manner had reference to thee, originally from the most ancient causes spun with thy destiny; and the other, because even that which comes severally to every man is to the power which administers the universe a cause of felicity and perfection, nay even of its very continuance. For the integrity of the whole is mutilated, if thou cuttest off any- thing whatever from the conjunction and the continuity either of the parts or of the causes. And thou dost cut off, as far as it is in thy power, when thou art dissatisfied, and in a manner triest to put anything out of the way. Be not disgusted, nor discouraged, nor dissatisfied, if thou dost not succeed in doing everything according to right princi- ples, but when thou hast failed, turn back again, and be con- MARCUS AURELIUS 295 tent if the greater part of what thou doest is consistent with man's nature, and love this to which thou returnest; and do not return to philosophy as if she were a master, but act like those who have sore eyes and apply a bit of sponge and egg, or as another applies a plaster, or drenching with water. For thus thou wilt not fail to obey reason, and thou wilt repose in it. And remember that philosophy requires only things which thy nature requires; but thou wouldst have something else which is not according to nature. It may be objected, Why, what is more agreeable than this (which I am doing) ? But is not this the very reason why pleasure deceives us ? And consider if magna- nimity, freedom, simplicity, equanimity, piety, are not more agree- able. For what is more agreeable than wisdom itself, when thou thinkest of the security and the happy course of all things which depend on the faculty of understanding and knowledge ? Things are in such a kind of envelopment that they have seemed to philosophers, not a few nor those common philoso- phers, altogether unintelligible ; nay even to the Stoics themselves they seem difficult to understand. And all our assent is change- able; for where is the man who never changes? Carry thy thoughts then to the objects themselves, and consider how short- lived they are and worthless, and that they may be in the posses- sion of a filthy wretch or a profligate or a robber. Then turn to the morals of those who live with thee, and it is hardly possible to endure even the most agreeable of them, to say nothing of a man being hardly able to endure himself. In such darkness then and dirt, and in so constant a flux both of substance and of time, and of motion and of things moved, what there is worth being highly prized, or even an object of serious pursuit, I can- not imagine. But, on the contrary, it is a man's duty to comfort himself, and to wait for his natural dissolution, and not to be vexed at the delay, but to rest in these principles only: the one, that nothing will happen to me which is not conformable to the nature of the universe; and the other, that it is in my power never to act contrary to my god and daemon: for there is no man who will compel me to this. About what am I now employing my own soul ? On every occasion I must ask myself this question, and inquire, What have I now in this part of me which they call the ruling prin- ciple ? and whose soul have I now, — that of a child, or of a 296 MARCUS AURELIUS young man, or of a feeble woman, or of a tyrant, or of a do- mestic animal, or of a wild beast ? What kind of things those are which appear good to the many, we may learn even from this. For if any man should conceive certain things as being really good, such as prudence, temperance, justice, fortitude, he would not, after having first conceived these, endure to listen to anything which should not be in harmony with what is really good. But if a man has first conceived as good the things which appear to the many to be good, he will listen and readily receive as very applicable that which was said by the comic writer. Thus even the many per- ceive the difference. For were it not so, this saying would not offend and would not be rejected (in the first case), while we receive it when it is said of wealth, and of the means which further luxury and fame, as said fitly and wittily. Go on, then, and ask if we should value and think those things to be good, to which, after their first conception in the mind, the words of the comic writer might be aptly applied, — that he who has them, through pure abundance has not a place to ease himself in. I am composed of the formal and the material; and neither of them will perish into nonexistence, as neither of them came into existence out of nonexistence. Every part of me then will be reduced by change into some part of the universe, and that again will change into another part of the universe, and so on forever. And by consequence of such a change I too exist, and those who begot me, and so on forever in the other direction. For nothing hinders us from saying so, even if the universe is administered according to definite periods (of revolution). Reason and the reasoning art (philosophy) are powers which are sufficient for themselves and for their own works. They move then from a first principle which is their own, and they make their way to the end which is proposed to them; and this is the reason why such acts are named Catorthdseis or right acts, which word signifies that they proceed by the right road. None of these things ought to be called a man's, which do not belong to a man, as man. They are not required of a man, nor does man's nature promise them, nor are they the means of man's nature attaining its end. Neither then does the end of man lie in these things, nor yet that which aids to the accom- plishment of this end, and that which aids toward this end is MARCUS AURELIUS 297 that which is good. Besides, if any of these things did belong to man, it would not be right for a man to despise them and to set himself against them; nor would a man be worthy of praise who showed that he did not want these things, nor would he who stinted himself in any of them be good, if indeed these things were good. But now the more of these things a man deprives himself of, or of other things like them, or even when he is de- prived of any of them, the more patiently he endures the loss, just in the same degree he is a better man. Such as are thy habitual thoughts, such also will be -the char- acter of thy mind; for the soul is dyed by the thoughts. Dye it then with a continuous series of such thoughts as these: for in- stance, that where a man can live, there he can also live well. But he must live in a palace; well then, he can also live well in a palace. And again, consider that for whatever purpose each thing has been constituted, for this it has been constituted, and towards this it is carried; and its end is in that towards which it is carried; and where the end is, there also is the advantage and the good of each thing. Now the good for the reasonable animal is society; for that we are made for society has been shown above. Is it not plain that the inferior exists for the sake of the superior ? But the things which have life are superior to those which have not life, and of those which have life the su- perior are those which have reason. To seek what is impossible is madness: and it is impossible that the bad should not do something of this kind. Nothing happens to any man which he is not formed by na- ture to bear. The same things happen to another, and either because he does not see that they have happened, or because he would show a great spirit, he is firm and remains unharmed. It is a shame then that ignorance and conceit should be stronger than wisdom. Things themselves touch not the soul, not in the least de- gree; nor have they admission to the soul, nor can they turn or move the soul; but the soul turns and moves itself alone, and whatever judgments it may think proper to make, such it makes for itself the things which present themselves to it. In one respect man is the nearest thing to me, so far as I must do good to men and endure them. But so far as some men make themselves obstacles to my proper acts, man becomes to me one of the things which are indifferent, no less than the 298 MARCUS AURELIUS sun or wind or a wild beast. Now it is true that these may im- pede my action, but they are no impediments to my affects and disposition, which have the power of acting conditionally and changing; for the mind converts and changes every hindrance to its activity into an aid; and so that which is a hindrance is made a furtherance to an act; and that which is an obstacle on the road helps us on this road. Reverence that which is best in the universe; and this is that which makes use of all things and directs all things. And in like manner also reverence that which is best in thyself; and this is of the same kind as that. For in thyself, also, that which makes use of everything else is this, and thy life is directed by this. That which does no harm to the state does no harm to the citizen. In the case of every appearance of harm, apply this rule: if the state is not harmed by this, neither am I harmed. But if the state is harmed, thou must not be angry with him who does harm to the state. Show him where his error is. Often think of the rapidity with which things pass by and disappear, both the things which are and the things which are produced. For substance is like a river in a continual flow, and the activities of things are in constant change, and the causes work in infinite varieties; and there is hardly anything which stands still. And consider this which is near to thee, this bound- less abyss of the past and of the future in which all things dis- appear. How, then, is he not a fool who is puffed up with such things or plagued about them, and makes himself miserable ? for they vex him only for a time, and a short time. Think of the universal substance, of which thou hast a very small portion; and of universal time, of which a short and indi- visible interval has been assigned to thee; and of that which is fixed by destiny, and how small a part of it thou art. Does another do me wrong ? Let him look to it. He has his own disposition, his own activity. I now have what the univer- sal nature now wills me to have; and I do what my nature now wills me to do. Let the part of thy soul which leads and governs be undis- turbed by the movements in the flesh, whether of pleasure or of pain; and let it not unite with them, but let it circumscribe it- self and limit those affections to their parts. But when these affections rise up to the mind by virtue of that other sympathy MARCUS AURELIUS 299 that naturally exists in a body which is all one, then thou must not strive to resist the sensation, for it is natural; but let not the ruling part of itself add to the sensation the opinion that it is either good or bad. Live with the gods. And he does live with the gods who con- stantly shows to them that his own soul is satisfied with that which is assigned to him, and that it does all that the daemon wishes, which Zeus hath given to every man for his guardian and guide, a portion of himself. And this is every man's understand- ing and reason. Art thou angry with him whose armpits stink ? art thou angry with him whose mouth smells foul ? What good will this anger do thee? He has such a mouth, he has such armpits; it is neces- sary that such an emanation must come from such things. But the man has reason, it will be said, and he is able, if he takes pains, to discover wherein he offends; I wish thee well of thy discovery. Well then, and thou hast reason: by thy rational fac- ulty stir up his rational faculty; show him his error, admonish him. For if he listen, thou wilt cure him, and there is no need of anger. As thou intendest to live when thou art gone out, ... so it is in thy power to live here. But if men do not permit thee, then get away out of life, yet so as if thou wert suffering no harm. The house is smoky, and I quit it. Why dost thou think that this is any trouble ? But so long as nothing of the kind drives me out, I remain, am free, and no man shall hinder me from doing what I choose ; and I choose to do what is according to the nature of the rational and social animal. The intelligence of the universe is social. Accordingly it has made the inferior things for the sake of the superior, and it has fitted the superior to one another. Thou seest how it has sub- ordinated, co-ordinated, and assigned to everything its proper portion, and has brought together into concord with one another the things which are the best. How hast thou behaved hitherto to the gods, thy parents, brethren, children, teachers, to those who looked after thy infancy, to thy friends, kinsfolk, to thy slaves ? Consider if thou hast hitherto behaved to all in such a way that this may be said of thee: — w He never has wronged a man in deed or word.* 3<50 MARCUS AURELIUS And call to recollection both how many things thou hast passed through, and how many things thou hast been able to endure, and that the history of thy life is now complete and thy service is ended; and how many beautiful things thou hast seen; and how many pleasures and pains thou hast despised; and how many things called honorable thou hast spurned; and to how many ill- minded folks thou hast shown a kind disposition. Why do unskilled and ignorant souls disturb him who has skill and knowledge ? What soul, then, has skill and knowledge ? That which knows beginning and end, and knows the reason which pervades all substance, and though all time by fixed periods (revolutions) administers the universe. Soon, very soon, thou wilt be ashes, or a skeleton, and either a name or not even a name ; but name is sound and echo. And the things which are much valued in life are empty and rotten and trifling, and (like) little dogs biting one another, and little children quarreling, laughing, and then straightway weeping. But fidelity and modesty and justice and truth are fled Up to Olympus from the wide-spread earth. — Hesiod, "Works and Days,^ V. 197. What, then, is there which still detains thee here, if the ob- jects of sense are easily changed and never stand still, and the organs of perception are dull and easily receive false impressions, and the poor soul itself is an exhalation from blood ? But to have good repute amid such a world as this is an empty thing. Why then dost thou not wait in tranquillity for thy end, whether it is extinction or removal to another state ? And until that time comes, what is sufficient ? Why, what else than to venerate the gods and bless them, and to do good to men, and to practice tolerance and self-restraint; but as to everything which is beyond the limits of the poor flesh and breath, to remember that this is neither thine nor in thy power. Thou canst pass thy life in an equable flow of happiness, if thou canst go by the right way and think and act in the right way. These two things are common both to the soul of God and to the soul of man, and to the soul of every rational being: not to be hindered by another; and to hold good to consist in the disposition to justice and the practice of it, and in this to let thy desire find its termination. MARCUS AURELIUS 301 If this is neither my own badness, nor an effect of my own badness, and the common weal is not injured, why am I troubled about it, and what is the harm to the common weal ? Do not be cairied along inconsiderately by the appearance of things, but give help (to all) according to thy ability and their fitness; and if they should have sustained loss in matters which are indifferent, do not imagine this to be a damage, for it is a bad habit. But as the old man, when he went away, asked back his foster-child's top, remembering that it was a top, so do thou in this case also. When thou art calling out on the Rostra, hast thou forgotten, man, what these things are? <( Yes; but they are objects of great concern to these people ! }> Wilt thou too then be made a fool for these things ? I was once a fortunate man, but I lost it, I know not how. But fortunate means that a man has assigned to him- self a good fortune; and a good fortune is good disposition of the soul, good emotions, good actions.* Book V. of the <( Meditations » complete. *The text of this section is corrupt. 302 ALFRED AUSTIN (1835-) jLfred Austin, who succeeded Tennyson as Poet Laureate of England, was born at Headingley, near Leeds, May 30th, 1835. Graduating at the University of London in 1853, he was called to the bar four years later, but has been identified with literature and journalism rather than with law. He was field correspondent of the London Standard during the Franco-Prussian War, and when the National Review was founded in 1883 became its editor. He is the author of several volumes of verse, and as Poet Laureate is adding with meritorious industry to his metrical pro- ductions. It is as a writer of prose essays and newspaper articles, however, that he has done his most effective work in his generation. THE APOSTLE OF CULTURE It is scarcely too much to say that, in his very earliest verse, Matthew Arnold frowned rather than smiled — frowned as a teacher might frown who thinks he has discovered everything is going amiss in the school it is his mission to instruct. His first poem is a lament over "a thousand discords," "man's fitful uproar, w "our vain turmoil, w and "noisy schemes. w We turn the page to read that there are "bad days, 8 that "we ask and ask, while Shakespeare smiles and is free, B and that it has become " a monotonous, dead, unprofitable world. w That these utterances were perfectly sincere, and no mere metrical affectation, who can doubt that is acquainted with the general body of Matthew Ar- nold's poetry ? Here, for instance, are some notable but strictly representative passages, mostly written while he was still a young man: — " But we, brought forth and reared in hours Of change, alarm, surprise — What shelter to grow ripe is ours ? What leisure to grow wise ? ALFRED AUSTIN 303 (< Like children bathing on the shore, Buried a wave beneath, The second wave succeeds before We have had time to breathe. (< Too fast we live, too much are tried, Too harassed, to attain Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's wide And luminous view to gain." — In memory of the author of (< Obermann? <( AhJ two desires toss about The poet's feverish blood. One drives him to the world without, And one to solitude. (( He who hath watched, not shared, the strife, Knows how the day hath gone. He only lives with the world's life Who hath renounced his own ! w — The same. <( Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born, With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn: Their faith, my tears, the world deride, I come to shed them at your side. OF MARRIAGE AND SINGLE LIFE He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to for- tune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief. Certainly the best works and of greatest merit for the public have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men: which both in affection and means have mar- ried and endowed the public. Yet it were great reason that those that have children should have greatest care of future times unto which they know they must transmit their dearest pledges. Some there are, who though they lead a single life, yet their thoughts do end with themselves, and account future times impertinences. Nay, there are some other that account wife and children but as bills of charges. Nay, more, there are some foolish rich covetous men, that take a pride in having no children because they may be thought so much the richer. For perhaps they have heard some talk, Such a one is a great rich man; and another except to it, Yea, but he hath a great charge of children, — as if it were an abatement to his riches. But the most ordinary cause of a single life is liberty; especially in cer- tain self-pleasing and humorous minds, which are so sensible of every restraint, as they will go near to think their girdles and garters to be bonds and shackles. Unmarried men are best friends, best masters, best servants, but not always best subjects; for they are light to run away: and almost all fugitives are of that condition. A single life doth well with churchmen: for charity will hardly water the ground, where it must first fill a pool. It is indifferent for judges and magistrates: for if they be facile and corrupt, you shall have a servant five times worse than a wife. For soldiers, I find the generals commonly, in FRANCIS BACON 32 I their hortatives, put men in mind of their wives and children. And I think the despising of marriage amongst the Turks maketh the vulgar soldiers more base. Certainly, wife and children are a kind of discipline of humanity; and single men, though they be many times more charitable, because their means are less exhaust, yet, on the other side, they are more cruel and hard- hearted, good to make severe inquisitors, because their tenderness is not so oft called upon. Grave natures, led by custom, and therefore constant, are commonly loving husbands; as was said of Ulysses, <( Vetulam snam prcetnlit immortalitati. n Chaste women are often proud and froward, as presuming upon the merit of their chastity. It is one of the best bonds, both of chastity and obedi- ence, in the wife, if she think her husband wise: which she will never do if she find him jealous. Wives are young men's mis- tresses; companions for middle ages; and old men's nurses. So as a man may have a quarrel to marry when he will. But yet he was reputed one of the wise men, that made answer to the question, when a man should marry : (< A young man not yet, an elder man not at all." It is often seen that bad husbands have very good wives; whether it be that it raiseth the price of their husbands' kindness when it comes, or that the wives take a pride in their patience. But this never fails if the bad hus- bands were of their own choosing, against their friends' consent; for then they will be sure to make good their own folly. Complete. From <( Essays Civil and Moral. *> OF ENVY There be none of the affections which have been noted to fas- cinate or bewitch, but love and envy They both have vehement wishes; they frame themselves readily into imagi- nations and suggestions: and they come easily into the eye; especially upon the presence of the objects; which are the points that conduce to fascination, if any such thing there be. We see likewise, the Scripture calleth envy an evil eye: and the astrolo- gers call the evil influences of the stars evil aspects; so that still there seemeth to be acknowledged in the act of envy an ejacu- lation, or irradiation of the eye. Nay, some have been so curi- ous as to note that the times when the stroke or percussion of an envious eye doth most hurt are when the party envied is 1 — 21 322 FRANCIS BACON beheld in glory or triumph; for that sets an edge upon envy: and, besides, at such times, the spirits of the person envied do come forth most into the outward parts, and so meet the blow. But leaving these curiosities, though not unworthy to be thought on in fit place, we will handle what persons are apt to envy others, what persons are most subject to be envied themselves, and what is the difference between public and private envy. A man that hath no virtue in himself ever envieth virtue in others. For men's minds will either feed upon their own good, or upon others' evil; and who wanteth the one will prey upon the other; and whoso is out of hope to attain to another's virtue will seek to come at even hand by depressing another's fortune. A man that is busy and inquisitive is commonly envious, for to know much of other men's matters cannot be, because all that ado may concern his own estate; therefore it must needs be that he taketh a kind of play-pleasure in looking upon the fortunes of others. Neither can he that mindeth but his own business find much matter for envy. For envy is a gadding passion, and walketh the streets, and doth not keep home ; (< Non est ciiriosus, quin idem sit malevolns* Men of noble birth are noted to be envious towards new men when they rise, for the distance is altered, and it is like a deceit of the eye that when others come on they think themselves go back. Deformed persons and eunuchs, and old men and bastards, are envious, for he that cannot possibly mend his own case will do what he can to impair another's, — except these defects light upon a very brave and heroical nature, which thinketh to make his natural wants part of his honor, in that it should be said that an eunuch or a lame man did such great matters, affecting the honor of a miracle; as it was in Narses the eunuch, and Agesi- laus and Tamerlane that were lame men. The same is the case of men that rise after calamities and misfortunes; for they are as men fallen out of the times, and think other men's harms a redemption of their own sufferings. They that desire to excel in too many matters, out of levity and vainglory, are ever envious, for they cannot want work, it being impossible but many, in some one of those things, should surpass them. Which was the character of Adrian the emperor, that mortally envied poets, and painters, and artificers, in works wherein he had a vein to excel. FRANCIS BACON 323 Lastly, near kinsfolks, and fellows in office, and those that have been bred together, are more apt to envy their equals when they are raised. For it doth upbraid unto them their own for- tunes, and pointeth at them, and cometh oftener in their remem- brance, and incurreth likewise more into the note of others; and envy ever redoubleth from speech and fame. Cain's envy was the more vile and malignant towards his brother Abel, because, when his sacrifice was better accepted, there was nobody to look on. Thus much for those that are apt to envy. Concerning those that are more or less subject to envy: First, persons of eminent virtue, when they are advanced, are less en- vied, for their fortune seemeth but due unto them, and no man envieth the payment of a debt, but rewards and liberality rather. Again envy is ever joined with the comparing of a man's self, and where there is no comparison, no envy; and therefore kings are not envied but by kings. Nevertheless, it is to be noted that unworthy persons are most envied at their first coming in, and afterwards overcome it better; whereas, contrari- wise, persons of worth and merit are most envied when their fortunes continueth long. For by that time, though their virtue be the same, yet it hath not the same lustre; for fresh men grow up that darken it. Persons of noble blood are less envied in their rising, for it seemeth but right done to their birth; besides, there seemeth not much added to their fortune, and envy is as the sunbeams that beat hotter upon a bank or steep rising ground than upon a fiat. And for the same reason, those that are advanced by degrees are less envied than those that are advanced suddenly, and per saltum. Those that have joined with their honor great travels, cares, or perils, are less subject to envy, for men think that they earn their honors hardly, and pity them sometimes; and pity ever healeth envy: wherefore you shall observe that the more deep and sober sort of politic persons, in their greatness, are ever be- moaning themselves what a life they lead, chanting a Quanta patimur, — not that they feel it so, but only to abate the edge of envy. But this is to be understood of business that is laid upon men, and not such as they call unto themselves, for nothing in- creaseth envy more than an unnecessary and ambitious engrossing of business; and nothing doth extinguish envy more than for a great person to preserve all other inferior officers in their full 324 FRANCIS BACON rights and pre-eminences of their places, — for by that means there be so many screens between him and envy. Above all, those are most subject to envy, which carry the greatness of their fortunes in an insolent and proud manner, being never well but while they are showing how great they are, either by outward pomp or by triumphing over all opposition or competition; whereas wise men will rather do sacrifice to envy, in suffering themselves sometimes of purpose to be crossed and overborne in things that do not much concern them. Notwith- standing, so much is true: that the carriage of greatness in a plain and open manner, so it be without arrogancy and vain- glory, doth draw less envy than if it be in a more crafty and cunning fashion. For in that course a man doth but disavow fortune, and seemeth to be conscious of his own want in worth, and doth but teach others to envy him. Lastly, to conclude this part, as we said in the beginning that the act of envy had somewhat in it of witchcraft, so there is no other cure of envy but the cure of witchcraft, and that is to remove the lot, as they call it, and to lay it upon another. For which purpose the wiser sort of great persons bring in ever upon the stage somebody upon whom to derive the envy that would come upon themselves: sometimes upon ministers and servants, sometimes upon colleagues and associates, and the like; and for that turn, there are never wanting some persons of vio- lent and undertaking natures, who, so they may have power and business, will take it at any cost. Now to speak of public envy. There is yet some good in public envy, whereas in private there is none. For public envy is as an ostracism, that eclipseth men when they grow too great; and therefore it is a bridle also to great ones, to keep them within bounds. This envy, being in the Latin word invidia, goeth in the mod- ern languages by the name of discontent, — of which we shall speak in handling sedition. It is a disease in a state like to in- fection; for as infection spreadeth upon that which is sound, and tainteth it, so when envy is gotten once into a state, it traduceth even the best actions thereof and turneth them into an ill odor; and therefore there is little won by intermingling of plausible- actions, for that doth argue but a weakness and fear of envy, which hurteth so much the more; as it is likewise usual in in- fections, which if you fear them, you call them upon you. FRANCIS BACON 325 This public envy seemeth to beat chiefly upon principal offi- cers or ministers, rather than upon kings and estates themselves. But this is a sure rule, that if the envy upon the minister be great, when the cause of it in him is small, or if the envy be general in a manner upon all the ministers of an estate, then the envy, though hidden, is truly upon the estate itself. And so much of public envy or discontentment, and the difference thereof from private envy, which was handled in the first place. We will add this in general, touching the affection of envy, that of all other affections it is the most importune and continual, for of other affections there is occasion given but now and then ; and therefore it is well said: a hividia fcstos dies non agit* for it is ever working upon some other. And it is also noted, that love and envy do make a man pine, which other affections do not, because they are not so continual. It is also the vilest affection, and the most depraved; for which cause it is the proper attribute of the devil, who is called, <( the envious man that soweth tares among the wheat by night, w as it always cometh to pass that envy worketh subtly and in the dark, and to the prejudice of good things, such as is the wheat. Complete. From « Essays Civil and Moral. w OF LOVE The stage is more beholden to love than the life of man. For as to the stage, love is ever a matter of comedies, and now and then of tragedies; but in life it doth much mischief, sometimes like a siren, sometimes like a fury. You may observe that amongst all the great and worthy persons, whereof the mem- ory remaineth, either ancient or recent, there is not one that hath been transported to the mad degree of love; which shows that great spirits and great business do keep out this weak passion. You must except nevertheless Marcus Antonius the half partner of the empire of Rome, and Appius Claudius the decem- vir and lawgiver; whereof the former was indeed a voluptuous man and inordinate, but the latter was an austere and wise man. And, therefore it seems, though rarely, that love can find entrance not only into an open heart, but also into a heart well fortified, if watch be not well kept. It is a poor saying of Epicurus: 326 FRANCIS BACON <( Satis magnum alter alteri theatrum sumus n ; as if man, made for the contemplation of heaven, and all noble objects, should do nothing but kneel before a little idol, and make himself subject, though not of the mouth, as beasts are, yet of the eye, which was given him for higher purposes. It is a strange thing to note the excess of this passion, and how it braves the nature and value of things by this, that the speaking in a perpetual hyber- bole is comely in nothing but in love. Neither is it merely in the phrase; for whereas it hath been well said that the arch flatterer, with whom all the petty flatterers have intelligence, is a man's self; certainly the lover is more. For there was never proud man thought so absurdly well of himself as the lover doth of the person loved; and therefore it was well said that it is im- possible to love and to be wise. Neither doth this weakness ap- pear to others only, and not to the party loved, but to the loved most of all; except the love be reciproque. For it is a true rule that love is ever rewarded either with the reciproque, or with an inward and secret contempt: by how much the more men ought to beware of this passion, which loseth not only other things but itself. As for the other losses, the poet's relation doth well figure them; that he that preferred Helena quitted the gifts of Juno and Pallas: for whosoever esteemeth too much of amorous affec- tion quitteth both riches and wisdom. This passion hath its floods in the very times of weakness, which are great prosperity and great adversity, — though this latter hath been less observed: which both times kindle love, and make it more fervent, and therefore show it to be the child of folly. They do best, who, if they cannot but admit love, yet make it keep quarter, and sever it wholly from their serious affairs and actions of life; for if it check once with business, it troubleth men's fortunes, and maketh men that they can no ways be true to their own ends. I know not how, but martial men are given to love; I think it is but as they are given to wine, for perils commonly ask to be paid in pleasures. There is in man's nature a secret inclination and mo- tion towards love of others, which, if it be not spent upon some one or a few, doth naturally spread itself towards many, and maketh men to become humane and charitable; as it is seen some- times in friars. Nuptial love maketh mankind, friendly love per- fecteth it, but wanton love corrupteth and embaseth it. Complete. From « Essays Civil and Moral. » FRANCIS BACON 327 OF GREAT PLACE Men in great place are thrice servants: servants of the sov- ereign or State, servants of fame, and servants of busi- ness; so as they have no freedom, neither in their persons, nor in their actions, nor in their times. It is a strange desire to seek power and to lose liberty; or to seek power over others and to lose power over a man's self. The rising unto place is labo- rious; and by pains men come to greater pains; and it is some- times base, and by indignities men come to dignities. The standing is slippery, and the regress is either a downfall or at least an eclipse, which is a melancholy thing. (< Cum non sis qui fueris, non esse cur veils vivere ? * Nay, retire men cannot when they would; neither will they when it were reason; but are im- patient of privateness, even in age and sickness, which require the shadow: like old townsmen that will be still sitting at their street door, though thereby they offer age to scorn. Certainly great persons had need to borrow other men's opinions to think themselves happy; for if they judge by their own feeling, they cannot find it, but if they think with themselves what other men think of them, and that other men would fain be as they are, then they are happy as it were by report, when perhaps they find the contrary within. For they are the first that find their own griefs; though they be the last that find their own faults. Certainly men in great fortunes are strangers to themselves, and while they are in the puzzle of business they have no time to tend their health, either of body or mind. ^ Illi mors gravis incubat, qui notus nimis omnibus, ignotus moritur sibi. n In place there is license to do good and evil, whereof the latter is a curse; for in evil the best condition is not to will, the second not to can. But power to do good is the true and lawful end of aspir- ing. For good thoughts, though God accept them, yet towards men are little better than good dreams, except they be put in act; and that cannot be without power and place, as the vantage and commanding ground. Merit and good works is the end of man's motion; and conscience of the same is the accomplishment of man's rest. For if a man can be partaker of God's theatre, he shall likewise be partaker of God's rest. Anger is certainly a kind of baseness, as it appears well in the weakness of those subjects in whom it reigns: children, women, old folks, sick folks. Only men must beware that they carry their anger rather with scorn than with fear, so they may seem rather to be above the injury than below it. Which is a thing easily done, if a man will give law to himself in it. For the second point, the causes and motives of anger are chiefly three. First, to be too sensible of hurt. For no man is angry that feels not himself hurt; and therefore tender and deli- cate persons must needs be oft angry, they have so many things to trouble them, which more robust natures have little sense of. The next is the apprehension and construction of the injury offered to be, in the circumstances thereof, full of contempt. For contempt is that which putteth an edge upon anger, as much or more than the hurt itself. And therefore, when men are ingen- ious in picking out circumstances of contempt, they do kindle their anger much. Lastly, opinion of the touch of a man's repu- tation doth multiply and sharpen anger. Wherein the remedy is that a man should have, as Consalvo was wont to say, "-telam honoris crassiorem. w But in all refrainings of anger it is the best 344 FRANCIS BACON remedy to win time, and to make a man's self believe that the opportunity of his revenge is not yet come, but that he foresees a time for it, and so to still himself in the meantime and re- serve it. To contain anger from mischief, though it take hold of a man, there be two things whereof you must have special caution. The one, of extreme bitterness of words, especially if they be aculeate and proper; for commnnia malcdicta are nothing so much; and again, that in anger a man reveal no secrets, for that makes them not fit for society. The other, that you do not peremptorily break off, in any business, in a fit of anger: but howsoever you show bitterness, do not act anything that is not revocable. For raising and appeasing anger in another, it is done chiefly by choosing of times: when men are frowardest and worst dis- posed, to incense them; again, by gathering, as was touched before, all that you can find out to aggravate the contempt: and the two remedies are by the contraries. The former, to take good times when first to relate to a man an angry business; for the first impression is much. And the other is to sever, as much as may be, the construction of the injury, from the point of con- tempt, imputing it to misunderstanding, fear, passion, or what you will. Complete. From « Essays Civil and Moral. w OF RICHES I cannot call riches better than the baggage of virtue. The Roman word is better, — impedimenta. For as the baggage is to an army, so are riches to virtue. It cannot be spared, nor left behind, but it hindereth the march; yea, and the care of it sometimes loseth or disturbeth the victory. Of great riches there is no real use, except it be in the distribution; the rest is but conceit. So saith Solomon, (< Where much is, there are many to consume it; and what hath the owner, but the sight of it with his eyes?" The personal fruition in any man cannot reach to feel great riches; there is a custody of them; or a power of dole and donative of them; or a fame of them; but no solid use to the owner. Do you not see what feigned prices are set upon little stones and rareties ? And what works of ostentation are undertaken, because there might seem to be some use of great FRANCIS BACON 345 riches ? But then you will say, they may be of use, to buy men out of dangers or troubles. As Solomon saith, (< Riches are as a stronghold in the imagination of the rich man." But this is excellently expressed, that it is in imagination, and not always in fact. For certainly great riches have sold more men than they have bought out. Seek not proud riches, but such as thou mayest get justly, use soberly, distribute cheerfully, and leave contentedly. Yet have no abstract nor friarly contempt of them: but distinguish, as Cicero saith well of Rabirius Posthumus: <( in studio rci amplificandee apparcbat, non avaritiee preedam, scd in- strumentum bonitati queer i* Hearken also to Solomon, and be- ware of hasty gathering of riches : w Qui festinat ad divitias, non erit insons. y> The poets feign that when Plutus, which is riches, is sent from Jupiter, he limps, and goes slowly; but when he is sent from Pluto, he runs, and is swift of foot: meaning, that riches gotten by good means and just labor, pace slowly; but when they come by the death of others, as by the course of in- heritance, testaments, and the like, they come tumbling upon a man. But it might be applied likewise to Pluto, taking him for the devil. For when riches come from the devil, as by fraud, and oppression, and unjust means, they come upon speed. The ways to enrich are many, and most of them foul. Parsimony is one of the best, and yet is not innocent; for it withholdeth men from works of liberality and charity. The improvement of the ground is the most natural obtaining of riches; for it is our great mother's blessing, the earth's; but it is slow. And yet, where men of great wealth do stoop to husbandry, it multiplieth riches exceedingly. I knew a nobleman in England that had the greatest audits of any man in my time: a great grazier, a great sheepmaster, a great timberman, a great collier, a great cornmaster, a great leadman, — and so of iron, and a number of the like points of husbandry; so as the earth seemed a sea to him, in respect of the perpetual importation. It was truly ob- served by one, that himself came very hardly to a little riches, and very easily to great riches. For when a man's stock is come to that, that he can expect the prime of markets, and overcome those bargains, which for their greatness are few men's money, and be partner in the industries of young men, he cannot but increase mainly. The gains of ordinary trades and vocations are honest and furthered by two things, chiefly, by diligence, and by a good name for good and fair dealing. But the gains of bar- 346 FRANCIS BACON gains are of a more doubtful nature, when men should wait upon other's necessity; broke by servants and instruments to draw them on; put off others cunningly that would be better chapmen, and the like practices, which are crafty and naught. As for the chopping of bargains, when a man buys, not to hold, but to sell over again, that commonly grindeth double, both upon the seller and upon the buyer. Sharings do greatly enrich, if the hands be well chosen that are trusted. Usury is the cer- tainest means of gain, though one of the worst, as that whereby a man doth eat his bread (< in sudori vultus alicni w / and besides, doth plough upon Sundays. But yet certain though it be, it hath flows; for that the scriveners and brokers do value unsound men, to serve their own turn. The fortune in being the first in an invention, or in a privilege, doth cause sometimes a wonder- ful overgrowth in riches; as it was with the first sugarman in the Canaries. Therefore, if a man can play the true logician, to have as well judgment as invention, he may do great matters, especially if the times be fit. He that resteth upon gains cer- tain shall hardly grow to great riches. And he that puts all upon adventures doth oftentimes break and come to poverty; it is good therefore to guard adventures with certainties that may escape losses. Monopolies, and coemption of wares for resale, where they are not restrained, are great means to enrich, espe- cially if the party have intelligence what things are like to come into request, and to store himself beforehand. Riches gotten by service, though it be of the best rise, yet when they are gotten by flattery, feeding humors, and other servile conditions, they may be placed among the worst. As for fishing for testaments and executorships, as Tacitus saith of Seneca, <( Testamenta et or- bos tanquam indagine capi^ it is yet worse; by how much men submit themselves to meaner persons than in service. Believe not much them that seem to despise riches; for they despise them that despair of them, and none worse when they come to them. Be not penny-wise; riches have wings, and sometimes they fly away of themselves, sometimes they must be set flying to bring in more. Men leave their riches either to their kindred or to the public; and moderate portions prosper best in both. A great estate left to an heir is as a lure to all the birds of prey round about, to seize on him, if he be not the better estab- lished in years and judgment. Likewise glorious gifts and foun- dations are like sacrifices without salt; and but the painted FRANCIS BACON 347 sepulches of alms, which soon will putrefy and corrupt inwardly. Therefore measure not thine advancements by quantity, but frame them by measure ; and defer not charities till death : for cer- tainly, if a man weigh it rightly, he that doth so is rather liberal of another man's than of his own. Complete. From « Essays Civil and Moral. » OF NATURE IN MEN Nature is often hidden, sometimes overcome, seldom extin- guished. Force maketh nature more violent in the return; doctrine and discourse maketh nature less importune; but custom only doth alter and subdue nature. He that seeketh vic- tory over his nature, let him not set himself too great, nor too small tasks; for the first will make him dejected by often fail- ings; and the second will make him a small proceeder, though by often prevailings. And at the first, let him practice with helps, as swimmers do with bladders or rushes: but after a time, let him practice with disadvantages, as dancers do with thick shoes. For it breeds great perfection, if the practice be harder than the use. Where nature is mighty, and therefore the victory hard, the degrees had need be, first to stay and arrest nature in time; like to him that would say over the four and twenty let- ters when he was angry: then to go less in quantity; as if one should, in forbearing wine, come from drinking healths to a draught at a meal; and lastly, to discontinue altogether. But if a man have the fortitude and resolution to enfranchise himself at once, that is the best: — ^Optimus ilk animi vindex, Itzdentia pectus Vinculo, qui rupit, dedoluitque semel. }> Neither is the ancient rule amiss, to bend nature as a wand to a contrary extreme, whereby to set it right : understanding it where the contrary extreme is no vice. Let not a man force a habit upon himself with a perpetual continuance, but with some intermis- sion. For both the pause reinforceth the new onset; and if a man that is not perfect be ever in practice, he shall as well practice his errors as his abilities, and induce one habit of both; and there is no means to help this but by seasonable intermis- sions. But let not a man trust his victory over his nature too 348 FRANCIS BACON far; for nature will lie buried a great time, and yet revive upon the occasion or temptation. Like as it was with ^Esop's damsel, turned from a cat to a woman, who sat very demurely at the board's end, till a mouse ran before her. Therefore let a man either avoid the occasion altogether, or put himself often to it, that he may be little moved with it. A man's nature is best perceived in privateness, for there is no affectation; in passion, for that putteth a man out of his precepts; and in a new case or experiment, for there custom leaveth him. They are happy men, whose natures sort with their vocations; otherwise they may say, ^Multum incola fuit anima mea* when they converse in those things they do not affect. In studies, whatsoever a man com- mandeth upon himself, let him set hours for it; but whatsoever is agreeable to his nature, let him take no care for any set times; for his thoughts will fly to it of themselves, so as the spaces of other business or studies will suffice. A man's nature runs either to herbs or weeds; therefore let him seasonably water the one and destroy the other. Complete. From « Essays Civil and Moral. » OF CUSTOM AND EDUCATION Men's thoughts are much according to their inclination; their discourse and speeches according to their learning and in- fused opinions; but their deeds are after as they have been accustomed. And therefore, as Machiavel well noteth, though in an evil-favored instance, there is no trusting to the force of na- ture, nor to the bravery of words, except it be corroborate by custom. His instance is, that for the achieving of a desperate conspiracy a man should not rest upon the fierceness of any man's nature, or his resolute undertakings; but take such an one as hath had his hands formerly in blood. But Machiavel knew not of a friar Clement, nor a Ravillac, nor a Jaureguy, nor a Baltazar Gerard: yet his rule holdeth still, that nature, nor the engagement of words, are not so forcible as custom. Only super- stition is now so well advanced, that men of the first blood are as firm as butchers by occupation : and votary resolution is made equipollent to custom, even in matter of blood. In other things, the predominancy of custom is everywhere visible; insomuch as a man would wonder to hear men profess, protest, engage, give FRANCIS BACON 349 great words, and then do just as they have done before: as if they were dead images, and engines moved only by the wheels of custom. We see also the reign or tyranny of custom what it is. The Indians, I mean the sect of their wise men, lay them- selves quietly upon a stack of wood, and so sacrifice themselves by fire. Nay, the wives strive to be burned with the corpses of their husbands. The lads of Sparta, of ancient time, were wont to be scourged upon the altar of Diana, without so much as queching. I re- member in the beginning of Queen Elizabeth's time of England, an Irish rebel condemned put up a petition to the deputy that he might be hanged in a withe, and not in a halter, because it had been so used with former rebels. There be monks in Russia, that for penance, will sit a whole night in a vessel of water till they be engaged with hard ice. Many examples may be put of the force of custom, both upon mind and body. Therefore, since custom is the principal magistrate of man's life, let men by all means endeavor to obtain good customs. Certainly custom is most perfect when it beginneth in young years: this we call edu- cation, which is, in effect, but an early custom. So we see in languages, the tongue is more pliant to all expressions and sounds, the joints are more supple to all feats of activity and motions in youth than afterwards. For it is true that late learners cannot so well take the ply, except it be in some minds that have not suffered themselves to fix, but have kept themselves open and prepared to receive continual amendment, which is exceeding rare. But if the force of custom simple and separate be great, the force of custom copulate and conjoined and collegiate is far greater. For their example teacheth, company comforteth, emu- lation quickeneth, glory raiseth: so as in such places the force of custom is in its exaltation. Certainly the great multiplication of virtues upon human nature resteth upon societies well ordained and disciplined. For commonwealths and good governments do nourish virtue grown, but do not much mend the seeds. But the misery is that the most effectual means are now applied to the ends least to be desired. Complete. From « Essays Civil and Moral. w 350 FRANCIS BACON OF FORTUNE It cannot be denied but outward accidents conduce much to fortune: favor, opportunity, death of others, occasion fitting virtue. But chiefly, the mold of a man's fortune is in his own hands. <( Faber quisque fortunes suce* saith the poet. And the most frequent of external causes is that the folly of one man is the fortune of another. For no man prospers so suddenly as by others' errors.