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national secula&society
;m.
THE PHILOSOPHY
OF
SECULARISM.
BY
GE W. FOOTE.
Price Twopence,
London :
THE PIONEER PRESS,
61 Farringdon Street, E.C. 4.
�This pamphlet was originally published in 1879, and reissued
a few years later.
It is again published with such alterations
as the lapse of time has rendered advisable.
�0
Wis7
THE PHILOSOPHY OF SECULARISM.
The present age is one of theological thaw. The Re
formation is by some regarded as the most remarkable
and important religious movement of modern times;
while others consider as still more portentious that
sceptical movement of last century, which culminated
in the lightnings and thunders of the Revolution, and
finally cleared the intellectual atmosphere of its densest
and most oppressive clouds of superstition. But pro
bably it will be found that the nineteenth century, which
was not, as some writers seem to imagine, rudely severed
from its predecessor, has continued less tumultuously,
because amidst fewer impediments, the critical work of
the eighteenth, and is no less a period of religious dis
integration and reconstruction. Traditional beliefs are
being silently subverted by new agencies. Science, in
stead of critically attacking supernatural religion, has
surely and irretrievably sapped its foundations. The
-educated intelligence of to-day is not required to discuss
minor points of doctrine and ritual, or the internal dis
crepancies of revelation, but finds itself confronted with
the supreme all-subsuming question of whether the very
essentials of faith can be maintained in the presence of
the indubitable truths of science, and of the rigorous
habit of mind it engenders. Heretics, too, are less
vigorously cursed for their wicked obstinacy, a sure sign
of theological decadence. On the contrary, when they
happen to be eminent in science or literature they are
usually treated with marked respect; and the apologetic
tone, which heresy has long discarded, is now assumed
by those who have hitherto claimed to speak with
authority. If the Reformation broke the infallibility of
�4
THE PHILOSOPHY
the Pope, and secured liberty and progress for Pro
testants ; if the Revolution drove feudalism and mental
tyranny from their strongholds in France, and enlisted
the bright, quick French intellect once for all in the ser
vice of reason and freedom, it is no less true that the
scientific movement of our age, which is co-extensive
with civilization, is doing a vaster though not more
necessary work, and is slowly but surely preparing for
that great Future, whose lineaments none of us can pre
sume to trace, although here and there an aspect flashes
on some straining vision.
The old faiths ruin and rend, and the air is vocal with
the clamour of new systems, each protesting itself the
Religion of the Future. Sweet sentimental Deism
claims first attention, because it retains what is thought
to be the essence of old beliefs after discarding their
reality. Next perhaps comes Positivism,1 far nobler
and more vital, which manages to make itself well
heard, having a few strong and skilful pleaders, who
never lose sight of their creed whatever subject they
happen to be treating. But Secularism, which in England
at least is numerically far more important than Posi
tivism, although gladly heard by thousands of common
people, is insufficiently known in circles of highest
education where its principles are most powerfully
operant. Yet the word secular is entering more and
more into our general vocabulary, and in especial has
become associated with that view of national education
which denies the propriety of religious teaching in Board
1 Positivism is exceedingly well represented in England, and
there are many points of resemblance between Positivism and
Secularism. Indeed the resemblance would be almost complete if
the Positivists in ignoring theology did not make a god of Comte,
and with amazing disregard of that historic development they so
emphasize, venerate all his later aberrations, as though he or any
man could justly assume to prescribe the ways in which, through all
succeeding generations, a great idea shall realize itself in practice.
�OF SECULARISM.
5
Schools. This use of the word points to the principle
on which Secularism is based. The interests of this
world and life are secular, and can be estimated and
furthered by our unaided intellects; the interests of
another life and world can be dealt with only by ap
pealing to Revelation. Secularism proposes to cultivate
the splendid provinces of Time, leaving the theologians
to care for the realms of Eternity, and meaning to
interfere with them only while their pursuit of salvation in
another life hinders the attainment of real welfare in this.
Were I obliged to give an approximate definition of
Secularism in one sentence I should say that it is natur
alism in morals as distinguished from supernaturalism ;
meaning by this that the criterion of morality is derivable
from reason and experience, and that its ground and
guarantee exist in human nature independently of any
theological belief. Mr. G. J. Holyoake, whose name is
inseparably associated with Secularism, says : “ Secular
ism relates to the present existence of man and to actions
the issue of which can be tested by the experience of
this life.” And again: “ Secularism means the moral
duty of man deduced from considerations which pertain
to this life alone. Secularism purposes to regulate
human affairs by considerations purely human.” The
second of these quotations is clearly more comprehen
sive than the first, and is certainly a better expression
of the view entertained by the vast majority of Secu
larists. It dismisses theology from all control over the
practical affairs of this life, and banishes it to the region
of speculation. * The commonest intelligence may see
that this doctrine, however innocent it looks on paper, is
in essence and practice revolutionary. It makes a clean
sweep of all that theologians regard as most significant
and precious. Dr. Newman, in his Grammar of Assent,
writes : “ By Religion I mean the knowledge of God, of
his will, and of our duties towards him ” ; and he adds
�6
THE PHILOSOPHY
that the channels which Nature furnishes for our ac
quiring this knowledge “ teach us the Being and Attri
butes of God, our responsibility to him, our dependence
on him, our prospect of reward or punishment, to be
somehow brought about, according as we obey or dis
obey him.” A better definition of what is generally
deemed religion could not be found, and such religion as
this Secularism will have no concern with. From their
point of view orthodox teachers are justified in calling
it irreligious; but those Secularists who agree with
Carlyle that whoever believes in the infinite nature of
Duty has a religion, repudiate the epithet irreligious
just as they repudiate the epithet infidel, for the popular
connotation of both includes something utterly inap
plicable to Secularisrh as they understand it. Properly
speaking, they assert, Secularism is not irreligious, but
untheological; yet, as it entirely excludes from the
sphere of human duty what most people regard as
religion, it must explain and justify itself.
Secularism rejects theology as a guide and authority
in the affairs of this life because its pretentions are not
warranted by its evidence. Natural Theology, to use a
common but half-paradoxical phrase, never has been
nor can be aught but a body of speculation, admirable
enough in its way perhaps, but quite irreducible to the
level of experience. Indeed, one’s strongest impression
in reading treatises on that branch of metaphysics is
that they are not so much proofs as excuses of faith, and
would never have been written if the ideas sought to be
verified had not already been enounced in Revelation.
As for Revealed Religion, it is based upon miracles, and
these to the scientific mind are altogether inadmissible,
being terribly discredited. In the first place, they are
at variance with the general fact of order in Nature, the
largest vessel or conception into which all our experi
ences flow; adverse to that law of Universal Causation
�OF SECULARISM.
7
which underlies all scientific theories and guides all
scientific research. Next, the natural history of miracles
show us how they arise, and makes us view them as
phenomena of superstition, manifesting a certain co
herence and order because the human imagination which
gave birth to them is subject to laws however baffling
and subtle. All miracles had their origin from one and
the same natural source. The belief in their occurrence
invariably characterizes certain stages of mental develop
ment, and gradually fades away as these are left farther
and farther behind. They are not historical but psycho
logical phenomena, not actual but merely mental, not
proofs but results of faith. The miracles of Christianity
are no exception to this rule; they stand in the same
category as all others. As Matthew Arnold aptly ob
serves : “The time has come when the minds of men no
longer put as a matter of course the Bible miracles in a
class by themselves. Now, from the moment this time
commences, from the moment that the comparative
history of all miracles is a conception -entertained, and a
study admitted, the conclusion is certain, the reign of
the Bible miracles is doomed.” Lastly, miracles are
discredited for the reason that, if we admit them, they
prove nothing but the fact of their occurrence. If God
is our author, he has endowed us with reason, and to the
bar of that reason the utterances of the most astounding
miracle-workers must ultimately come; if condemned
there, the miracles will afford them no aid ; if approved
there, the miracles will be to them useless. Miracles,
then, are fatally discredited in every way. Yet upon
them all Revelations are founded, and even Christianity,
as Dr. Newman urged against the orators of the Tamworth Reading Room, “ is a history supernatural, and
almost scenic.” Thus if Natural Theology is merely
speculative and irreducible to the level of experience,
Revealed Religion, though more substantial, is erected
�THE PHILOSOPHY
upon a basis which modern science and criticism have
hopelessly undermined.
Now, if we relinquish belief in miracles we cannot
retain belief in Special Providence and the Efficacy of
Prayer, for these are simply aspects of the miraculous.1
Good-natured Adolf Naumann, the young German
artist in Middlemavch, was not inaccurate though
facetious in assuring Will Ladislaw that through him,
as through a particular hook or claw, the universe was
straining towards a certain picture yet to be printed:
for every present phenomenon, whether trivial or im
portant, occurs here and now, rather than elsewhere and
at some other time, by virtue of the whole universal
past. All the forces of Nature have conspired to place
where it is the smallest grain of sand on the sea-shore,
just as much as their interplay has strewn the aether floated constellations of illimitable space. The slightest
interference with natural sequence implies a disruption
of the whole economy of things. Who suspends one
law of Nature suspends them all. The pious supplicator
for just a little rain in time of drought really asks for a
world-wide revolution in meteorology. And the dullest
intellects, even of the clerical order, are beginning to see
this. As a consequence, prayers for rain in fine weather,
or for fine weather in time of rain, have fallen almost
entirely into disuse; and the most orthodox can now
enjoy that joke about the clerk who asked his rector
what was the good of praying for rain with the wind in
that quarter. Nay more, so far has belief in the efficacy
of prayer died out, that misguided simpletons who
1 We often hear Prayer defended on emotional grounds, not as
a practical request but as a spiritual aspiration. This, however,
merely proves the potency of habit. The “ Lord’s Prayer ” con
tains a distinct request for daily bread. The practice of prayer
originated when people believed that something could be got by
it, and those who pray now with so much belief are slaves to the
fashion of their ancestors.
�OF SECULARISM.
9
persist in conforming to apostolic injunction and prac
tice, and in taking certain very explicit passages in the
Gospels to mean what the words express, are regarded
as Peculiar People, in the fullest sense of the term ; and
if through their primitive pathology children should die
under their hands, they run a serious risk of imprison
ment for manslaughter, notwithstanding that the book
which has misled them is declared to be God’s word by
the law of the land. Occasionally, indeed, old habits
assert themselves, and the nation suffers a recrudescence
of superstition. When the life of the Prince of Wales,
afterwards Edward VII., was threatened by a malignant
fever, prayers for his recovery were publicly offered up,
and the wildest religious excitement mingled with the
most loyal anxiety. But the newspapers were largely
responsible for this; they fanned the excitement daily
until many people grew almost as feverish as the Prince
himself, and “ irreligious ” persons who preserved their
sanity intact smiled when they read in the most unblushingly mendacious of those papers exclamations of
piety and saintly allusions to the great national wave of
prayer surging against the Throne of Grace. The
Prince’s life was spared, thanks to a good constitution
and the highest medical skill, and a national thanks
giving was offered up at St. Paul’s. Yet the doctors
were not forgotten; the chief of them was made a
knight, and the nation demanded a rectification of the
drainage in the Prince’s palace, probably thinking that
although prayer had been found efficacious there might
be danger in tempting Providence a second time.
Soon after that interesting event Mr. Spurgeon
modestly observed that the philosophers were noisy
enough in peaceful times, but shrank into their holes
like mice when imminent calamity threatened the
nation; which may be true without derogation to the
philosophers, who, like wise men, do not bawl against
�10
THE PHILOSOPHY
popular madness, but reserve their admonitions until the
heated multitude is calm and repentent. Professor
Tyndal once invited the religious world to test the
alleged efficacy of prayer by a practical experiment,
such as allotting a ward in some hospital to be specially
prayed for, and inquiring whether more cures are re
corded in it than elsewhere. But this invitation was
not and never will be accepted. Superstitions always
dislike contact with science and fact; they prefer to
float about in the vague region of sentiment, where pur
suit is hopeless and no obstacles impede. If there is any
efficacy in prayer, how can we account for the disastrous
and repeated failures of righteous causes and the
triumph of bad ? The voice of human supplication has
ascended heavenwards in all ages from all parts of the
earth, but when has a hand been extended from behind
the veil ? The thoughtful poor have besought appease
ment of their terrible hunger for some nobler life than is
possible while poverty deadens every fine impulse and
frustrates every unselfish thought, but whenever did
prayer bring them aid ? The miserable have cried for
comfort, sufferers for some mitigation of their pain,
captives for deliverance, the oppressed for freedom, and
those who have fought the great fight of good against ill
for some ray of hope to lighten despair; but what
answer has been vouchsafed ?
What hope, what light
Falls from the farthest starriest way
On you that pray ?
*
*
*
*
Can ye beat off one wave with prayer,
Can ye move mountains ? bid the flower
Take flight and turn to a bird in the air ?
Can ye hold fast for shine or shower
One wingless hour ? 1
1 A. C. Swinburne, Felise.
*
�OF SECULARISM.
11
The dying words of Mr. Tennyson’s Arthur—“ More
things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams
of”—are a weak solace to those who recognize its
futility, and find life too stern for optimistic dreams.
Salvation, in this life at least, cometh not by prayer, but
by valiant effort under the guidance of wisdom and the
inspiration of love. Knowledge alone is power. Igno
rant of Nature’s laws, we are broken to pieces and
ground to dust; knowing them, we win an empire of
enduring civilization within her borders. Recognizing
the universal reign of law and the vanity of supplicating
its reversal, and finding no special clause in the stafutes
of the universe for man’s behoof, Secularism dismisses
as merely superstitious the idea of an arbitrary special
providence, and affirms Science to be the only available
Providence of Man.
Thus theological conceptions obtruded upon the
sphere of. secular interests are one by one expelled.
We now come to the last, and, as the majority of
people think, the most serious and important—namely,
the doctrine of a Future life and of Future Reward
and Punishment. Secularism, as such, neither affirms
nor denies a future life ; it simply professes no knowledge
of such a state, no information respecting it which might
seive as a guide in the affairs of this life. The first
question to be asked concerning the alleged life beyond
the grave is, Do we know aught about it ? If there were
indisputably a future life in store for us all, and that life
immortal, and if we could obtain precise information of
its actualities and requirements, then indeed the trans
cendence of eternal over temporal interests would impel
us to live here with a view to the great Hereafter. But
have we any knowledge of this future life ? Mere conjec
tures will not suffice ; they may be true, but more pro
bably false, and we cannot sacrifice the certain to the
uncertain, or forgo the smallest present happiness for
�12
THE PHILOSOPHY
the sake of some imagined future compensation. Have
we any knowledge of a life beyond the grave ? The
Secularist answers decisively, No.
Whatever the progress of science or philosophy may
hereafter reveal, at present we know nothing of personal
immortality. The mystery of Death, if such there be,
is yet unveiled, and inviolate still are the secrets of the
grave. Science knows nothing of another life than this.
When we are dead she sees but decomposing matter,
and while • we live she regards us but as the highest
order of animal life, differentiated from other orders by
•clearly defined characteristics, but separated from them
by no infinite impassable chasm. Neither can Philo
sophy enlighten us. She reveals to us the laws of what
we call mind, but cannot acquaint us with any second
entity called soul. Even if we accept Schopen
hauer’s1 theory of will, and regard man as a con
scious manifestation of the one supreme force, we are
no nearer to personal immortality; for, if our soul
emerged at birth from the unconscious infinite, it
will probably immerge therein at death, just as a wave
rises and flashes foam-crested in the sun, and plunges
back into the ocean for ever. Indeed, the doctrine of
man’s natural immortality is so incapable of proof that
many eminent Christians even are abandoning it in
favour of the doctrine that everlasting life is a gift
specially conferred by God upon the faithful elect.
Their appeal is to Revelation, by which they mean the
New Testament, all other Scriptures being to them
gross impositions. But can Revelation satisfy the
critical modern spirit ? When we can interrogate her,
1 Schopenhauer was one of the most powerful and original
thinkers of his century, and his intellectual honesty is surprising
in such a flaccid and insincere age. A physical fact worthy of
notice is that his brain was the largest on record, not even ex
cepting Kant’s.
�OF SECULARISM.
13
discord deafens us. Every religion—nay, every sect
of religion—draws from Revelation its own peculiar
answer, and accepts it as infallibly true, although
widely at variance with others derived from the same
source. The answers cannot all be true, and their
very discord discredits each. The voice of God should
give forth no such uncertain tidings. If he had indeed
spoken, the universe would surely be convinced, and
the same conviction fill every breast. Even, however,
if Revelation proclaimed but one message concerning
the future, and that message were similarly interpreted
by all religions, we could not admit it as quite trust
worthy, although we might regard it as a vague forshortening of the truth. For Revelation, unless every,
genius be considered an instrument through which
eternal music is conveyed, must ultimately rely on
miracles, and these the modern spirit has decisively
rejected. Thus, then, it appears that neither Science,
Philosophy, nor Revelation, affords us any knowledge
of a future life. Yet, in order to guide our present
life with a view to the future, such knowledge is indis
pensable. In the absence of it we must live in the
light of the present, basing our conduct on Secular
reason, and working for Secular ends. How far this
is compatible with elevated morality and noble idealism
we shall presently inquire and decide. Intellectually,
Secularism is at one with the most advanced thought
of our age, and no immutable dogmas preclude it from
accepting and incorporating any new truth. Science
being the only providence it recognizes, it is ever
desirous to see and to welcome fresh developments
thereof, assured that new knowledge must harmonize
with the old, and deepen and broaden the civilization
of our race.
In morals Secularism is utilitarian. In this world
only two ethical methods are possible. Either we
�14
THE PHILOSOPHY
must take some supposed revelation of God’s will as
the measure of our duties, or we must determine our
actions with a view to the general good. The former
course may be very pious, but is assuredly unphilosophical. As Feuerbach1 insists, to derive morality from
God “ is nothing more than to withdraw it from the
test of reason, to institute it as indubitable, unassail
able, sacred, without rendering an account why.”
Stout old Chapman’s2 protest against confounding
the inherent nature of good is also memorable:—
“ Should heaven turn hell
For deeds well done, I would do ever well.”
Secularism adopts the latter course. Were it necessary,
■ a defence of utilitarian morality against theological
abuse might here be made; but an ethical system
which can boast so many noble and illustrious ad
herents may well be excused from vindicating its right
to recognition and respect. Nevertheless, it may be
observed that, however fervid are theoretical objections
to utilitarianism, its criterion of morality is the only one
admitted in practice. Our jurisprudence is not required
1 Feuerbach’s Essence of Christianity, from which I quote, was
translated from the German by Marian Evans (George Eliot).
This remarkable work deserves and will amply require a careful
study. The thoroughness with which Feuerbach applied his
subtle psychological method to the dogmas of Christianity
accounts for the hatred of him more than once expressed by
Mansel in his notes to the famous Bampton Lectures.
2 George Chapman was one of those lofty austere natures that
put to scorn the flabbiness which a sentimental Christianity does
so much to foster ; as it were, some fine old Pagan spirit rein
carnate in an Englishman of the great Elizabethan age. His
“ Byron’s Conspiracy ” furnished Shelley with the magnificent
motto of The Revolt of Islam :—
There is no danger to a man that knows
What life and death is : there’s not any law
Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful
That he should stoop to any other law.
�OF SECULARISM.
75
to justify itself before any theological bar, nor to show
its conformity with the maxims uttered by Jesus and his
disciples; and he would be thought a strange legislator
who should insist on testing the value of a Parliamentary
Bill by appealing to the New Testament. Secularism
holds that whatever actions conduce to the general good
are right, and that whatever have an opposite tendency
are wrong. Manifold objections are urged against this
simple rule on the ground of its impracticability ; but as
all of them apply with equal force to every conceivable
rule, they may be peremptorily dismissed. The imper
fections of human nature must affect the practicability
of any moral law, however conceived or expressed.
Christians who wrote before Secularism had to be com
bated never thought of maintaining that reason and
experience are inefficient guides, though they did some
times impugn the efficacy of natural motives to good.1
So thoughtful and cautious a preacher as Barrow, whom
Mr. Arnold accounts the best moral divine of our
English Church, plainly says that “ wisdom is, in effect,
the genuine parent of all moral and political virtue,
justice, and honesty.”2 But some theologically minded
persons, whose appearance betrays no remarkable signs
of asceticism, wax eloquent in reprobation of happiness
as a sanction of morality at all. Duty, say they, is
what all should strive after. Good ; but the Secularist
conceives it his duty to promote the general welfare.
Happiness is not a degrading thing, but a source of
1 Darwin, Spencer, and nearly all the rest of our modern Evolu
tionists, believe morality to have had a natural origin. Mr. Wake,
however, in his valuable work. The Evolution of Morality, while
admitting and powerfully illustrating its natural development,
apparently holds that its origin was supernatural, the germs of
all the virtues having been divinely implanted in our primitive
ancestors! Evidently the old superstition about “the meat-roasting
power of the meat-jack ” is not yet altogether extinct.
2 Sermon on “ The Pleasantness of Religion.”
�16
THE PHILOSOPHY
elevation. We have all enjoyed that wonderful cate
chism of Pig-Philosophy in Latter-Day Pamphlets. What
a scathing satire on the wretched Jesuitism abounding
within and without the Churches, and bearing such
malign and malodorous fruit! But it is not the neces
sary antithesis to the Religion of Sorrow. It is the
mongrel makeshift of those “ whose gospel is their
maw,’ whose swinish egotism makes them contemplate
Nature as a Universal Swine’s-Trough, with plenty of
pig’s-wash for those who can thrust their fellows aside
and get their paw in it. The Religion of Gladness is a
different thing from this. Let us hear its great prophet
Spinoza, one of the purest and noblest of modern
minds: “Joy is the passage from a less to a greater
perfection ; sorrow is the passage from a greater to a
less perfection.” No; suffering only tries, it does not
nourish us ; it proves our capacity, but does not produce
it. What, after all, is happiness ? It consists in the
fullest healthy exercise of all our faculties, and is as
various as they. Far from ignoble, it implies the
highest moral development of our nature, the dream of
Utopists from Plato downwards. And, therefore, in
affirming happiness to be the great purpose of social
life, Secularism makes its moral law coincident with the
law of man’s progress towards attainable perfection.
Motives to righteousness Secularism finds in human
nature. Since the evolution of morality has been traced
by scientific thinkers the idea of our moral sense having
had a supernatural origin has vanished into the limbo
of superstitions. Our social sympathies are a natural
growth, and] may be indefinitely developed in the future
by the same' means which has developed them in the
past. Morality and theology are essentially distinct.
The ground and guarantee of morality are independent
of any theological belief. When we are in earnest
about the right we need no incitement from above.
�OF SECULARISM.
17
Morality has its natural ground in experience and
reason, in the common nature and common wants of
mankind. Wherever sentient beings live together in a
social state, simple or complex, laws of morality must
arise, for they are simply the permanent conditions of
social health; and even if men entertained no belief in
any supernatural power, they would still recognize and
submit to the laws upon which societary welfare depends.
“ Even,” says Dr. Martineau,1 “ though we came out of
nothing, and returned to nothing, we should be subject
to the claim of righteousness so long as we are what we
are: morals have their own base, and are second to
nothing.” Emerson, a religious transcendentalist, also
admits that “ Truth, frankness, courage, love, humility,
and all the virtues, range themselves on the side of
prudence, or the art of securing a present well-being.” 2
The love professed by piety to God is the same feeling,
though differently directed, which prompts the com
monest generosities and succors of daily life. All moral
appeals must ultimately be made to our human sympa
thies. Theological appeals are essentially not moral,
but immoral. The hope of heaven and the fear of hell
are motives purely personal and selfish. Their tendency
is rather to make men worse than better. They may
secure a grudging compliance with prescribed rules, but
they must depress character instead of elevating it,
They tend to concentrate a man’s whole attention on
himself, and thus to develop and intensify his selfish
propensities. No man, as Dr. Martineau many years
ago observed, can faithfully follow his highest moral
■conceptions who is continually casting side glances at
the prospects of his own soul. Secularism appeals to
no lust after posthumous rewards or dread of posthu
mous terrors, but to that fraternal feeling which is the
1 Nineteenth Century, April, 1877.
Essay on Prudence.
�18
THE PHILOSOPHY
essence of all true religion, and has prompted
heroic self-sacrifice in all ages and climes. It removes
moral causation from the next world to this. It teaches
that the harvest of our sowing will be reaped here, and
to the last grain eaten, by ourselves or others. Every
act of our lives affects the whole subsequent history of
our race. Our mental and moral, like our bodily lungs,
have their appropriate atmospheres, of which every
thought, word, and act, becomes a constituent atom.1
Incessantly around us goes on the conflict of good and
evil, which a word, a gesture, a look of ours changes.
And we cannot tell how great may be the influence of
the least of these, for in Nature all things hang together,
and the greatest effects may flow from causes seemingly
slight and inconsiderable.2 When we thoroughly lay
this to heart, and reflect that no contrition or remorse
a ital
1 Wherever men are gathered, all the air
Is charged with human feeling, human thought;
Each shout and cry and laugh, each curse and prayer
Are into its vibrations surely wrought;
Unspoken passion, wordless meditation,
Are breathed into it with our respiration ;
It is with our life fraught and overfraught.
So that no man there breathes earth’s simple breath
As if alone on mountains or wide seas ;
But nourishes warm life or hastens death
With joys and sorrows, health and foul disease,
Wisdom and folly, good and evil labours
Incessant of his multitudinous neighbours ;
He in his turn affecting all of these.
—James Thomson, “ City of Dreadful Night."
2 The importance of individual action, even on the part of the
meanest, is well expressed by George Eliot in the concluding sen
tence of Middlemarch : “ The growing good of the world is partly
dependent on unhistoric acts ; and that things are not so ill withyou and me as they might have been, is half owing to the numbers,
who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”
Even more memorable is the great saying attributed to Krishna,—
“ He who does nothing stays the progress of the world.”
�OF SECULARISM.
19
can undo the past or efface the slightest record from the
everlasting Book of Fate, we shall be more strongly re
strained from evil and impelled to good than we could
be by supernatural promises or threats. The promises
may be mistrusted, the threats nullified by a late repent
ance ; but the natural issues of conduct are inevitable
and must be faced. Whatever the future may hold in
store, Secularism bids us be true to ourselves and our
opportunities now. It does not undertake to determine
the vexed question of God’s existence, which it leaves
each to decide for himself according to what light he
has ; nor does it dogmatically deny the possibility of a
future life. But it insists on utilizing to the highest the
possibilities that lie before us, and realizing so far as
may be by practical agencies that Earthly Paradise
which would now be less remote if one-tithe of the time,
the energy, the ability, the enthusiasm, and the wealth
devoted to making men fit candidates for another life
had been devoted to making them fit citizens of this. If
there be a future life, this must be the best preparation
for it; and if not, the consciousness of humane work
achieved and duty done, will tint with rainbow and orient
colours the mists of death more surely than expected
glories from the vague and mystic land of dreams.
There are those who cannot believe in any effective
morality, much less any devotion to disinterested aims,
without the positive certainty of immortal life. Under
a pretence of piety they cloak the most grovelling
estimate of human nature, which, with all its faults, is
infinitely better than their conception of it. Even their
love and reverence of God would seem foolishness un-’
less they were assured of living for ever. Withdraw
posthumous hopes and fears, say they, and “ let us eat
and drink for to-morrow we die ” would be the sanest
philosophy. In his grave way Spinoza satirizes this
“ vulgar opinion,” which enjoins a regulation of life
�.20
THE PHILOSOPHY
according to the passions by those who have “ persuaded
themselves that the souls perish with the bodies, and
that there is not a second life for the -miserable who have
borne the crushing weight of piety ” ; “ a conduct,” he adds,
“ as absurd, in my opinion, as that of a man who should
fill his body with poisons and deadly food, for the fine
reason that he had no hope to enjoy wholesome nourish
ment for all eternity, or who, seeing that the soul is not
eternal or immortal, should renounce his reason, and
wish to become insane; things so preposterous that they
are scarcely worth mention.”
Others, again, deny that a philosophy which ignores
the infinite can have any grand ideal capable of lifting
us above the petty tumults and sordid passions of life.
But surely the idea of service to the great Humanity,
whose past and future are to us practically infinite, is
a conception vast enough for our finite minds. The
instincts of Love, Reverence, and Service may be fully
•exercised and satisfied by devotion to a purely human
ideal, without resort to unverifiable dogmas and inscrutible mysteries; and Secularism, which bids us
think and .act so that the great Human Family may
profit by our lives, which exhorts us to labour for human
progress and elevation here on earth, where effort may
be effective and sacrifices must be real, is more pro
foundly noble than any supernatural creed, and holds
the promise of a wider and loftier beneficence.
Secularism is often said to be atheistic. It is, how
ever, neither atheistic nor theistic. It ignores the pro
blem of God’s existence, which seems insoluble to finite
'intellects, and confines itself to the practical world of
experience, without commending or forbidding specula
tion on matters that transcend it. Unquestionably many
Secularists are Atheists, but others are Theists, and this
shows the compatibility of Secularism with either a
positive or a negative attitude towards the hypothesis of
�OF SECULARISM.
21
a supreme universal intelligence. There is no atheistic
declaration in the principles of any existing Secular
Society, although all are unanimous in opposing theology,
which is at best an elaborate conjecture, and at the
worst an elaborate and pernicious imposture.
Educated humanity has now arrived at the positive
stage of culture. Imagination, it is true, will ever
hold its legitimate province; but it is the kindling and
not the guiding element in our nature. When exercis
ing its proper influence it invests all things with “ a
light that never was on sea or land
it transforms
lust into love, it creates the ideal, it nurtures enthu
siasm, it produces heroism, it suggests all the glories of
art, and even lends wings to the intellect of the
scientist. But when it is substituted for knowledge,
when it aims at becoming the leader instead of the
kindler, is is a Phaeton who drives to disaster and ruin.
It is degrading, or at any rate perilous, to be the dupe
of fancy, however beautiful or magnificent. Reason
should always hold sovereign sway in our minds, and
reason tells us that we live in a universe of cause and
effect, where ends must be accomplished by means, and
where man himself is largely fashioned by circum
stances. Reason tells us that our faculties are limited
and that our knowledge is relative; it enjoins us to
believe what is ascertained, to give assent to no pro
position of whose truth we are not assured, and to walk
in the light of facts. This may seem a humble philo
sophy, but it is sound and not uncheerful, and it
stands the wear and tear of life when prouder philoso
phies are often reduced to rags and tatters. Nor is it
just to call this philosophy “ negative.” Every system,
indeed, is negative to every other system which it in
anywise contradicts ; but in what other sense can a
system be called negative, which leaves men all science
to study, all art to pursue and enjoy, and all humanity
�22
THE PHILOSOPHY
to love and serve ? It declines to traffic in supernatural
hopes and fears, but it preserves all the sacred things
of civilization, and gives a deeper meaning to such
words as husband and wife, father and mother, brother
and sister, lover and friend.
Incidentally, however, Secularism has what some will
always persist in regarding as negative work. It
finds noxious superstitions impeding its path, and
must oppose them. It cannot ignore orthodoxy,
although it would be glad to do so, for the dogmas and
pretensions of the popular . creed hinder its progress
and thwart Secular improvement at every step.
Favoured and privileged and largely supported by the
State, they usurp a fictitious dignity over less popular
ideas. They thrust themselves into education, insist
on teaching supernaturalism with the multiplication
table, dose the scholars with Jewish mythology as
though it were actual history, and assist their moral
development with pictures of Daniel in the lions’ den
and Jesus walking on the sea. They employ vast
wealth in preparing for another world, which might
be more profitably employed in bettering this. They
prevent us from spending our Sunday rationally^
refusing us any alternative but the church or the
public-house. They deprive honest sceptics so far as
possible of the common rights of citizenship.1 They
retard a host of reforms, and still do their utmost to
suppress or curtail freedom of thought and speech.
1 Nearly every leading Secularist has suffered in this respect.
Mr. G. J. Holyoake was imprisoned for blasphemy; Mr. Brad
laugh had to win the seat which Northampton gave him, by
means of almost superhuman energy and resource, in the face of
the most bigoted and brutal opposition ; Mrs. Besant was
robbed of her child' by an order of the Court of Chancery;
and it would be a false modesty not to add that I have
suffered twelve-months’ imprisonment as an ordinary criminal for
editing a Freethought journal.
�[OF SECULARISM.
23
While all this continues, Secularism must actively
oppose the popular creed. Nor is it just on the part
of Christians to stigmatize this aggressive attitude.
They forget that their faith was vigorously and per
sistently aggressive against' Paganism. Secularism
may surely imitate that example, although it neither
intends nor desires to demolish the temples of Chris
tianity as the early Christians, headed by their bishops,
destroyed the temples of Paganism and desecrated its
shrines.
Properly speaking, Secularism is doing a positive,
■not a negative, work in destroying superstition. Every
error removed makes room for a truth ; and if super
stition is a kind of mental disease, he who expels it is
a mental physician. His work is no more negative
than the doctor’s who combats a bodily malady, drives
it out of the system, and leaves his patient in the full
possession of health.
Secular propaganda, by means of lectures, journals,
and pamphlets, conducted for so many years, has pro
duced a considerable effect on the public mind. A great
change has been wrought during the past generation.
Much of it has been accomplished by science, but much
also by the energetic labours of Secular advocates.
Inquire closely into the personnel of advanced
movements, and you will find Secularists there out
of all proportion to their numerical strength. Where
Christians may be they are sure to be ; not because they
necessarily have better hearts than their orthodox
neighbours, but because their principles impel them to
fight for Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, irrespective
of nationality, race, sex, or creed ; and prompt them to
exclaim, in the sublime language of Thomas Paine, “ the
world is my country, and to do good is my religion.”
�The Mother of God, by G. W. Foote.
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�
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The philosophy of secularism
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Secularism
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THE POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
BY FREDERIC HARRISON.
HE interest which the system known as Positivism awakens
in public attention is so vastly in excess of any knowledge
of the writings of Comte, and of any attempts at propagandism made by his followers, that it may afford matter
for some curious reflection. On the one hand, we have one of the most
voluminous if not the most elaborate of all modern philosophies, com
posed in a foreign language and a highly technical style. Those who
have honestly studied, or even actually read, these difficult works may
be numbered on the hand; and no methodical exposition of them exists
in this country. The full adherents of this system in England are
known to be few; and they but very rarely address the public. Among
the regular students of Comte two or three alone find means occasion
ally to express their views, and that for the most part on special sub
jects. Such is the only medium through which the ideas of Comte are
promulgated—a mass of writings practically unread; a handful of
disciples for the most part silent.
On the other hand, the press and society, platform and pulpit, are
continually resounding with criticism, invective, and moral reflection
arrayed against this system. Reviews devote article after article to
demonstrate anew the absurdity or the enormity of these views. The
critics cut and thrust at will, well knowing that there is no one to re
taliate ; secure of the field to themselves, they fight the battle o’er again;
thrice have they routed all their foes, and thrice they slay the slain.
Religious journalism, too, delights to use the name of Comte as a sort
of dark relief to the glowing colors of the Scarlet Woman. Semi-re
ligious journals detect his subtle influence in everything, from the last
poem to the coming revolution. Drowsy congregations are warned
against doctrines from which they run as little risk as they do from
that of Parthenogenesis, and which they are yet less likely to under
stand. Society even knows all about it, and chirrups the last gossip or
jest at afternoon tea-tables. Yet even under this the philosophy of
Comte survives; for criticism of this kind, it need hardly be said, is
not for the most part according to knowledge.
Some such impression is left by the glaring inconsistencies which
appear among the critics themselves. They have so easy a time of it in
T
�50
THE
POSITIVIST PBOBLEM.
piling up charges against Positivism, that they, in a great degree, dis
pose of each other. According to some, for instance, it would promote
a perfect pandemonium of anarchy. With others it means only the
“paralyzing and iron rule of law.” With some it is the concentration
of all human energy on self; with others, an Utopia which is to elimi
nate self from human nature. Now it is to crush out of man every
instinct of veneration for a superior being; now it is to enthrall him in
a superstitious devotion. The followers of Comte are at once the vota
ries of disorder and of arbitrary power; of the coldest materialism and
the most ideal sentimentalism; they are blind to everything but the
facts of sensation, yet they foster the most visionary of hopes; they
execrate all that is noble in man, and yet dream of human perfectibility.
In a word, they are anarchists or absolutists; pitiless or maudlin; ma
terialists or transcendentalists, as it may suit the palette of the artist to
depict them.
Now all of these things cannot be true together. If it is proved to
the satisfaction of a thousand critics that Positivism is a mass of absur
dity, why need we hear so much about it ? How can that still be
dangerous which is hardly ever heard of but in professed refutations,
and known only through adverse critics ? It is strange that a writer,
as they tell us, of obscure French, such as no one can make sense of,
who finds in this country but an occasional student, should need such
an army to annihilate him. If he were responsible for one-tenth of the
contradictory views which are put into his mouth, he is self-condemned
already. No house so divided against itself could stand, to say nothing
of the critical batteries which thunder on it night and day—religious,
scientific, literary champions without stint, warning an intelligent
public against a new mystery of abominations. “ Dearly beloved,” cries
the priest, “beware of this soul-destroying doctrine of Humanity!”
“ Science has not a good word for it,” cries the man of physics, “ to say
nothing of its irreligion! ” and so makes a truce with the man of God.
“ And literature has a thousand ill names for it,” cry out the brazen
tongues of the press through all its hundred throats of brass. Yet,
withal, the thoughts of Comte seem still to live and grow, to flourish
without adherents, and to increase without apostles. They must be in
some way in the air; for all that men see is the refutation of that
which none study, the smiting of those who do not contend. Epur si
muove !
Those to whom the system of Comte is of serious moment would be
but of a poor spirit if they lost heart under such a combination of
assaults, or took pleasure in the signs of so wide-spread an interest. A
perpetual buzzing about a new system of thought can as little do it
good as it can do it harm. The students of Comte would be foolishly
sanguine if they set this down to real study or serious interest in his
system. They would be culpably weak if they supposed it was due to
any efforts of their own to extend it.
�THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
51
However much Positivism may desire the fullest discussion, little can
come of criticism which does not pretend to start with effective study.
As a system it demands far too much both in the way of sustained
thought and of practical action, to gain by becoming merely a subject
of social or literary causerie. The platoon firing of the professional
critics, and the buzz of the world, may become fatiguing; but both in
the main are harmless, and in any case appear to be inevitable.
But when we look below the surface a different view will appear.
However few are they who avow Positivism completely, its spirit per
meates all modem thought. Those who teach the world have all learnt
something from it. The awe-struck interest it arouses in truly relig
ious minds shows how it can touch the springs of human feeling. Men
of the world are conscious that it is a power clearly organic, and that it
is bent on results. And even the curiosity of society bears witness that
its ideas can probe our social instincts to the root.
It cannot, indeed, be denied that so general an interest in this subject
is itself a significant fact; and though it be not due to anything like a
study of Comte, and most certainly to nothing that is done by his
adherents, it has beyond question a cause. This cause is that the age
is one of Construction—and Positivism is essentially constructive.
Men in these times crave something organic and systematic. Ideas are
gaining a slow but certain ascendency. There is abroad a strange consciousne*ss of doubt, instability, and incoherence; and, withal, a secret
yearning after certainty and reorganization in thought and in life.
Even the special merits of this time, its candor, tolerance, and spirit of
inquiry, exaggerate our consciousness of mental anarchy, and give a
strange fascination to anything that promises to end it.
We have passed that stage of thought in which men hate or despise
the religious and social beliefs they have outgrown—their articles of
religion, constitutions of State, and orders of society. We feel the need
of something to replace them more and more sadly, and day by day we
grow more honestly and yet tenderly ashamed of the old faiths we once
had. At bottom mankind really longs for something like a rule of
life, something that shall embody all the phases of our multiform
knowledge, and yet slake our thirst for organic order. Now there is, it
may be said without fear, absolutely nothing which pretends to meet
all these conditions—but one thing, and that is Positivism. There are,
no doubt, religions in plenty, systems of science, theories of politics,
and the like; but there is only one system which takes as its subject
all sides of human thought, feeling, and action, and then builds these
up into a practical system of life. Hence it is that, however imperfectly
known, Positivism is continually presenting itself; and though but
little studied, and even less preached, it ceases not to work. It proposes
some solution to the problem which is silently calling for an answer in
the depths of every vigorous mind that has ceased to be satisfied with
the past. It states the problem at least, and nothing else does even
�52
THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
this. Thus, in spite of every distortion from ignorance or design, the
scheme of Positivism has such affinity for the situation that it is ever
returning to men’s view. For whilst mankind, in the building of the
mighty tower of Civilization, seem for the time struck as if with a con
fusion of purpose, and the plan of the majestic edifice for the time
seems lost or forgotten, ever and anon there grows visible to the eye of
imagination the outline of an edifice in the future, of harmonious de
sign and just proportion, filling the mind with a sense of completeness
and symmetry.
An interest thus wide and increasing in a system so very imperfectly
known, proves that it strikes a chord in modern thought. And as
among those who sit in judgment on it there must be some who hon
estly desire to give it a fair hearing, a few words may not be out of
place to point out some of the postulates, as it were, of the subject, and
some of the causes which may account for criticisms so incessant and
so contradictory. It need hardly be said that these words are offered
not as by authority, or ex cathedrd, from one who pretends to speak in
the name of any body or any person whatever. They are some of the
questions which have beset the path of one who is himself a disciple
and not an apostle, and the answers which he offers are simple sugges
tions proposed only to such as may care to be fellow-hearers with him.
It is of the first importance for any serious consideration of Posi
tivism to know what is the task it proposes to itself. For the grounds
on which it is attacked are so strangely remote, and appear to be so
little connected, that perhaps no very definite conception exists of what
its true scope is. There is much discussion now as to its scientific
dogmas, now as to its forms of worship, now as to its political prin
ciples. But Positivism is not simply a new system of thought. It is
not simply a religion—much less is it a political system. It is at once
a philosophy and a polity; a system of thought and a system of life;
the aim of which is to bring all our intellectual powers and our social
sympathies into close correlation. The problem which it proposes is
twofold: to harmonize our conceptions and to systematize human life;
and furthermore, to do the first only for the sake of the second.
Now this primary notion stands at the very root of the matter, and
if well kept in view it may spare much useless discussion and many
hard words. Thus viewed, Positivism is really not in competition with
any other existing system. It is hardly in contrast with any, because
none is in pari materid—none claims the same sphere. No extant re
ligion professes to cover the same ground, and therefore with none can
Positivism be placed in contrast. Christianity, whatever it may have
claimed in the age of Aquinas and Dante, certainly in our day does not
profess to harmonize the results of science and methodize thought. On
the contrary, it is one of the boasts of Christianity that its work is ac
complished in the human heart, whatever be the forms of thought and
even of society. It cannot therefore be properly contrasted with Posi
�THE POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
53
tivism, for they are essentially disparate, and the function claimed by
the one is not that claimed by the other.
So, too, Positivism is hardly capable of comparison with any existing
philosophy. There are many systems of science and methods of thought
before the world, but they insist on being heard simply as such, and
not as being also religions, or schemes of life. They stand before the
judgment-seat of the intellect, and they call for sentence from it accord
ing to its law. Such social or moral motive as they rest on is ade
quately supplied in the love of truth and the general bearing of knowl
edge on human happiness. Their doctrines ask to stand or fall on
their own absolute strength, and are not put forward as a mere intro
duction to a form of life. Not but what, of course, philosophers,
ancient and modern, have elaborated practical applications of their
teaching to life. But no modern philosophy, as such, puts itself forth
as a part of a larger system, as a mere foundation on which to build the
society, as a major premise only in a strict syllogism of which the con
clusion is action. Now this the Positive philosophy does. Positivism
therefore is not a religion, for its first task was to found a complete
system of philosophy: nor is it á philosophy, for its doctrines are but
the intellectual basis of a definite scheme of life: nor a polity, for it
makes political progress but the corollary of moral and intellectual
movements. But, though being itself none of these three, it professes
to comprehend them all, and that in their fullest sense. Thus it
stands essentially alone, a system in antagonism strictly with none, the
function and sphere of which is claimed by no other as its own.
Criticism which ignores this primary point, which deals with a sys
tem as if its end were something other than it is, can hardly be worth
much. And thus viewed, a mass of popular objections fall to the
ground. For instance, a continual stumbling-block is found in politi
cal institutions and reforms which Positivism proposes—institutions
which are wholly alien, it is true, to our existing political atmosphere,
and which could hardly exist in it, or would be actively noxious. But
these are proposed by Positivism only on the assumption that they fol
low on and complete an intellectual, social, and moral reorganization
by which society would be previously transformed, and for which an
adequate machinery is provided. No value can attach therefore to any
judgment on the political institutions per se, tom from the soil in
which they are to be planted, crudely judged by the political tone of
the hour. No serious judgment is possible until the social and intel
lectual basis on which they are to be built has been comprehended and
weighed, and found to be inadequate or impossible. But this is what
he who criticises the system from a special point of view is unwilling
or unable to do.
So with the philosophy—we often hear indignant protests against
the attempt made by Comte to organize the investigation of nature.
Nothing is easier than to show that the organization proposed might
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THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
check the discovery of some curious facts, or the pursuits of certain
seekers after truth. But the same would be true of any organization
whatever. The problem of human life is not to secure the greatest ac
cumulation of knowledge, or the vastest body of truth, but that which
is most valuable to man; not to stimulate to the utmost the exercise
of the intelligence, but to make it practically subservient to the happi
ness of the race. The charge therefore that the Positive philosophy
would set boundaries to the intellect by setting it a task, is not to the
purpose, even if it were true. This might be said of almost every re
ligion and any system of morality. The very point in issue is whether
the true welfare of mankind is best secured by the absolute independ
ence of the mind, going to and fro like the wind which bloweth
whither it listeth.
Thus, too, in criticising the religious side of Positivism, it is argued
that it fails to provide for this or that emotion or yearning of the re
ligious spirit; that it leaves many a solemn question unanswered, and
many a hope unsatisfied, and has no place for the mystical and the In
finite, for absolute goodness, or power, or eternity. Be it so. The
objection might have weight if Positivism were offering a new form of
theology, or came forward simply as a new sort of religion. But the
problem before us is this—whether these ideas can find a place in any
religion which is to be in living harmony with a scientific philosophy.
We are called on to decide whether, since these notions are repugnant
to rational philosophy, religion and thought must forever be divorced,
and whether we must choose thought without religion, or religion
without thought. Positivism, if it has no place for the mystical or su
pernatural, has the Widest field for the Ideal and the Abstract. It
holds out the utmost reach for any intensity of sentiment. Nor could
its believers fail in a boundless vista of hope; of hope which, while it
is substantial and real, is not less ardent, and far more unselfish, than
the ideals of' older faiths. Positivism maintains that supposing estab
lished such a scientific and moral philosophy as it conceives, inspiring
a community so full of practical energies and social sympathies as that
which it creates, a rational religion is possible, but such hopes and
yearnings would be practically obsolete, supplanted by deeper and yet
purer aspirations. They would perish of inanition in a mind or a so
ciety really imbued with the relative and social spirit. They had -no
place under the practical morality and social life of past ages. They
would have none, it argues, under the scientific philosophy and the
public activity of the future. The truth of this expectation cannot
possibly be estimated without a thorough weighing both of the philos
ophy and of the polity which it is proposed to found, and a very sys
tematic comparison of their combined effects.
To treat philosophy, religion, or polity without regard to the place
each holds in the general synthesis, is simply to beg the question. It is
much more to the purpose to argue that the general synthesis which
�THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
55
Positivism proposes to create is not needed at all, or even if needed, is
perfectly chimerical. Certainly it is a question which cannot be dis
cussed here; and perhaps it is one which cannot be settled by any dis
cussion at all. It seems one of those ultimate questions which can only
be determined by the practical issue, and which no a, priori argument
can touch. Solvetur ambulando. It has been most vigorously treated
by Mr. Mill in his estimate of Positivism, and, like all that he has said
on this subject, deserves the most diligent thought. After all, it may
be the truth that this question of questions—if human life be or be not
reducible to one harmony—is one of those highest generalizations
which the future alone can decide, and which no man can decide to be
impossible until it has been proved so.
In any case, those who have no mind to busy themselves with any
system of life or synthesis of social existence whatever—and they are
the great bulk of rqankind—may well be asked to spare themselves
many needless protestations. Positivism most certainly will not
trouble them; and the world is wide enough for them all. Still less
need of passionate disclaimers and attacks have all they who are hon
estly satisfied with their religious and social faith as it is. Positivism
looks on their convictions with the most sincere respect, and shrinks from
wounding or disturbing the very least of them. How much waste of
energy and serenity might be spared to many conscientious persons if
these simple conditions were observed! Positivism is in its very essence
unaggressive and non-destructive; for it seeks only to build up, and to
build up step by step. It must appeal to very few at present, for the first of
its conditions—the need of a new System of Life—is as yet admitted only
by a few. It must progress but slowly as yet, for its scheme is too wide
to be compatible with haste. If all of those who are alien to anything
like a new order of human life, and all those who are satisfied with the
* order they have lived under would go their own way and leave Posi
tivism to those who seek it, a great deal of needless irritation and agi
tation would be happily averted. The idea that thought and life may
some day on this earth be reduced to organic order and harmony may
be Utopian, but is it one so grotesque that it need arouse the tiresome
horseplay of every literary trifler? And though there be men so un
wise as to search after this Sangreal in a moral and intellectual re
form, is their dream so anti-social as to justify an organized hostility
which amounts to oppression? Incessant attempts to crush by the
weight of invective, fair or unfair, a new system of philosophy, which
appeals solely to opinion, and which numbers but a handful of adher
ents for the most part engaged in study, are not the highest forms of
intelligent criticism. Positivism as a system has nothing to say to any
but the very few who are at once disbelievers in the actual systems of
faith and life, and are believers in the possibility of such a system in
the future. To the few who seek it, it presents a task, as it fairly warns
them, requiring prolonged patience and labor. The rest it will scarcely
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THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
trouble unless they seek it; and perhaps it will be better that they
should leave it alone. Little can come of eternally discussing the solu
tion of a problem which men have no wish to see solved, or of multi
plying objections to what they have no mind to investigate.
Positivism, then, consists of a philosophy, a religion, and a polity;
and to regard it as being any one of these three singly, or to criticise
any one of them separately, is simple waste of time. Its first axiom is,
that all of these spheres of life suffer from their present disorder, because
hitherto no true synthesis has been found to harmonize them. This
axiom is obviously one which must meet with opposition, and in any
case be very slowly accepted. The very notion of system and organiza
tion implies subordination in the parts, submission to control, and
mutual concession. The unbounded activity, independence, and free
dom of the present age, not to say its anarchy and incoherence, quiver,
it seems, in every nerve at the least show of discipline. Yet any species
of organization involve discipline, and any discipline involves some re
straint. Of course, therefore, any scheme to organize thought and life
presented in an age of boundless liberty and individualism meets oppo
sition at every point. To show that Positivism involves a systematic
control over thought and life is not an adequate answer to it. To prove
of a new system that it is a system is not a final settling the question
until you have first proved that no system can be good. All civilizartion and every religion, all morality and every kind of society, imply
some restraint and subordination. The question—and it is a question
which cannot be decided off-hand—is whether more is implied in the
system of Positivism than is involved in the very notion of a synthesis,
or a harmony co-extensive with human life.
It is worthy of notice how entirely new to modern thought is this
cardinal idea of Positivism—that of religion, science, and industry
working in one common life—how little such an idea can be grasped *
in the light of the spirit of the day! Yet so far is it from being an
extravagant vision, that it sleeps silently in the depths of every brain
which ever looks into the future of the race. None but they who dwell
with regret on the past, or are engrossed in the cares of the present,
doubt but what the time will come when the riddle of social life will be
read, and the powers of man work in unison together; when thought
shall be the prelude only to action or to art, and action and art be but
the realization of affection and emotion; when brain, heart, and will
have but one end, and that end be the happiness of man on earth.
And thus while priest, professor, and politician forswear the scheme
which Positivism offers, and society resounds with criticism and refu
tation, none believe it overcome or doubt its vitality; for it remains
the only conception which pretends to satisfy an undying aspiration
of the soul.
Whether the pursuit of system or harmony be carried out by Comte
extravagantly or not is, no doubt, a question of the first importance.
�t
THE
ii a
pa
R
p
r
B
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
57
It is certainly one which there is no intention of discussing here. But
in any case it is not to be decided lightly. Mr. Mill, as has been said,
has argued this question-with all that power which in him is exceeded
only by his candor. But which of the other critics have done the
like ? A criticism like that of Mr. Mill is a totally different thing,
and worthy of all attention. Nor must it be forgotten how largely, in
criticising Positivism, he accepts its substantial bases. Nothing can
be more disingenuous than to appeal to the authority of Mr. Mill as
finally disposing of the social philosophy of Comte, when Mr. Mill has
adhered to so much of the chief bases of that philosophy in general,
and has warmly justified some of the most vital features of the social
system. A system may be false, but it is not false solely because it is a
system. It might very possibly be that harmony had only been
attained by Positivism at the expense of truth or life, by doing violence
to the facts of Nature, or by destroying liberty of action. But this is
a matter depending so much on a multitude of combined arguments
and on such general considerations, that it can be decided only after
long and patient study. It clearly cannot be done piecemeal or at first
sight. And of all questions is the one in which haste and exaggeration
are most certain to mislead.
Let us follow a little further each of the three sides of Positivism—
the Philosophy, the Religion, the Polity—in order, but not independ
ently, so as to put before us the goal they propose to win and the main
obstacles in their path. The grand end which it proposes to philosophy
is to give organic unity to the whole field of our conceptions, whether
in the material or in the moral world, to order all branches of knowl
edge into their due relations, and hence to classify the sciences. Even
if the unthinking were to regard this project as idle or extravagant,
every instructed mind well knows that it is involved in the very nature
of philosophy, and has been its dream from the first. Can it be neces
sary to argue that the very meaning of philosophy is to give system to
our thoughts ? What are laws of nature but generalizations ? what
are generalizations but a multitude of facts referred to a common
idea ? what is science but the bringing the manifold under the one ?
Knowledge itself is but the study of relations; and the highest knowl
edge, the study of the ultimate relations.
And as science has no meaning but the systematizing of separate
ideas, so the grand systematizing of all ideas has been the ceaseless aim
of philosophy. What else were the strange but luminous hypotheses
of the early Greeks? what else was the colossal task of Aristotle?
what else that of the elder Bacon and his coevals, of the other Bacon,
of Descartes, of Leibnitz, of the Encyclopaedists, of Hegel ?
That order is the ultimate destiny of all our knowledge is so ob
vious that the effort to found it at once can be met only by one objec
tion worthy of an answer, and that is that the aim is premature. It is
very easy to see that the earlier attempts, when even astronomy was in
�58
THE POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
complete and the moral sciences outside the pale of law, were utterly
premature. But whether the task is premature now is entirely dif
ferent. After all, it is one of those questions which no a priori argu
ment can affect. It is not premature if it can be even approximately
done. Yet the mere suggestion of it arouses a myriad-headed oppo
sition. In every science and every sub-section of a science a specialist
starts forth to tell us that generations of observers are needed to ex
haust even his own particular corner in the field of knowledge. And
if one science is to become but the instrument of another, if one kind
of inquiry is to be subordinated to another, we should fetter, they tell
us, the freedom which has led to so many brilliant discoveries, and
leave unsolved many a curious problem.
The answer of Positivism is simply this: If the systematizing of
knowledge will be premature before all this is accomplished, it will
always be premature. The end for which we are to wait is one utterly
chimerical. No doubt there are no bounds to knowledge, any more
than there are bounds to the universe. As Aristotle says, thus one
would go on for ever without result; so that the search will be fruitless
and vain. Nay, if we go by quantity, estimate our knowledge now as
compared with the facts of the universe, we are but children still play
ing on the shore of an infinite sea. If, before philosophy can be
formed into a systematic whole, every phenomenon which the mind
can grasp in the inorganic or in the organic world has to be first ex
amined—every atom which microscope can detect, every nebula which
telescope can reach—if every living thing has to be analyzed down to
the minutest variation of its tissues, from infinitesimal protozoa to
palaeontologic monsters—if every recorded act, word, or thought of
men has to be first exhausted before the science of sciences can begin
—the task is hopeless, for the subject is infinite. A life of toil may
be baffled by the problems to be found in one drop of turbid water.
Ten generations of thinkers might perish before they had succeeded in
explaining all that it is conceivable science might detect on a withered
leaf. And whole academies of historians would not suffice fully to
raise the veil that shrouds a single human life.
Were science pursued indefinitely on this scale, not only would the
earth not contain all the books that should be written, but no conceivable
brain could grasp, much less organize, the infinite maze. The task of
organization would thus be made more hopeless each day, and philos
ophy would be as helpless as Xerxes in the midst of his countless
hosts. The radical difference between the point of view of the positive
and the current philosophy, that which feeds the internecine conflict
between them, is that between the relative and the absolute. Looked
at from the absolute point of view—that is, as the phenomena of mat
ter and life present themselves from without—the task of exhausting
I he knowledge of them is truly infinite, and that of systematizing them
is truly hopeless. From the relative point of view philosophy is called
�THE P OSITIVIST PROBLEM.
59
on to exist, not for its own sake, but as the immediate minister of life.
To utilize it, and to organize in order to utilize it, is of far higher im
portance than to extend it. It judges the value of truths, not by the
degree of intellectual brilliancy they exhibit, or the delight they afford
to the imagination, but by their relation, in a broad sense, to the prob
lem of human happiness. Till this great problem is nearer its solution,
Positivism is content to leave many a problem yet unsolved and many
a discovery unrevealed. It sees life to be surrounded by such problems
as by an atmosphere “ measureless to man; ” for life rests ever like an
island girt by an ocean of the Insoluble, and hangs like our own planet,
a firm and solid spot suspended in impenetrable space.
What is the test of true knowledge, when phenomena, facts, and
therefore truths, are actually infinite? The fact that this or that gas
has been detected in a fixed star is, no doubt, a brilliant discovery in
the absolute point of view; but, in the relative, it might possibly turn
out to be a mere feat of scientific gymnastic—the answer to a scientific
puzzle. The discoverer of many a subtle problem may be, absolutely
speaking, entitled to the honor of mankind; but relatively, if his
problem is valueless, he may have been wasting his time and his
powers. Hence the special professors of every science are the first to
resent the principles and the judgments of the relative mode of
thought. They cannot endure that their intellectual achievements
should be judged by any but scientific standards, or their inquiries
directed by any but scientific motives. The whole conception of the
relative method differs from theirs. It calls for the solution first of
those problems in each science which a systematic philosophy of them
all indicates as the most fruitful sources of inquiry: it enjoins the fol
lowing of one study and science for the sake of and as minister to
another, and of all for the sake of establishing a rational basis for human
life and activity. And this not in the vague general spirit that all
knowledge is good, and all discoveries useful to man, and no one can
tell which or how. The same objection was brought against Aristotle
and Bacon when they proposed their Organa, or clues to inquiry. All
truths may have some value, but they are not equally valuable. The
claim of the relative is to test their value by a system of referring them
to human necessities. It sees the life of man stumbling and wander
ing for the want of a foundation and guide of certain and organized
knowledge. Each hour the want of a rational philosophy to direct and
control our social activity is more pressing, yet the absolute spirit in
science, vain-glorious and unmindful of its function, shakes off the idea
of a yoke-fellow, and widens the gulf between thought and life by soli
tary flights amidst worlds of infinite phenomena.
It is sometimes pretended—it must be said rather perversely—that
this relative conception of science is akin to the stifling of thought by
the Catholic Church. It is of course true that the Holy Inquisition,
like most dominant religions, did claim the right, in virtue of its
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THE POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
divine mission, of dictating to the intellect certain subjects as forbid
den ground, and warning it off from these limits; it dictated to the
intellect the conclusions which it was required to establish, and the
methods it was permitted to use—and this not on intellectual, but on
religious and supernatural grounds. Positivism neither dictates to the
intellect nor hampers its activity. It calls on it on grounds of philos
ophy, and on demonstrable principles, to work in its own free light;
but by that light, and at its own discretion, to choose those spheres and
to follow those methods that shall combine harmoniously with a scheme
of active life as systematic as itself. This is utterly distinct from the
slavery of the mind, according to the Catholic or any other religious
notion. The comparison is as simple a sophistry as to argue that it is
slavery in the will deliberately to follow the dictates of conscience.
No one who has given the subject a second thought can suppose
that Positivism, in bringing the intellect into intimate union with the
other sides of human nature for the direct object of human happiness,
intends thereby to confine it to the material uses of life, or to refer
every thought to some immediate practical end. The former is mere
materialism ; the second simple empiricism; and both utterly unphilosophical. On the contrary, by far the noblest part of the task of the
mind is to minister to moral and spiritual needs. And by far the most
of its efforts are employed in strengthening its own powers, and amass
ing the materials for long series of deductions. Philosophy, as Positiv
ism conceives it, would annihilate itself by becoming either material
or empirical. Its business is to systematize the highest results of
thought; but those results are the highest which are most essential
to, and can be assimilated best by, human life as a whole.
And
no system can be the true one but as it orders all thoughts in rela
tion, first to each other, and, secondly, in relation to every power of
man.
Can it be needful again to say that the attempt of Positivism to
systematize the sciences is very far from implying that there is but one
science and one method, or that it would reduce all knowledge to one
set of laws. Its chief task has been to show the boundaries of the
sciences, to classify the different methods appropriate to each, and to
point out how visionary are all attempts at ultimate generalizations.
When men of science tell us that processes of reasoning are used indis
criminately in all sciences, and that all scientific questions are ulti
mately referable to one set of laws, they are going back to the infancy
of philosophy, effacing all that has been done to analyze reasoning, and
attempting, as of old, to reach some chimerical, because universal,
principle. It is but the materialist phase of the metaphysical problem.
Supposing all questions of science, including all social questions, as has
been proposed, not apparently in jest, could be reduced to questions of
molecular physics, how would this serve human life more than if they
were reduced to air, water, or fire ? The end of specialism is at hand
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POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
61
if science is looking for some ultimate principle of the universe. The
search is equally unpractical, whether it be pursued by crude guessing
or by microscopes and retorts. It would not help us if we knew it;
and as Aristotle says of Plato’s idea, the highest principle would
contain none under it. It would be so general as to support no prac
tical derivatives. Like all extreme abstractions, it would bear no fruit.
Turn on whichever side we will, we meet this conflict between the
relative and the absolute point of view. The absolute burns for new
worlds to conquer; the relative insists that the empire already won,
before all things, be reduced to order, and knowledge systematized in
order to be applied. The absolute calls us to admire its brilliant dis
coveries ; the relative regrets that such efforts were not spent in dis
covering the needful thing. The absolute claims entire freedom for
itself; the relative asks that its labors be directed to a systematic end.
It is the old question between individual and associated effort—the
spontaneous and the disciplined—the special and the general point of
view'. We might imagine the case of a general with a genius for war,
such as Hannibal or Napoleon, carrying on a campaign with a hetero
geneous host and a staff of specialist subordinates. He desires to learn
the shape of a country, the powers of his artillery, the fortification of
his camp, or the engineering of his works. He seeks to master each
of these arts himself, so far as he has means, and for his ultimate end.
But with his specialists he wages a constant struggle. His geographer
has a thousand points still to observe to complete his survey. His en
gineers start curious problems in physics, and each science has its own
work, as each captain of irregulars may have his pet plan. It may be
true that much may be needed before any of the branches can be
thoroughly done ; and the scheme of some subordinate officer might
possibly destroy a certain number of the enemy. But the true general
knows that all these things are good only in a relative manner. His
end is victory, or rather conquest.
Thus it is not only intelligible, but quite inevitable, that Positivism
should meet the stoutest opposition from the science of the day, not
only in details and in estimates, but even in general conceptions, and
yet not be unscientific. The strictures of men even really eminent in
special departments are precisely what every system must encounter
which undertakes the same task. That all such should make them,
more especially if they be inclined to theology, or devotees of individ
ualism, is so entirely natural that any answer in detail must be an end
less task. By their fruits you shall know them. Let us see them pro
duce a system of thought more harmonious in itself and more applica
ble to the whole of human life. Every new philosophy which proposes to
change the very point of view of thought has always incurred fierce oppo
sition. Every new religion and social system has seemed to its predeces
sors an evil and cruel dream. How much more a system which involves
at once a new philosophy, a new religion, and a new society; which brings
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THE POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
to thought a change greater than that wrought by Bacon or Descartes;
which draws a spiritual bond vaster and deeper than that which was
conceived by Paul, and founds a social system that differs from our own
more than the modern differs from the ancient world.
Whether the actual solution of the problem of systematizing thought
as worked out by Comte in all its sides, his statement of natural laws,
and his classification of the sciences, be adequate or true, is a matter
which it is far from our present purpose to discuss. It would be for
eign to our immediate aim, and impossible within our present limits.
But there is a stronger reason. It would be simple charlatanry in one
without due scientific education to undertake such a task as that of
examining and reviewing a complete encyclopaedia of science. The
natural philosophy of Comte is a matter which no one could undertake
to justify in all its bearings without a systematic study of each science
in turn. Looking at it from the point of view of philosophy, and with
that relative spirit which the sense of social necessities involves, a dili
gent student of the system, who seeks to satisfy his mind on it as a
whole, can form a sufficient opinion, at least so far as to compare its
results with any other before us. After very carefully considering the
strictures passed on Comte’s classification of the sciences and his state
ment of the principal laws, it does not appear to the writer that one of
them will hold. If we are to shelter ourselves under authority, we may
be content with that of M. Littré, Mr. Mill, and Mr. Lewes. We are
too apt to forget the great distinction between philosophy and science,
and the paramount title of the former. Men of science are far too
ready to decide matters of philosophy by their own lights, matters
which depend far less on knowledge of special facts than on the gen
eral laws and history of thought, and even of society. Nor does there
appear to be any weight in some strictures which have recently been
published in this Review on the positive law of the three stages and the
classification of the sciences, the greater part of which objections have
been already anticipated and refuted by Mr. Mill—part of which are
obvious misconceptions of Comte, and part are transparent sophisms.
On the whole, it may be fairly left to any one who seriously seeks for a
philosophy of science, and is prepared to seek it with that patience
and breadth of view which such a purpose requires, to decide for him
self if he can discover any other solution of the problem, the general
co-ordination of knowledge as a basis of action.
Let us now for a moment turn to the system viewed as a religion,
not with the slightest intention of reviewing it, much less of advocating
it, but simply to see what it is, and what it proposes to do. Its funda
mental notion is that no body of truth, however complete, can effect
ually enlighten human life; no system of society can be stable or
sound without a regular power of acting on the higher emotions.
There are in human nature capacities which will not be second, and
cannot be dispensed with. There are instincts of self-devotion and of
�THE POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
63
sympathy, love, veneration, and beneficence, which ultimately control
human life, and alone can give it harmony. Though not the most
active either in the individual character, or even in the social, these
powers are in the long run supreme, because they are those only to
which the rest can permanently and harmoniously submit. Each sepa
rate soul requires, to give unity to the exercise of its powers, a motive
force outside of itself: for the highest of its powers are instinctively
turned to objects without. The joint action of every society is in the
long run due to sympathy, and to common devotion to some power on
which the whole depends. There thus arises a threefold work to be
accomplished—to give unity to the individual powers; to bind up the
individuals into harmonious action ; to keep that action true and per
manent—unity, association, discipline. Without this the most elabo
rate philosophy might become purely unpractical or essentially im
moral, the most active of societies thoroughly corrupt or oppressive,
and the result throughout the whole sphere of life—discord. Nothing
but the emotions remain as the original motive force of life in all its
sides; and none of the emotions but one can bring all the rest and all
other powers into harmony, and that is the devotion of all to a power
recognized as supreme. To moralize both Thought and Action, by
inspiring Thought with an ever-present social motive, by making
Action the embodiment only of benevolence—such is the aim of reli
gion as Positivism conceives it.
Now, without debating whether the mode in which Positivism
would affect this be true or not, adequate or not, it is plainly what
every system of religion in its higher forms has aimed at. And accord
ingly we see the singular attraction which this side of Positivism pos
sesses for many orthodox Christians. It is entirely their own claim;
and, indeed, there nowhere exists in the whole range of theological phil
osophy an argument on the necessity for and nature of religion in the
abstract at all to be compared with that in the second volume of the
“ Politique Positive.” Passing over the question whether Positivism
has carried out this aim by methods either arbitrary or excessive, it is
plain that every system which can claim to be an organized religion at
all, has had a body of doctrine, a living object of devotion, observances
of some kind, and an associated band of teachers. It is not easy to see
how there could be anything to be rightly called a religion without them,
or something with equivalent effect. A mere idea is not a religion,
such as that of the various neo-Christian and Deist schools.
The hostility, therefore, which the religious scheme of Positivism
awakens is one involved of necessity in the undertaking, and should
count for very little until it is seen that its critics are prepared fairly
to consider any such scheme at all. Those who are most disposed to
feel any interest in the scientific or political doctrines of Positivism
are just those who almost to a man reject worship, Church, and religion
altogether. This, for the most part, they have done, not on any gen
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THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
eral philosophical reasons, but simply from antipathy to those forms of
devotion they find extant. Whether, in rejecting the actual forms of
them now or hitherto presented, the very spirit of these institutions
can be eliminated from human nature and from society, is a question
which they care neither to ask nor to answer. But in treating of the
Positive, or any scheme of religion, this is the question at issue. Nor
must it be forgotten that so much is the vital spirit of all religious
institutions extinct in modern thought, that even if the doctrines and
ceremonies of existing churches escape ridicule by virtue of habit and
association, forms less familiar, however rational in themselves, would
be certain to appear ridiculous, as doctrines far more intelligible and
capable of proof would appear chimerical to men accustomed to listen
calmly even to the Athanasian Creed.
Fully to conceive the task which Positivism as a religion has set
itself to accomplish, much more fairly to judge how its task has been
done, requires the mind to be placed in a point of view very different
from that of the actual moment. How little could the most cultivated
men of antiquity, who never looked into the inner life of their time,
estimate the force of early Christianity, or the most religious minds of
the middle ages accept the results of modern enlightenment! What
an effort of candor and patience would it have proved to any of these
men to do justice to the system which was to supersede theirs, even if
presented to their minds in its entirety and its highest form 1 It is
inherent in the nature of every scheme which involves a great social
change that it should bring into play or into new life powers of man
kind hitherto dormant or otherwise directed. Whether it be right in
so doing, or whether it do so to any purpose, is the question to decide;
but it is a question the most arduous which can be put to the intelligence,
and involves protracted labor and inexhaustible candor. Random criti
cism of any new scheme of religious union is of all things the most
easy and the most worthless. It can only amuse the leisure of a trifler,
but it deserves neither thought nor answer. Positivism in the plainest
way announces what is its religious aim and basis. The partisans of
the actual creeds may of course resist it by any means they think best.
But as it certainly does not seek them, nor address any who are at rest
within their folds, they cannot fairly complain of being scandalized by
what they may find in it for themselves. Those who attack it from
independent grounds show but small self-respect if they do so without
accepting the first condition of their own good faith, which is patiently
to weigh it as a whole. And those who fairly intend to consider it to
any purpose may be assured that they are undertaking a very long and
perplexing task; that much of it must necessarily seem repugnant to
our intellectual tone. A system which professes to be co-extensive
with life and based upon proof would be mere imposture if it could be
accepted off-hand as true or false, if it did more than assert and illus
trate general principles, or if it ended in closing the mind and leaving
�THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
65
man but a machine. The real point in issue is whether it be possible
to direct mankind by a religion of social duty, if humanity as a whole—
past, present, and to come—can inspire a living devotion, capable of
permanently concentrating the highest forces of the soul; whether it
be possible to maintain such a religion by appropriate observances and
an organized education. This is the true problem for any serious
inquirer, and not whether a number of provisions admittedly sub
ordinate approve themselves to the first glance. To travestie a new
system by exaggerating or isolating its details is a task as easy as it
is shallow.
In its third aspect—that is, as a polity—what is it that Positivism
proposes ? It is a political system in harmony with a corresponding
social and industrial system, tempered by a practical religion, and based
upon a popular education. The leading conception is to subordinate
politics to morals by bringing the practical life into accord with the
intellectual and the emotional. The first axiom, therefore, is this—
that permanent political changes cannot be effected without previous
social and moral changes. This is a scheme which may be said to be
wholly new in political philosophy. Every political system of modern
times hitherto has proposed to produce its results by legislative, or at
all events by practical changes, and has started from the point of view
that the desired end could be obtained if the true political machinery
could be hit upon. It is the starting-point of Positivism that no machinery whatever can effect' the end without a thorough regeneration
of the social system; and when that is done, the machinery becomes
of less importance. The principal thing, then, will be to have the ma
chinery as simple and as efficient as possible. Political action, like all
practical affairs, must in the main depend on the practical instinct.
And the chief care will be to give the greatest scope for the rise and
activity of such powers. But as the social system is to be recast, not
by the light of the opinion of the hour, but by a study of the human
powers as shown over their widest field, so the leading principles in
politics will find their rational basis in no corner of modern civilization,
but in the history of the human l’ace as a whole and a complete analy
sis of the human capacities.
Let us see what this involves. From the nature of its aim it can
not be revolutionary in the ordinary sense. The very meaning of revo
lution is a radical and sudden change in the constitution of the state.
Now, apart from its condemnation of all revolutionary methods, Posi
tivism insists that all political changes so made must prove abortive.
But, besides this, it repudiates disorder as invariably evil, and insists
that every healthy movement is nothing but the development of the
past. But at the same time the change to which it looks is of the
greatest extent and importance. It is thus the only systematic attempt
to conciliate progress and order, one which effects revolutionary ends by
a truly conservative spirit. Of all charges, therefore, that could be
�66
THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
made against Positivism, that of being anarchical is the most super
ficial. The attempt to connect it with disorder and sedition is scan
dalously unjust. To the charge of being reactionary the best answer is
a simple statement of the future to which it looks forward. That it
contemplates a benevolent despotism is an idle sneer, for it conceives
the normal condition of public life as one in which the influence of
public opinion is at its maximum, and the sphere of government at
its minimum.
But just in proportion to the width of the system on which Positive
politics rest is the degree of opposition which it awakens. Adapting to
itself portions from each of the rival systems, it alienates each of them
in turn. It is impossible to do justice to the greatness o£*past ages, and
still more to revive anything from them, without offering a rock of
offence to all the revolutionary schools. And it.is impossible to pro
pose a reorganization of society at all without alarming the conserva
tive. These alternations of interest in and antipathy towards Positivist
politics, these bitter attacks, these contradictory charges, belong of
necessity to the undertaking, and need surprise no one. But those who
profess to know what they undertake to criticise, those to whom all
matters human and divine are open questions, who spend their time
but to hear or to tell some new thing, such, one would think, would be
careful that they understand the conditions on which a new system of
thought is based.
This hasty outline of the task which Positivism undertakes—the
mere statement of its problem—may suffice to explain the continual
interest it excites, and also the incessant hostility it meets. Let any
one fairly ask himself—if it be possible to accomplish such a task at all
without necessarily provoking a storm of opposition, and if the success
of the system as a whole could possibly be estimated without a patience
which, it may be said, it almost never receives. The mere variety of
the objects which it attempts to combine, while interesting men of the
most opposite views, of necessity presents to each some which utterly
repel him. It is impossible to reconcile a Babel of ideas without for
cing on each hearer many which he is accustomed to repudiate. The
man of science, who is attracted by the importance given to the physi
cal laws, starts back when it is proposed to extend these laws to the
science of society. The student of history, who sees the profound truth
of the philosophy of history, is scandalized by the very idea of a creed
of scientific proof. The politician foi* a time is held by the vision it
presents of social reforms, but he is disgusted at hearing that he must
take lessons from the past. The conservative delights to find his an
cient institutions so truly honored, to be shocked when he finds that
they are honored only that they may be the more thoroughly trans
formed. The man of religion is touched to find in such a quarter a
profound defence of worship and devotion, only to be struck dumb
with horror at a religion of mere humanity. The democrat, who hails
�THE POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
67
the picture of a regenerated society, turns with scorn from an attempt
to lay the bases of temporal and spiritual „authority. The reactionist
fares no better; for if he finds some comfort in the new importance
given to order, he dreads the results of an unqualified trust in popular
education and the constant appeal to public opinion. Those whom the
philosophy attracts, the religion repels. Those whom the moral the
ories strike shrink back from the science. Those who believe in the
forces of religion are no friends of scientific laws. Those who care most
for the progress of science are the first to be jealous of moral control.
It is simply impossible, therefore, to address with effect all of these
simultaneously without in turn wounding prejudices dear to each. It
could not be that the sciences could be organized without hurting the
susceptibilities of specialists everywhere, and it is the spirit of our time
to create specialists. To bridge over the vast chasm between the Past and
the Future, to co-ordinate the opinions and the emotions, to satisfy the
heart as well as the brain, to reconcile truth with feeling, duty with
happiness, the individual with society, fact and hope, order with
progress, religion with science, is no simple task. The task may be
looked on as hopeless, the solution of it may be derided as extravagant;
but if it were presented to men “ by an angel from heaven,” it would
sound strange to the bulk of hearers, men to whom such a notion is
alien, who have sympathy neither with the object nor the mode of pur
suing it. Hence the unthinking clamor which Positivism excites. To
the pure conservative it offers a fair mark for fierce denunciation. To
the jester it offers an opening for easy ridicule, for it offers to him
many things on which he has never thought. But by a critic of any
self-respect or intelligence it must be treated thoroughly, or not at all.
There are persons devoid of any solid knowledge, of the very shreds of
intellectual convictions, of any germ of social or religious sympathies,—
specialists ex hypothesis—to whom a serious effort to grapple with the
great problem of Man on earth is but the occasion for a cultivated
sneer, or a cynical appeal to the prejudices of the bigot. Non ragioniam di lor.
It must be plain to any one who gives all this a fair judgment that
the students of Comte could not possibly suffice for all such contro
versies, were they ten times as numerous as they are. The critics of
Positivism attack on a hundred quarters, and with every weapon, at
once. Only those who seriously interest themselves in the progress of
thought must remember that they are continually listening to mere
travesties, which it is worth no man’s while to expose, and to criticisms
which no one cares to answer. They would have only themselves to
blame if they choose to suppose that no answer could be given. Now
and then some striking case of misrepresentation has to be dealt with ;
but, as a rule, the students of Comte are of necessity otherwise engaged.
Controversy is alien to the whole genius of Positivism, for the range
of objections in detail is entirely infinite. Positivism must make way,
�68
THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
if at all, like all efforts at construction, by its synthetic force, by its co
herence, and its fitness for the situation. If it has this, it can be
neither hindered nor promoted by any controversy, however brilliant as
a performance.
It is not an infrequent comment that the points of the Positive sys
tem are so widely remote and heterogeneous, that it appears somewhat
discursive. They are no doubt far apart from each other, and appar
ently, perhaps, disconnected. But it would be a most superficial view
to regard them as desultory. Now and then these principles are heard
of m matters of practical politics,—now in pure science, in religion, in
industry, in history, or in philosophy. But this is a necessity of the
case, and is a consequence of the connection between all these, which it
is the aim of Positivism to enforce, and of their general dependence on
common intellectual foundations. Its great principle is, that the errors
hitherto committed are due to the separate treatment of these cognate
phases of life and thought. And if it treats in turn very different sub
jects, it is by virtue of this very doctrine that each must be viewed in
its relation to the other. That individuals defending these principles
wander out of their course, and fall into inconsistencies, is their weak
ness, not that of the system. Positivism itself stands like an intrenched
camp, presenting a continuous chain of works to the beleaguring forces
around. Within its own circle the system of defence communicates
immediately to, and radiates from, its centre, while the attack, being
unorganized and ranged in a circle without, is spread over a vastly
greater area. It stands as yet almost entirely by the strength of its own
walls and the completeness of its works, and not by that of its defenders
within.
Metaphor apart, let any one in common fairness consider what stu
dents of Comte have to meet. The philosophical basis alone covers a
ground far apart from the ordinary education so wide that nothing but
general views of it can be possible. To be intelligently convinced of
the truth of the Positive Philosophy in a body in such a way as to be a
capable exponent, requires, first, a previous preparation which very few
have gained; and, secondly, a weighing of the system by that knowl
edge step by step, in bulk and in detail, which perhaps not five men in
this country have chosen to give. It need not be said that the present
writer has as little pretension to belong to one class as to the other.
But there is no reason why men, positivist in spirit and in general aim,
should feel bound to defend every point in turn in a vast body of phil
osophy for which they are not responsible, and which in its entirety
they do not pretend to teach. A student of Positivism may hold that
which he believes to be true without being concerned to maintain every
suggestion of Comte’s, which to the infinite wisdom of some critics
may appear ridiculous. Deductions of the kind they are fond of treat
ing are just what a serious student bent on mastering a body of prin
ciples leaves as open or indifferent matters, and trusts to the future to
�THE POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
69
decide. Besides, even on the assumption that many of these deduc
tions, and even some of these principles, were preposterous or false, still,
as Mr. Mill has well pointed out, the same might be said of every known
philosopher. Aristotle, Bacon, and Descartes have sown their whole
works broadcast'with the wildest blunders. What a flood of cheap rid
icule their contemporary critics had at their command I What a mass
of absurdity might not a smart reader discover who for the first time
were to glance through the Ethics of Aristotle, or the Organum of
Bacon 1 Yet even if the system of Comte were as full of absurdities as
those of these philosophers—which I am far from conceding—this
would not prevent his philosophy from being as valuable a step in
thought as any of the three. There seems a disposition to force men
who become students of Comte and accept generally the Positive sys
tem, as they might in their day have accepted the Aristotelian or the
Baconian philosophy, to defend every statement of Comte’s, as if it were
a question of verbal inspiration. It seems that men in this country
are at liberty to profess themselves adherents of every system of thought
but one. A man may—one or two do—study and uphold the princi
ples of Hegel. Benthamism is a creed with living disciples. Mr. Mill
may be called the chief of a school. A fair field is open to all of these,
at least in any field which is open to freedom of thought. But if a
man ventures to treat a public question avowedly from the Positive
point of view, he is assailed by professed friends to free inquiry as if he
were an enemy of the human race, to whom the ordinary courtesies are
denied; and some of the commonest names that he will hear for him
self are atheist, fanatic, and conspirator.
Respecting the actual adherents of Comte, perhaps a few words
may be permitted, and, indeed, a few are required. It is not usual in
this country to “ picket ” the ordinary doings of a school in politics or
opinion, even though you do happen to differ from them. But in the
case of Positivism it seems to be thought allowable to dispense with
such scruples. Accordingly, the most ordinary utterance of one of
those whom they dub as a member of the school is at once set down by
anonymous persons as some fresh act of what they are pleased to call
" this malignant sect.” The mode in use is a very old, a very simple,
but not a very candid plan: it consists only in this—the describing
every one who has adopted any Positivist principle as a professed disci
ple of Comte; next, of attributing to each of such persons everything
that any of them or that Comte has at any time countenanced; and
lastly, of ascribing to Positivism and to Comte, every act and almost
every word of any of these persons. And the world seems to relish
any preposterous bit of gossip about Positivist churches and ceremo
nies, schemes, plots, and what not 1 One can hardly keep one’s coun
tenance in doing it, but it seems necessary to state that all this illnatured gossip is the childish stuff such gossip invariably is. As to
telling the world anything about the “ sect ”—“ malignant ” or other
�70
THE POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
wise—there is nothing to tell. Whatever else may be true about Posi
tivism, publicity is its very essence—vivre au grand jour—in thought,
word, and deed, according to the motto of Comte; and every act and
statement it makes is open to any one who cares to look. The utmost
publicity about persons, congregations, rites, and preaching, by all
means. But the gossip need not be untrue as well as impertinent. As
is well known, Dr. Richard Congreve, who has adopted the system and
practice of Comte in its entirety, has occasionally made an address to
a small audience, and has subsequently published his discourse. He
has also from time to time given a course of lectures open to the
public. Those who like himself definitely accept Positivism as a re
ligion, and regard themselves as a community, of whom it should be
said the present writer is not one, occasionally have met together. But
the various observances instituted by Comte are scarcely practicable
here. It is obvious that it must be so. A religion, a worship, and an
education such as Comte conceived them, are not possible in all their
completeness without a body of persons and families steadily desirous
of observing them. It need hardly be said that the materials for this
do not as yet exist in this country. A system like Positivism does not
easily receive complete adherents. It is not like any of the religious,
political, or socialist systems—like Swedenborgianism or CornmnuiRm
—a simple doctrine capable of awakening a dominant fanaticism. It
cannot possibly be preached beside a hedge or in a workshop, and gain
converts by the score, like Methodism or Chartism. To promulgate it
duly requires a fresh education, followed by a long course of systematic
meditation. To form an honest and solid conviction upon a body of
philosophy thus encyclopedic requires years of study. Accordingly,
the number of those who have completely accepted the system of
Comte as a religion, among whom it has been said the present writer
cannot count himself, is small. To treat every student of Positivism
and avowed adherent of Comte’s system as a member of a sort of
secret society, and then to pretend that this supposed society is engaged
in a series of religious and political plots, the amusement of some
busybodies, is an idle impertinence. These tales are worthy only of an
imperialist journal describing an apparition of the Spectre Rouge.
The fact that there are men not so nervously afraid of being associated
with an unpopular cause as to be engaging in constant controversy or
defence, is no honest ground for including them in a body to which
they do not belong, for fastening on them any design, whether they
have countenanced it or not, and any opinion,whether they adopt it or
not. That there are men who think it their duty to say plainly what
they think, and to say it always under the guarantee of their own
names, is no good cause, though it makes it easy for masked opponents,
to eke out the argumentum ad rationem by a free use of the argumen
tum ad hominem. If all such attacks, which are the portion of any
man who dares to treat a question from the Positivist point of view,
�THE
POSITIV IST PROBLEM.
are for the most part unanswered and unnoticed, the reason most as
suredly is, not that they are true, but- that they are unworthy of
answer.
But enough of such matters. These petty questions of an hour
are but dust in the balance by which this question must be weighed.
However little it may be thought that Positivism has solved its
problem, it can hardly be said that the time is not ripe for its task,
that there is nothing that calls for solution. Into what a chaos and
deadlock is opinion reduced in spiritual as in practical things! Who
seriously looks for harmony to arise out of the Babel of sects which
have arisen amid the debris of the Catholic Church ? Or are any of
the Pantheist or Deist dreams more likely to give unity to the human
race ? The 'dogmas of Christianity have been by some refined and
adapted away until nothing is left of them but an aspiration. Qan an
aspiration master the wild confusion of brain and will ? And has even
the most unsparing of adaptations brought the ancient faith really
more near to true science or to active life ? To science, that which
cannot be reduced to law is that which cannot be known, and the un
knowable is a thing of naught. Activity on earth can be regulated
only by a real not a fictitious, a natural not a supernatural standard.
By their very terms, then, the various forms of spiritualism shut them
selves off from the world of knowledge and the world of action; and,
more or less distinctly, they assume an attitude of antagonism to
both.
And yet, on the other hand, is there any better prospect of harmony
in the ignoring of religion altogether? The men of science and of
action from time to time form desperate hopes for the triumph of their
own ideas and the ultimate extinction of religious sentiment. With
them it is a morbid growth of the human mind—a weakness bred of
ignorance or inaction. They chafe under the grossness of an age which
will not be content with the pure love of truth or with the fruits of
material success. Yet to how shallow and slight a hope do they trust!
Human nature under the influence of its deepest sentiments- venera-.
tion, adoration, and devotion—rises up from time to time, and snaps
their thin webs like tow. Errors a thousand times refuted spring up
again with new life. The instinct of religious feeling is paramount as
well as indestructible, and philosophy and politics are in turn con
founded by its force. It is an internecine struggle, in which they seem
fated eternally to contend, but in which neither can crush its op
ponent.
In political matters is there any foundation more sure ? Constitu
tions, suffrages, and governments are alike discredited. Some cry for
one reform, some for another; but where is the prospect of agreement ?
The best institutions of the age men cling to at most as stop-gaps, as
the practical solution of a shifting problem. But useful as they may
be, who believes in them as things of the future, destined to guide
�72
THE
POSITIVIST PROBLEM.
man’s course as a social being ? What a chaos of plans, nostrums, and
watch-cries ?—how little trust, or hope, or rest I
In things social is the prospect brighter? Is the question of rich
and poor, of labor and capital, of health and industry, of personal free
dom and public well-being, so much nearer to its answer than it was ?
With our great cities decimated by disease, famine, pauperism—with
the war of master and servant growing louder and deeper—the corrup
tion of industry increasing—and the whole world of commerce and
manufactures swept from time to time by hurricanes of ruin and
fraud,—is it a time tb indulge in visions of content? We all have
hope, it is true, in the force of civilization, in the noble elements of
progress, and in the destiny of the human race ; but by what patl^or
course they may arrive at the goal, what man shall say ?
In such a state of things Positivism comes forward with its system
of ideas, which, at the least, is comprehensive as well as uniform. To
some its solution may appear premature, to some incomplete, to others
erroneous. But what thoughtful mind, among those to whom the
social and religious forms of the past are no longer a living thing, can
honestly assert that no such problem as it attempts to solve exists at
all, or that this problem is already solved ?
�
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The positivist problem
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Harrison, Frederic
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Conway Tracts
Positivism
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THE PHILOSOPHY OF “GETTING RELIGION.”
TTIRST in order, let us ascertain what is meant by the phrase, “getting religion.” All will concede that.it is not a Scriptural phrase,
but the term religion is. Etymologically, the word religion means, to re
bind, to bind again. If the term be applied to persons, this meaning
suggests several ideas : i. A person to be bound again ; 2. A person
to whom he shall be bound again; 3. That the person to be bound has
been loosed; 4. A bond. If we consider this word historically and
theologically, all these thoughts find in it an authorized symbol.
Under this view of the term, to say that a man “gets religion,” con
veys no definite conception. If then, we would arrive at the current
meaning of the phrase, we must consult the usus loquendi—the usual
mode of speaking, past or present. Inasmuch as words and phrases
are the signs of ideas, and! because neither this phrase nor its
synonym was used in apostolic times, we have evidence, prima facie,
that the idea.3is of post-apostolic origin. Hence, on theological
grounds, our jealousy of it may be justified.
The usus loquendi, then and now, assigns to the word religion a
meaning which Webster thus expresses: “ Theology, as a system of
doctrines or principles, as well as practical piety; a system of faith
and worship.” The proper reception of the Christian doctrine, as a
rule of life, binds a man to God in covenant relationship. The term,
therefore, ordinarily relates to the system which a man receives under
the idea of a bond. This is one of the thoughts growing out of the
etymology of the term. But usage has made this the paramount idea.
Can it be, then, that to “get religion” is to possess one’s self with
the Christian system of truth? Surely not. Then there must be
some idea involved by the term, as phrased, different both from its
etymological and ordinary sense.
It is certain that this phrase is eminently peculiar to the litera
ture of a special class of religionists; particularly those who adopt
�2
The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion'.'
the “anxious-seat” as an instrumentality to facilitate conversion.
They evidently mean, by the phrase, a subjective or psychological
experience—a sudden revulsion of the emotions from a more or less
profound depression, through conviction of sin and fear of its conse
quences, to a high state of exultation and joy, on account of pardon.
It must not be supposed that a psychological experience is peculiar
to this class, although some, under the influence of this system, have
denounced others as “ head religionists;” for we must believe that
every one who becomes reconciled to God has an experience pecu
liarly his own. But from the fact that, under this system, this ex
perience is sought for by peculiar methods as the direct gift of the
Holy Spirit, and as having a priceless value as the evidence of par
don, it becomes the paramount object of the sinner’s seeking. And
as this revulsion, by a singular use of the word, is called religion,
naturally enough the obtainment of it is called “getting religion.”
With others, the objective point is not “getting religion,” but getting
themselves into' harmony with religion, or the Christian system,
knowing that if they can effect this, their emotions will take care of
themselves. Hence, they do not need to coin a new phrase to ex
press a new religious idea, but simply to use the Scriptural term,
reconciliation.
INFLUENCE OF THEORIES.
Every theory determines its own methods and inspires its own
literature. The literature of the theory now referred to, is character
ized by such expressions as “ experimental religion,” “ seed of grace,”
“grace of God in the heart,” “grace of faith,” “getting the power,”
“ getting through,” “ soundly converted,” “ hopefully converted,” “ I
feel to thank God,” “ I feel to do right,” “ I know that I am a child
of God, because I feel it.” The emotions are first, last, and all the
time. They become the standard of truth, as well as duty. And if,
under the law of affinities, the most abundant harvests of converts are
not gathered from the emotional classes, there would be occasion to
revise all our systems of mental philosophy.
Nor is it surprising that there should be a perplexing confusion
of Scriptural terms, in order to adjust them to a system whose central
thought places its advocates under the necessity of coining so many
unscriptural words and phrases, in order to furnish it a lingual habi
tation and a name. The terms conversion, regeneration, change of
�The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion:
3
heart, born again, are modified by the phrase “getting religion,” or
made its synonyms ; generally, the latter.
Were it not for the logical and theological connections of the idea
of “ getting religion,” we might tolerate it as a comparatively inoffen
sive affair. But just here we hesitate. It is affirmed that it is the
immediate—without means—direct work of the Holy Spirit; that
saving faith is an inspiration by the Holy Spirit, as the writer re
cently heard in a discourse by a prominent minister.
The necessity for this position is laid in a theory of the fall of
man—in .the doctrine of total native depravity, as the hereditament
from Adam of every human being; that this corruption of man’s na
ture is such, that “he can not turn and prepare himself, by his own
natural strength, to faith and calling upon God, . . . without the
grace of God, by Christ, preventing [anticipating] us, that we may
have a good will ” (see M. E. Discipline, Arts, vii, viii) ; that man
can not exercisesaving faith when he hears the Gospel, because of
natural inability inherited; that the Holy Spirit must directly im
part the power.
Hence, a distinguished writer in the Methodist
Quarterly, of A. D. 1869, page 266, says, “The method of Meth
odism is inspiration, in distinction from
The'larger Catechism (questions and answers 25, 26, 27, and 67,)
avows the same doctrine of original sin, with the necessity for Spirit
impact, in order to predetermine man’s will to the exercise of saving
faith. In accordance with which, Dr. Rice, in Debate with Alexander
Campbell, page 672, says: “ Every thing has its nature. The lion,
however young, has its nature. . # . Plant two trees in the same
soil, and let them be watered by the same stream, and one will
produce sweet fruit and the other bitter. They possess different na
tures.” From these comparisons, we learn that man’s nature since
the fall differs from his nature before the fall, as a lion’s from a lamb’s
nature, or as the nature of a peach-tree from that of a crab-apple
tree. But man’s nature before the fall was created by God, and was
a human nature. He fails to tell who created his second nature, and
of what kind it is. Its creator must have been God, man, or the
devil. If God, then every creature of God is not good. If the devil,
then one thing was made without the Word. If man, then why can
he not new-create himself? That Dr. Rice understands his stand
ards to teach that God’s original creative power is exerted in regen
eration, is clear from page 635 : “Now, if God could originally create
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The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion?
man holy without words and arguments, who shall presume to assert
that he can not. create him anew, and restore his lost image ?” This
he said, in order to show the possibility of infant moral regeneration,
which, but for the logical demands of a theory, no one need attempt
to prove, since the Savior has said, “ Of such is the kingdom of
heaven.” When Mr. Campbell charged that Dr. Rice’s theory made
every conversion a miracle, he was met by an emphatic denial. But
the logic of a system will sometimes crop out through advocates who
are not constrained by controversial considerations. Hence, in his
■ Early Years of Christianity,” page 24, Dr. E. Pressense declares
that the Church, “born of a miracle,' by a miracle lives. Founded
upon the great miracle of redemption, it grows and is perpetuated by
the ever-repeated miracle of conversion.”
We would not be understood as disparaging the terms conversion,
regeneration, born again, change of heart, being healed, new creation,
in their Scriptural usage; nor the eminently Scriptural idea that the
Holy Spirit is the efficient agent in regeneration; but we do most
courageously object to any theory which requires such a set of
exegetical laws as makes these beautiful figures mutually destructive,
and arrays them all against every man’s consciousness and the analogy
of faith. For example, if the sinner is dead, in the strained sense
put upon this figure, how can he, under another figure, be diseased
and capable of cure ? If he must be created anew, according to and
in the manner this theory demands, how can he be born again ?,
RATIONAL VIEW.
That a revulsion of the emotions, called “getting religion,” does
occur, as is claimed, the writer sincerely believes. It is not a ques
tion of fact, but of the explanation of the fact. Those who question
the fact, speak unwisely; for this would be to assume that many of
the most estimable men are guilty of hypocrisy and downright false
hood—the only effect of which would be to shut the ear against
reason, to turn the edge of argument before whetting, to clothe the
claimants with a coat of mail more impenetrable than Greek or Ro
man warrior ever wore. If this revulsion is the effect of an imme
diate impact of the Holy Spirit, then we must concede all its logical
and theological antecedents and consequents. If it can be accounted
for without transcending the bounds of natural causes and natural
�The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion'.'
5
laws, then the opponent must cease to demand for the fact a solely
supernatural explanation, or stand self-convicted of fanaticism.
Let no one deny our right to deal with this subject philosophic
ally ; for Rev. C. G. Finney, late President of Oberlin College, has
defended it upon philosophic grounds. He, more than any other
man, perhaps, was instrumental in promoting the great revivals which
swept the country forty years ago. His staid, quondam Presbyterian
brethren objected to certain “ new measures ” used by him to promote
revivals; one of which was the anxious-seat. In his “ Revival Lec
tures,” page 253, he replies: “Of late, this measure has met with
more opposition than any of the others. What is the great objec
tion ? I can not see it. The design of the anxious-seat is undoubt
edly philosophical, and according to the laws of mind'.'
Singular how extremes meet. Mr. Finney swung off to an oppo
site extreme from the prevailing theories of conversion, and adopted
the anxious-seat as a measure to facilitate conversion, because its
design is philosophical, and in accordance with the laws of mind, while
others held on to the old theories, and adopted it for the same
purpose, disclaiming its design. Whgr^ consistency lies, the reader
must pronounce. Chide us not, then,, nor complain, if we at
tempt to ascertain these laws of mind, or the philosophy of “getting
religion.”
Let us look in upon a revival scene, The . sermon culminates in
an impassioned, rhetorical descpption of the sinfulness of sin, the
terrors of judgment. The peroration flames and fumes with fire and
brimstone. As the writer once heard, “ Hell is uncapped, and the
wails of the damned salute the sinnerjs earhe “ is hair-hung and
breeze-shaken over the gulf of damnation.” The imaginative, no less
than the moral, emotions are wrought up to a fearful pitch. The cry
is heard, “What must we do ?”“ Come to the anxious-seat, and the
Lord’s people will pray for you. and. the Lord will speak peace to
your souls.” They come. Preacher and people wait on them to in
struct, admonish, exhort, or entreat,jMpeach case may require, or as
the psychological condition of each may. seem to demand. “ How do
you feel ?” If the sense of guilt does not seem deep enough, the
effort is to “ break him down, so that he can neither stand nor go
or, in other words, to depress the emotions to the lowest possible
point. This done, the effort begins to “ get him through,” or to se
cure a rebound of the emotions. For this purpose, the power of
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The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion!'
payer and song and encouraging exhortation is called into requisiton- The penitent is addressed thus : “ Do you not believe that God
is able to save you ?” “ Is he not willing ?” “ Heaven, with all its
glories, is yours, if you will only surrender your heart to the Lord.”
“ If you will only give up all your sins; if you will only believe,
the Lord will receive you, and give you the evidence of accept
ance.” “ Ask, and you shall receive.” “ Seek, and you shall find.”
He repents, and prays, and weeps, and mourns. He asks, but
does not receive. A flash comes over him ; but it is a flash of
withering skepticism. “ Surely,” he thinks, “ if what I am told is
true, I would obtain the blessing so long and earnestly sought for.”
Some one by his side, who came long since he did, rises with a glow
ing halleluiah upon his lips. This only perplexes him the more. He,
after along struggle, is still unblessed, while the joyful convert by his
side has received the blessing after a very short struggle. The thought
steals upon his mind, “ Surely, God must be a respecter of persons ;
but if he is, the Bible is false, for it says the contrary.” Discour
aged, disheartened, and perplexed beyond measure, he sinks into
a skeptical stolidity. His friends note it. They come about him with
increased solicitude and intensified prayerfulness. One says to him:
“ This is a device of Satan to ruin you, when you were just escaping
from his power;” “Don’t give way to your doubts.” “I was just
so, says another ; “ I had a long struggle and a hard one to get relig
ion, but I finally succeeded, and I was so happy.” “ Pray on, brother ;
we will pray for you, that you may yet prevail.” “ If you will only
believe, God will speak peace to your soul.” “ Pray to the Lord to
give you faith ; to give you the victory over Satan.” His doubts
overcome, at least quieted, by the confidence he has in those who re
late their experiences, and encouraged by their earnest exhortations,
he plunges again into the struggle. Special attention is now given
him, as a brand that must be plucked from the burning. He and
others are animated for the struggle with the idea that it is a hand-tohand conflict with Satan, who is striving, with more than usual per
sistency, to keep this soul under his dominion. Victory over an
opposing foe is always sweet. Prayers go up, earnest, sincere, tearful,
agonizing prayers. Songs are inspired with the hope of impending
victory. Heaven is addressed: “Lord, send down the power.” “Come
down, and convert this poor sinner.” “ Drive back Satan to his own
native hell, and give this soul release.” “ Lord, baptize him with the
�The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion'.'
7
Holy Spirit and fire.” “ Lord, pour light into this darkened soul.”
Meantime, the penitent is exhorted: “Now give up all to Christ.”
“Hold back nothing.” “Turn away from all your sins.” “Ask,
and you shall receive.” “Now, don’t you believe?” “Just believe
that you have the blessing, and you have it.” “Just believe that
God has pardoned you, and you are pardoned.” “Just rise up, and
shout glory to God, and it will be all right; you will feel happy.”
“ Open your mouth, and the Lord will put a new song into it.”
Then the altar resounds with the chorus:
“O believe him, O believe him,
O believe him, just now.
He will save you, he will save you,
He will save you, just now !”
A heavenly smile begins to chase away the sadness which has hung
like a pall over the penitent’s countenance. Before he has had time
to express a word, a score of happy voices lift the choral halleluiah,
in which he joins with his shouts of joy. “His was a mighty work
of grace.” “The Lord was merciful.” His conversion becomes the
theme of sermon and song, to incite others to seek religion.
How fortunate for the poor penitent, when he was on the verge
of infidelity, that his reasoning process was cut short and his judg
ment overborne by the solicitude of friends! Otherwise he might
have deepened skepticism into confirmed infidelity, with the contra
dictions and inconsistencies of the system. The preacher had told
him that the unregenerate can not exercise saving faith, without the
enabling power of the Holy Spirit; yet all the while he was exhorted
to believe—to believe just now. What ? That Jesus is the Son of
God ? No. He believed that already. Believe that he was a sinner ?
No. What then? Why, “just believe that you are pardoned, and
you are pardoned.” Or, otherwise, a man must believe in order to
be pardoned; still he can not, being unregenerate. Then, he is par
doned if he believes so. Then, of course, believing that he is par
doned, he will be happy, has the desired revulsion of the emotions,
or has “gotten religion.” Then, his feelings become the evidence of
pardon ; or he believes he is pardoned before he has the evidence, in
order to obtain the evidence. But did he believe without evidence
entirely ? Surely not; for that is impossible. His faith must have
rested upon the testimony of his advisers, or it was nothing but
imagination, or both combined. Of the power of the imagination,
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The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion'.'
hear what Professor Haven, of Amherst, says in his “ Mental Philos
ophy,” page 153. This is a standard text-book in many of our insti
tutions of learning:
“ Errors of Imagination.—Undoubtedly there are errors, mistakes, prejudices,
illusions of the imagination ; mistakes in judgment, in reasoning, in the affairs of
practical life, the source of which is to be found in some undue influence, some
wrong use of the imagination. We mistake its conceptions for realities. We
dwell upon its pleasing visions till we forget the sober face of truth. We fancy
pleasures, benefits, results, which will never be realized, or we look upon the dark
and dreary side of things, till all nature wears the somber hue of our disordered
fancy.”
It would seem that Professor Haven must have had his eye upon
the anxious-seat when he penned this paragraph.
While presenting the foregoing description of anxious-seat
conversion, the thought occurred to the writer that he might be
charged with an attempted caricature; for, he is free to confess that,
if he had not carefully noted the facts, it would be difficult to regard
it as a representation of sober reality. But those who have frequented
such scenes, will confess that he might have colored the picture even
more highly, without violence to truth. He is not conscious of “ hav
ing set down aught in malice.”
With this procedure before us, we propose to deduce those mental
and emotional laws which should be recognized in this process of
“getting religion,” and under the operation of which it is believed
the fact may be rationally explained. In order to appreciate this
psychological experience in its varied manifestations, it must be pre
mised that the intensity of emotional activity depends largely upon the
strength and development of the moral sense and the imagination;
that the intensity of emotional activity, caused under the influence
of the imagination, is ordinarily greater than that produced under the
influence of the moral sense. But if both the imagination and the
moral sense are involved, as is generally, if not always, the case in
religious excitements, we may expect an intensity of emotional ac
tivity correspondent to the united strength and development of both
these faculties, only modified by the degree of precision and force
with which the objects producing the excitement are presented to the
mind, and also the nature of the objects; for, if the objects be such
as are not trivial, but directly connected with our highest interests
for time and eternity, they would naturally command our most ear
�The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion!'
9
nest solicitude. Hence, we would most confidently expect, what is a
notorious fact, that the results of revivals, conducted according to the
anxious-seat method, should depend largely upon the rhetorical and
emotional power of the minister. If he be a man of warm, impulsive
nature, with a vivid imagination and good pulpit address, so that he
can clothe his transcendently important themes with the chameleon
changes of the sublime and the sorrowful, the terrific and the beau
tiful, the awful, grand, or pitiful; if he can touch, every note in the
diapason of human feeling, with the exquisiteness and the dash of a
well-skilled orchestra,—then we may readily believe that great results
will be achieved. Hence, in our time, an evangelist is regarded as
little else than an expert revivalist. Let no one think, because the
writer speaks thus, that he is opposed to revivals. Far from it. If
procured and conducted in accordance with the Word of God, they
are great instrumentalities for good. But it is the abuse of them, by
pressing them into the service of a human system, that has well-nigh
turned the world against them.
MENTAL AND EMOTIONAL LAWS.
I. We most readily imagine or believe that which is in accordance
with our desires.
II. The facility of faith is variable in different persons, on account
of constitutional peculiarities, and in the same person at different
times, on account of associations, personal habits, or other causes.
III. Confidence in the veracious character of witnesses predisposes
the mind to faith in their testimony.
IV. Imagination and faith exercise a controlling power over the
emotions. We feel as we imagine or believe.
V. The imagination or belief of a falsehood affects the emotions
in precisely the same manner and to the same degree as the truth
upon any given subject, provided the falsehood appears to be truth.
VI. If the emotions be borne out of their normal condition to any
extreme of intense activity, nature demands a revulsion, or a gradual
subsidence, at the peril of insanity.
VII. Generally, if the emotions be intensely excited under the
influence of the imagination or moral sense, or both combined,
bodily agitations will appear, particularly in persons of a nervous
temperament.
VIII. Generally, emotional excitement is contagious.
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The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion!'
These laws of mental and emotional activity are not submitted
as applicable only to religious revivals, but to mental and emotional
activity under all circumstances. Without undertaking to prove or
illustrate them, which would be a pleasant pastime, if space allowed,
the writer appeals to the consciousness of every reader for their jus
tification, confident, also, that the observation of every man will afford
an abundance of facts from every-day life to fully illustrate them.
APPLICATION OF THE ABOVE LAWS.
Let us recur to the penitent whom we left, a little while since,
filled with the new-born joy of “getting religion,” that we may trace
his psychological experience, to ascertain whether or not it was gov
erned and explainable by these laws.
Why were his emotions so depressed, even to the very verge of
an anguishing despair, till he could say, “ The pains of hell get hold
on me?” Was it because of an immediate impact of the Holy Spirit
upon his spirit? Or, was it because he believed himself to be a sin
ner, exposed to the wrath of God ? Because he saw, through faith in
the Word of God, a hell yawning to receive him, and his imagination
pictured the woefulness of its torments to his mind. Because he had
begun to realize that he deserved it all, for sinning so long against a
Holy God, whose matchless love, in the death of Christ, he had so
long despised. Because, too, not only his own faith and imagina
tion had shown him these things, but the faith and imagination of
preacher and people had assisted his own vision. His faith and
imagination being intensely active, his emotions were agonizingly
depressed. (See Law IV.)
But, says the objector, if the Spirit of God had not been striving
with him, he would not have felt this deep conviction. Grant it. But
did the Spirit strive, by direct impact, or through intervening instru
mentalities, in accordance with the laws of our mental and moral con
stitution ? This is the point. If in the former manner, then his
conviction had no moral character, for he must have been without
will in the matter. If in the latter manner, then his own agency was
involved; and conversion is not a miracle, but to be effected in a
rational way, although none the less by a supernatural, efficient cause.
Why did the penitent’s feelings rebound so suddenly? and why
did they not rebound sooner? For, perhaps, he had been “seeking
religion” for weeks—may be months. In favor of this revulsion several
�The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion!1
11
principles conspired: I. He earnestly desired and sought for the par
don of his sins. (See Law I.) 2. He had confidence in his religious
advisers, who testified that God would pardon him, and gave their
own experience in proof. (See Law III.) 3. Nature demands a re
bound of the emotions when borne away to a given extreme. (See
Law VI.) 4. Many around him were happy, having recently “gotten
religionothers were happy in the demonstrative joy of the new
converts, and in the faith of their own salvation. (See Law VIII.)
Why, then, should he not find the object of his seeking sooner ? His
faith and imagination combined to depress his emotions; why did
they not, under these seemingly favorable circumstances, combine to
exalt them to the acme of peace and joy? Here is the puzzle, if con
version, or “getting religion,” is an effect of the direct, immediate
operation of the Holy Spirit. Does not the Holy Spirit aim at and de
sire every sinner’s conversion ? Had not many already been converted,
who came to the anxious-seat long since this penitent came ? Why,
then, is he not converted sooner ? Perhaps this explanation may avail
us: The Word of God testifies plainly against sin, showing us also its
sinfulness and its punishment; also, of the love of God, and the death
of Jesus for the sinner. The Holy Spirit had laid a broad foundation
for the penitent’s faith in regard to his lost condition without Christ.
That same Word had deigned to assist his imagination by such rep
resentations of the fearful consequences of sin as were calculated to
give activity to his imagination. We can readily understand how he
was “pricked to the heart;” how he was prostrated under a sense of
guilt and fearful apprehension. But in vain does the poor man search
the Word of God for a promise of pardon connected with the anxiousseat. In vain does he search the Divine record for an example of
conversion according to this method. The broad foundation where
he rested his faith for conviction, is now wanting. He is dependent
upon the testimony of men, that God will forgive his sins in this
way. The fact that, in giving his experience, he may rest his faith
upon some promise contained in the Scriptures, does not change the
fact that the testimony of men is the real basis of his faith; for, if
there is no promise of God connected with the anxious-seat, or if
this method of conversion is unscriptural, then, of course, all promises
construed with it are misapplied, and therefore cease to be the testi
mony of God, and become simply the testimony of men,—just as the
Scripture quoted by Satan, when tempting the Savior, ceased to be
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The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion'.'
the Word of God, and, as then applied, became simply a positive
falsehood. Perhaps the convert was like Thomas, constitutionally
incredulous; not inclined to believe, ordinarily, without palpable evi
dence. Perhaps he may have become slow to believe the testimony
of men, because his confidence had been violently shattered or weak
ened by human treachery and deception. Perhaps his own personal
habits may have replaced a confiding disposition. (See Law II.) If
any or all these things were true of him, it is easily explained why
he did not “ get religion ” sooner. Still, the very fact that he “ got
religion” at all, indicates a preponderance of the favorable influences
over the adverse. Now, the revulsion being at last secured, perhaps
under a tremendous pressure of the imagination, combined with
what strength of faith he was able to command, may be carried up to
the most intense emotional excitement, producing bodily agitations
of the most astonishing violence; or, the physical powers sometimes
whelmed with the emotional flood, the man sinks into a semi-con
scious state, when he is said to be in a trance. (See Law VII.)
Then the mind is given up to the most delightful visions. This used
^to be regarded as evidence of an unusual display of the power of the
Holy Spirit.
Seeing that similar revolutions of the feelings, as well as bodily
agitations, sometimes take place where no one contends that the
Holy Spirit has any thing to do with them, suppose it should turn
out that the Holy Spirit has nothing to do with many of these sup
posed “ sound conversions that there is a clear non causa pro causa
committed,—then they would simply fall under and be explained by
Law V. The belief or imagination of a falsehood upon any given
subject will produce precisely the same emotional effect as the truth
upon that subject, if the falsehood be accepted as truth. When Jacob
saw the blood-stained coat of his son Joseph, he accepted it as evi
dence of his death. Doubtless his imagination painted fearful and
heart-rending pictures of his son’s fatal struggle with the wild beasts.
He believed a lie. Joseph was not dead. But would his sorrow have
been more pungent and agonizing if Joseph had actually been dead?
Then, what a revulsion in his emotions when he afterward believed
him to be alive, and next to the throne of Egypt! What a culmina
tion of his joy, when the aged patriarch fell upon Joseph’s neck and
kissed him, amid the splendors of his royal estate!
The pious Catholic goes to confessional with a heavy heart; con
�The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion!'
:3
fessing his sins, he receives the declaration of absolution from the
priest, and departs a happy man. The pagan, too, distressed and
agonized by a sense of guilt, offers his atoning sacrifice, and then re
joices with a joy unspeakable. Men under delusion may believe a lie,
be happy, and yet be lost.
RESULTS OF THE SYSTEM.
The worst is not yet. According to Law VI, nature demands a
subsidence of excessive emotional excitement, whether the emotion
be pleasant or painful. The new convert naturally measures the evi
dence of his pardon by the nature and volume of his feelings. As
the volume of joy diminishes and temptations crowd upon him, he
begins to sing, in a doleful tone:
“ ’Tis a point I long to know—
Oft it causes anxious thought:
Do I love the Lord or no ?
Am I his, or am I not?”
'-
Sentiments about as unscriptural as the system which inspired them.
What wonder that these doubts have ended so often in an incor
rigible apostasy? The Methodist, one of the ablest papers of the
Methodist Episcopal Church, declares that eighty out of every hun
dred of their converts fall away. So unstable were they, that an
other human expedient must be devised, not only unscriptural, but
anti-scriptural and ruinous,—take them on six months' trial. Every
theory works out through its appropriate forms.
Another class are made infidels because they can not “get religion.”
Failing to distinguish between religion and its abuse, they, like Gib
bon, condemn it as a whole, because of their disgust with the abuse.
Another class are made hypocrites. Under the pressure of a
public commitment, by going to the anxious-seat, they feign. what
they do not feel, or studiously conceal what, if revealed, would forfeit
the good opinion of others. It is not averred, here, that there are
more hypocrites among those who believe in the anxious-seat than
among others, but that with a certain class there is a direct tendency
in the system to produce hypocrisy; while, under the simple Gospel,
if men are hypocrites, they must be so despite the system.
There is still another ipore pitiable class—those who, having been
long under conviction and fruitless agony, failing to find relief, and
concluding that they have committed the unpardonable sin, under
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The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion!'
the operation of Law VI, become hopelessly insane. Asylum records
will abundantly corroborate this statement:
Another fearful result is a wide-spread indifference to all religion.
Apostasy is the rule ; or those who remain steadfast are only as one
to five, according to the New York Methodist. The last state of the
apostate is, uniformly, worse than the first. It is always more diffi
cult to stir his religious consciousness. What, then, must be the
effect upon the eighty out of every hundred converts—to say nothing
of the indurating influence of so much apostasy upon the public
mind—but indifference to all religion ? Of course, apostasy may and
does occur under any system; but it is one thing to facilitate it by a
system, and quite another thing to have it occur against a system.
A CORRUPTION OF THE GOSPEL.
President Finney admits it. On page 254, after contending that
it is necessary to have a test for the sinner’s faith, he further says:
“The Church has always felt it necessary to have something of the kind to
answer this very purpose. In the days of the apostles, baptism answered this pur
pose. The Gospel was preached to the people, and then all those who were will
ing to be on the side of the Lord, were called on to be baptized. It held the
precise place that the anxious-seat does now, as a public manifestation of their
determination to be Christians.”
Baptism is confessedly a Divine command. Who authorized its
substitution, for any purpose, with the anxious-seat ? That is a small
matter, however, if it is only a “ mere form',' or if only “ something of
the kind" of the anxious-seat. In apostolic times “ the Gospel was
preached, and those who were willing to be on the side of the Lord,
were called on to be baptized!' Now they are called to the anxiousseat. “It held the precise place that the anxious-seat does now!'
Exactly. Hence a new Gospel. “ He that believeth and cometh to
the anxious-seat, shall be saved.” “ Repent and come to the anxiousseat, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ, for the remission
of sins, and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.” “And he
commanded them to come to the anxious-seat, in the name of the Lord
Jesus Christ.” “Arise and come to the anxious-seat, and wash away
your sins, calling on the name of the Lord.” “ The like figure whereunto even the anxious-seat doth also now save us.” “ Know you not
that so many of you as have come to the. anxious-seat, have put on
Christ ?” Is this a perversion of the Gospel, or another gospel ? If
the anxious-seat occupies the place of baptism, of course it is a com
«
�The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion'.'
15
mand of God, and the promises which He attached to baptism, must
be attached to it; hence, baptism is pushed out of its place in the
plan of pardon. It becomes a mere “ Church ordinance,” to be
changed at pleasure, as to its form and uses. (See Bishop Gilbert’s
“Exposition of the Thirty-nine Articles,” page 251.)
SANCTIFICATION,
Otherwise Perfectionism, is simply anxious-seat conversion in extenso. It is a subjective, or psychological experience, produced in the
same manner as “ getting religion,” and explainable by the same laws.
It is less frequently enjoyed, however, because the people generally
have less faith in the doctrine; hence, fewer persons attempt the
experiment.
THE WAY OUT OF CONFUSION.
“ Preach the Word.” Show the people their sins and their con
sequences. The love of God in Christ manifested. If they believe,
and are “pricked in the heart,” or become convicted of sin, and cry
out, “ What must we do ?” tell them, as of old, “ Repent and be bap
tized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ, for remission
of sins, and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.” Do not
seek to work up the feelings by artificial means. Do not call into
play the pride of character by public commitment, before the heart is
ready. How often do we hear the preacher say, “ Now, if you wish to
go to heaven [who does not ?], rise up.” “ If you wish the prayers
of the Lord’s people [who does not ?], rise up.” “ Now, all who
have voted that they wish to go to heaven, that they desire the
prayers of the Lord’s people, come to the anxious-seat.” Ah, the
trick! the trick !! thinks many a person who has voted, and instantly
he is filled with disgust. People will endure, or even applaud, strategy ;
but not in religion.
Again: the religious sensibilities always shrink from public expo
sure, unless the will is won over. To have one’s incipient religious
experience displayed before the prurient gaze, or to be bandied
about by the gossiping tongue, is exceedingly repulsive to a person
whose sense of propriety is well developed. Many a sinner’s thoughts
have been drawn off in the attempted reconciliation of himself to this
unscriptural procedure, when they ought to have been engaged in the
work of reconciling himself to God. Let the struggle begin and go
�16
The Philosophy of “ Getting Religion!'
forward to a final issue without ostentation, then it will be time for
public commitment to Christianity. If the friendly counsel of proper
persons may be given quietly, to lead the soul out of its entangle
ments, and break its sinful alliances, it is well. Reason, propriety,
philosophy, and Scripture concur to demand this course.
If the subject is ignorant of Christ as the Savior, tell him first, as
Paul did the jailor, “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and you
shall be saved.” As soon as he expresses a willingness to receive
Christ, “speak to him the Word of the Lord,” for his enlightenment
as to the Lord’s means of salvation, and through repentance he will
soon find his way to baptism, and come again rejoicing through faith.
(See Acts,xvi.) If he be a believing penitent, like Saul at Damas
cus, tell him to “ arise and be baptized, and wash away his sins, calling
on the name of the Lord.” In short, give to each, according to his
condition, a portion of the Word suited to his case, in due season.
Never mind your theories ; speak the Word.
But, says the objector, must we rule out a psychological expe
rience ? Must we simply have a “head-religion,” without any heart
in it ? No ; by no means. Nor will there be the least danger, if we
cling to the apostolic methods. The revulsion of the emotions from
the pungency of conviction to the exhilaration of joy will always be
secured, if the sinner really believes that he is pardoned, although he
may believe a falsehood. (See Laws IV, V.) It matters not upon what
kind of testimony his faith may rest. If, then, he be led to a hearty,
intelligent submission to Christ, according to the Gospel plan, his
belief that he is pardoned will rest, not upon the testimony of men,
nor upon imagination, but upon the express promises of God, which
can never fail. The Pentecostan converts began to be glad as soon
as they learned from Peter that they could be saved. “ They gladly
received the Word,” and were baptized the same day. But they were
more joyful still, afterward, when they were able, through their faith
and obedience, to appropriate the Divine promises. Then “ they, con
tinuing daily, with one accord, in the temple, and breaking of bread
from house to house, did eat their meat with gladness and singleness
of heart, praising God, and having favor with all the people.”
�
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The philosophy of "getting religion"
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DIALOGUES
CONCERNING NATURAL RELIGION.
No. II.
BY
DAVID HUME, Esq.
4 nezo Edition, with a Preface and Notes, which bring the Subject
do wn to the present time.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
NO. 11, THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD,
UPPER NORWOOD, LONDON, S.E,
Price One Shilling.
��DIALOGUES
CONCERNING NATURAL RELIGION.
PART VII.
DUT here, continued Philo, in examining the ancient
system of the soul of the world, there strikes me, all
on a sudden, a new idea, which, if just, must go near
to subvert all your reasoning, and destroy even your
first inferences, on which you repose such confidence.
If the universe bears a greater likeness to animal bodies
and to vegetables, than to the works of human art, it
is more probable, that its cause resembles the cause
of the former than that of the latter, and its origin
ought rather to be ascribed to generation or vegetation
than to reason or design. Your conclusion, even
according to your own principles, is therefore lame and
defective.
Pray open up this argument a little farther, said
Demea. For I do not rightly apprehend it, in that
concise manner in which you have expressed it.
Our friend Cleanthes, replied Philo, as you have
heard, asserts, that since no question of fact can be
proved otherwise than by experience, the existence of
a Deity admits not of proof from any other medium.
The world, says he, resembles the works of human
contrivance : Therefore its cause must also resemble
that of the other. Here I we may remark, that the
operation of one very small part of nature, to wit man,
upon another very small part, to wit that inanimate
E
�64 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
matter lying within his reach, is the rule hy which
Cleanthes judges of the origin of the whole, and he
measures objects, so widely disproportioned, by the
same individual standard. But to waive all objections
drawn from this topic; I affirm, that there are other
parts of the universe (besides the machines of human
invention) which bear still a greater resemblance to
the fabric of the world, and which therefore afford a
better conjecture concerning the universal origin of this
system. These parts are animals and vegetables. The
world plainly resembles more an animal or a vegetable,
than it does a watch or a knitting-loom. Its cause,
therefore, it is more probable, resembles the cause of the
former. The cause of the former is generation or vege
tation. The cause, therefore, of the world, we may
infer to be something similar or analogous to generation
or vegetation.
But how is it conceivable, said Demea, that the
world can arise from anything similar to vegetation or
generation ?
Very easily, replied Philo. In like manner as a tree
sheds its seed into the neighbouring fields, and produces
other trees ; so the great vegetable, the world, or this
planetary system, produces within itself certain seeds,
which, being scattered into the surrounding chaos,
vegetate into new worlds. A comet, for instance, is
the seed of a world ; and after it has been fully ripened,
by passing from sun to sun, and star to star, it is at last
tossed into the unformed elements which everywhere
surround this universe, and immediately sprouts up
into a new system.
Or if, for the sake of variety (for I see no other
advantage), we should suppose this world to be an
animal; a comet is the egg of this animal : and in
like manner as an ostrich lays its egg in the sand,
which, without any further care, hatches the egg, and
produces a new animal; so.................I understand
you, says Demea: But what wild, arbitrary suppositions
�Part VII.
65
are these ? What data have you for such extraordinary
conclusions ? And is the slight, imaginary resemblance
of the world to a vegetable or an animal sufficient to
establish the same inference with regard to both ?
Objects, which are in general so widely different;
ought they to be a standard for each other?
Right cries Philo : This is the topic on which I have
all along insisted. I have still asserted, that we have
no data to establish any system of cosmogony. Our
experience, so imperfect in itself, and so limited both
in extent and duration, can afford us no probable
conjecture concerning the whole of things. But if we
must needs fix on some hypothesis; by what rule,
pray, ought we to determine our choice ? Is there any
other rule than the greater similarity of the objects
compared ? And does not a plant or an animal, which
springs from vegetation or generation, bear a stronger
resemblance to the world, than does any artificial
machine, which arises from reason and design ?
But what is this vegetation and generation of which
you talk, said Demea ? Can you explain their opera
tions, and anatomize that fine internal structure on
which they depend 1
As much, at least, replied Philo, as Cleanthes can
explain the operations of reason, or anatomize that in
ternal structure on which it depends. But without
any such elaborate disquisitions, when I see an animal,
I infer that it sprang from generation ; and that with
as great certainty as you conclude a house to have been
reared by design. These words, generation, reason,
mark only certain powers and energies in nature,
whose effects are known, but whose essence is incom
prehensible ; and one of these principles, more than
the other, has no privilege for being made a standard
to the whole of nature.
In reality, Demea, it may reasonably be expected,
that the larger the views are which we take of things,
the better will they conduct us in our conclusions
�66 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
concerning such, extraordinary and such magnificent
subjects. In this little corner of the world alone, there
are four principles, Reason, Instinct, Generation,
Vegetation, which are similar to each other, and are
the causes of similar effects. What a number of other
principles may we naturally suppose in the immense
extent and variety of the universe, could we travel
from planet to planet and from system to system, in
order to examine each part of this mighty fabric ?
Any one of these four principles above mentioned (and
a hundred others, which lie open to our conjecture)
may afford us a theory, by which to judge of the
origin of the world ; and it is a palpable and egregious
partiality, to confine our view entirely to that principle
by which our own minds operate. Were this principle
more intelligible on that account, such a partiality
might be somewhat excusable: but reason, in its
internal fabric and structure, is really as little known
to us as instinct or vegetation ; and perhaps even that
vague, undeterminate word, Nature, to which the
vulgar refer everything, is not at the bottom more
inexplicable. The effects of these principles are
all known to us from experience: but the principles
themselves, and their manner of operation, are totally
unknown : nor is it less intelligible, or less conformable
to experience, to say, that the world arose by vegetation
from a seed shed by another world, than to say that it
arose from a divine reason or contrivance, according to
the sense in which Cleanthes understands it.
But methinks, said Demea, if the world had a
vegetative quality, and could sow the seeds of new
worlds into the infinite chaos, this power would be
still an additional argument for design in its author.
For whence could arise so wonderful a faculty but
from design ? Or how can order spring from any
thing which perceives not that order which it bestows ?
You need only look around you, replied Philo, to
satisfy yourself with regard to this question. A tree
�Part VII.
6y
bestows order and organization on that tree which
springs from it, without knowing the order : an animal,
in the same manner, on its offspring; a bird, on its
nest: and instances of this kind are even more
frequent in the world than those of order, which arise
from reason and contrivance. To say that all this
order in animals and vegetables proceeds ultimately
from design, is begging the question : nor can that
great point be ascertained otherwise than by proving,
a priori, both that order is, from its nature, inseparably
attached to thought; and that it can never, of itself,
or from original unknown principles, belong to matter.
But further, Demea ; this objection, which you urge,
can never be made use of by Cleanthes, without
renouncing a defence which he has already made
against one of my objections. When I inquired con
cerning the cause of that supreme reason and
intelligence, into which he resolves everything; he
told me, that the impossibility of satisfying such
inquiries could never be admitted as an objection in
any species of philosophy. “ We must stop somewhere,”
says he; “ nor is it ever within the reach of human
capacity to explain ultimate causes, or show the last
connections of any objects. It is sufficient, if the steps,
so far as we go, are supported by experience and
observation.” Now, that vegetation and generation,
as well as reason, are experienced to be principles of
order in nature, is undeniable. If I rest my system of
cosmogony on the former, preferably to the latter, it is
at my choice. The matter seems entirely arbitrary.
And when Cleanthes asks me what is the cause of my
great vegetative or generative faculty, I am equally
entitled to ask him the cause of his great reasoning
principle. These questions we have agreed to forbear on
both sides; and it is chiefly his interest on the present
occasion to stick to this agreement. Judging by our
limited and imperfect experience, generation has some
privileges above reason : for we see every day the latter
arise from the former, never the former from the latter.
�68 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
Compare, I beseech you, the consequences on both
sides. The world, say I, resembles an animal; there
fore it is an animal, therefore it arose from generation.
The steps, I confess, are wide ; yet there is some small
appearance of analogy in each step. The world, says
Cleanthes, resembles a machine • therefore it is a
machine, therefore it arose from design. The steps
here are equally wide, and the analogy less striking.
And if he pretends to carry on my hypothesis a step
farther, and to infer design or reason from the great
principle of generation, on which I insist; I may, with
better authority, use the same freedom to push farther
lus hypothesis, and infer a divine generation or
theogony from his principle of reason. I have at least
some faint shadow of experience, which is the utmost
that can ever be attained in the present subject.
.Beason, in innumerable instances, is observed to arise
from the principle of generation, and never to arise
from any other principle.
Hesiod, and all the ancient Mythologists, were so
struck with this analogy, that they universally explained
the origin of nature from an animal birth, and copula
tion. Plato too, so far as he is intelligible, seems to
have adopted some such notion in his Timaeus.
The Bramins assert, that the world arose from an
infinite spider, who spun this whole complicated mass
from his bowels, and annihilates afterwards the whole or
any part of it, by absorbing it again, and resolving it into
his own essence. Here is a species of cosmogony,
which appears to us ridiculous; because a spider is a
little contemptible animal, whose operations we are
never likely to take for a model of the whole universe.
But still here is a new species of analogy, even in our
globe. And were there a planet wholly inhabited by
spiders, (which is very possible), this inference would
there appear as natural and irrefragable as that which
in our planet ascribes the origin of all things to design
and intelligence, as explained by Cleanthes. Why an
�Part VIII.
69
orderly system may not be spun from the belly as well
as from the brain, it will be difficult for him to give a
satisfactory reason.
I must confess, Philo, replied Cleanthes, that of all
men living, the task which you have undertaken, of
raising doubts and objections, suits you best, and
seems, in a manner, natural and unavoidable to you.
So great is your fertility of invention, that I am not
ashamed to acknowledge myself unable, on a sudden,
to solve regularly such out-of-the-way difficulties as you
incessantly start upon me : though I clearly see, in
general, their fallacy and error. And I question not,
but you are yourself, at present, in the same case, and
have not the solution so ready as the objection : while
you must be sensible, that common sense and reason
are entirely against you ; and that such whimsies as you
have delivered, may puzzle, but never can convince us.
PART VIII.
What you ascribe to the fertility of my invention
replied Philo, is entirely owing to the nature of the
subject. In subjects, adapted to the narrow compass
of human reason, there is commonly but one deter
mination, which carries probability or conviction with it;
■and to a man of sound judgment, all other suppositions,
but that one, appear entirely absurd and chimerical.
But in such questions as the present, a hundred
contradictory views may preserve a kind of imperfect
analogy ; and invention has here full scope to exert
itself. Without any great effort of thought, I believe
that I could, in an instant, propose other systems
of cosmogony, which would have some faint appearance
of truth; though it is a thousand, a million to one,
if either yours or any one of mine be the true system.
For instance; what if I should revive the old
Epicurean hypothesis ? This is commonly, and I believe
�7° Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
justly, esteemed the most absurd system that has yet
been proposed ; yet, I know not, whether, with a few
alterations, it might_ not be brought to bear a faint
appearance of probability. Instead of supposing matter
infinite, as Epicurus did ; let us suppose it finite. A
finite number of particles'is only susceptible of finite
transpositions j and it must happen, in an eternal
duration, that every possible order or position must be
tried an infinite number of times. This world, there
fore, with all its events, even the most minute, has
before been produced and destroyed, and will again be
produced and destroyed, without any bounds and
limitations. No one, who has a conception of the
powers of infinite, in comparison of finite, will ever
scruple this determination.
But this supposes, said Demea, that matter can
acquire motion, without any voluntary agent or first
mover.
And where is the difficulty, replied Philo, of that
supposition ? Every event, before experience, is equally
difficult and incomprehensible; and every event, after
experience, is equally easy and intelligible. Motion,
in many instances, from gravity, from elasticity, from
electricity, begins in matter, without any known
voluntary agent: and to suppose always, in these cases,
an unknown voluntary agent, is mere hypothesis ; and
hypothesis attended with no advantages. The beginning
of motion in matter itself is as conceivable a priori as
its communication from mind and intelligence.
Besides ; why may not motion have been propagated
by impulse through all eternity; and the same stock
of it, or nearly the same, be still upheld in the
universe ? As much as is lost by the composition of
motion, as much is gained by its resolution. And
whatever the causes are, the fact is certain, that matter
is, and always has been, in continual agitation, as far
as human experience or tradition reaches. There is not
probably, at present, in the whole universe, one particle
of matter at absolute rest.
�Part VIII.
71
And this very consideration too, continued Philo,
which we have stumbled on in the course of the argu
ment, suggests a new hypothesis of cosmogony, that is
not absolutely absurd and improbable. Is there a system,
an order, an economy of things, by which matter can
preserve that perpetual agitation which seems essential
to it, and yet maintain a constancy in the forms which
it produces ? There certainly is such an economy : for
this is actually the case with the present world. The
continual motion of matter, therefore, in less than in
finite transpositions, must produce this economy or
order; and by its very nature, that order, when once
established, supports itself for many ages, if not to
eternity. But wherever matter is so poised, arranged,
and adjusted, as to continue in perpetual motion, and
yet preserve a constancy in the forms, its situation must,
of necessity, have all the same appearance of art and
contrivance which we observe at present. All the
parts of each form must have a relation to each other,
and to the whole: and the whole itself must have a
relation to the other parts of the universe; to the
element, in which the form subsists ; to the materials,
with which it repairs its waste and decay; and to
every other form, which is hostile or friendly. A
defect in any of these particulars destroys the form;
and the matter, of which it is composed, is again let
loose, and is thrown into irregular motions and fermen
tations, till it unite itself to some other regular form.
If no such form be prepared to receive it, and if there
be a great quantity of this corrupted matter in the
universe, the universe itself is entirely disordered;
whether it be the feeble embryo of a world in its first
beginnings that is thus destroyed, or the rotten carcase
of one languishing in old age and infirmity. In
either case, a chaos ensues; till finite, though in
numerable revolutions produce at last some forms,
whose parts and organs are so adjusted as to support
the forms amidst a continued succession of matter.
�Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
Suppose, (for we shall endeavour to vary the ex
pression) that matter were thrown into any position,
by a blind, unguided force ; it is evident, that this
first position must in all probability be the most
confused and most disorderly imaginable, without any
resemblance to those works of human contrivance, which,
along with a symmetry of parts discover an adjustment
of means to ends, and a tendency to self-preservation.
If the actuating force cease after this operation, matter
must remain for ever in disorder, and continue an
immense chaos, without any proportion or activity.
But suppose, that the actuating force, whatever it be,
still continues in matter, this first position will
immediately give place to a second, which will likewise
in all probability be as disorderly as the first, and so on
through many successions of changes and revolutions.
No particular order or position ever continues a
moment unaltered.
The original force, still remain
ing in activity, gives a perpetual restlessness to matter.
Every possible situation is produced, and instantly
destroyed. If a glimpse or dawn of order appears for
a moment, it is instantly hurried away, and confounded
by that never-ceasing force which actuates every part of
matter.
Thus the universe goes on for many ages in a con
tinued succession of chaos and disorder. But is it not
possible that it may settle at last, so as not to lose its
motion and active force (for that we have supposed
inherent in it), yet so as to preserve a uniformity of
appearance, amidst the continual motion and fluctuation
of its parts ? This we find to be the case with the
universe at present. Every individual is perpetually
changing, and every part of every individual; and yet
the whole remains, in appearance, the same. May we
not hope for such a position, or rather be assured of it,
from the eternal revolutions of unguided matter; and
may not this account for all the appearing wisdom
and contrivance which is in the universe ? Let us
�Part VIII.
73
contemplate the subject a little, and we shall find that
this adjustment, if attained by matter, of a seeming
stability in the forms, with a real and perpetual
revolution or motion of parts, affords a plausible, if not
a true solution of the difficulty.
It is in vain, therefore, to insist upon the uses of the
parts in animals or vegetables, and their curious
adjustment to each other. I would fain know how an
animal could subsist, unless its parts were so adjusted ?
Do we not find, that it immediately perishes whenever
this adjustment ceases, and that its matter, corrupting,
tries some new form ? It happens, indeed, that the
parts of the world are so well adjusted, that some
regular form immediately lays claim to this corrupted
matter: and if it were not so, could the world subsist ?
Must it not dissolve as well as the animal, and pass
through new positions and situations; till in a great,
but finite succession, it fall at last into the present
or some such order.
. It is well, replied Cleanthes, you told us, that this
hypothesis was suggested on a sudden, in the course of
the argument. Had you had leisure to examine it, you
would soon have perceived the insuperable objections
to which it is exposed. No form, you say, can subsist
unless it possess those powers and organs requisite for
its subsistence : some new order or economy must be
tried, and so on, without intermission ; till at last some'
order, which can support and maintain itself, is fallen
upon. But according to this hypothesis, whence arise
the many conveniences and advantages which men and
all animals possess ? Two eyes, two ears, are not
absolutely necessary for the subsistence of the species.
Human race might have been propagated and preserved,
without horses, dogs, cows, sheep, and those innumer
able fruits and products which serve to our satisfaction
and enjoyment. If no camels had been created for the
use of man in the sandy deserts of Africa and Arabia
would the world have been dissolved ? If no loadstone
�74 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
had been framed to give that wonderful and useful
direction to the needle, would human society and the
human kind have been immediately extinguished ?
Though the maxims of Nature be in general very
frugal, yet instances of this kind are far from being
rare; and any one of them is a sufficient proof of
design, and of a benevolent design, which gave rise to
the order and arrangement of the universe.
At least, you may safely infer, said Philo, that the
foregoing hypothesis is so far incomplete and imperfect;
which I shall not scruple to allow. But can we ever
reasonably expect greater success in any attempts of
this nature 1 Or can we ever hope to erect a system of
cosmogony, that will be liable to no exceptions, and
will contain no circumstance repugnant to our limited
and imperfect experience of the analogy of Nature 1
Your theory itself cannot surely pretend to any such
advantage; even though you have run into Anthropo
morphism, the better to preserve a conformity to
common experience. Let us once more put it to trial.
In all instances which we have ever seen, ideas are
copied from real objects, and are ectypal, not
archetypal, to express myself in learned terms : You
reverse this order, and give thought the precedence.
In all instances which we have ever seen, thought has
no influence upon matter, except where that matter is
so conjoined with it as to have an equal reciprocal
influence upon it. No animal can move immediately
anything but the members of its own body ; and
indeed, the equality of action and reaction seem to be
a universal law of Nature. But your theory implies a
contradiction to this experience. These instances, with
many more, which it were easy to collect, (particularly
the supposition of a mind or system of thought that is
eternal, or, in other words, an animal ingenerable and
immortal); these instances, I say, may teach all of us
sobriety in condemning each other ; and let us see, that
as no system of this kind ought ever to be received
�Part IX.
75
from a slight analogy, so neither ought any to he
rejected on account of a small incongruity. For that
is an inconvenience from which we can justly pronounce
no one to he exempted.
All religious systems, it is confessed, are subject to
great and insuperable difficulties.
Each disputant
triumphs in histurn; while he carries on an offensive war,
and exposes the absurdities, barbarities, and pernicious
tenets of his antagonist. But all of them, on the whole,
prepare a complete triumph for the Sceptic ; who tells
them that no system ought ever to be embraced with
regard to such subjects : for this plain reason, that no
absurdity ought ever to be assented to with regard to
any subject. A total suspense of judgment is here
our only reasonable resource. And if every attack, as
is commonly observed, and no defence, among Theolo
gians, is successful; how complete must be his victory,
who remains always, with all mankind, on the
offensive, and has himself no fixed station or abiding
city,* which he is ever, on any occasion, obliged to
defend ?
PART IX.
But if so many difficulties attend the argument a pos
teriori, said Demea; had we not better adhere to that
simple and sublime argument a priori, which, by offer
ing to us infallible demonstration, cuts off at once all
doubt and difficulty ? By this argument, too, we may
prove the Infinity of the divine attributes ; which, I
am afraid, can never be ascertained with certainty from
any other topic. For how can an effect, which either
is finite, or, for aught we know, may be so; how can
such an effect, I say, prove an infinite cause ? The
unity too of the Divine Nature, it is very difficult, if
not absolutely impossible, to deduce merely from con
templating the works of nature; nor will the uni* Hebrews xiii. 14.
�7 6 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
formity alone of the plan, even were it allowed, give
us any assurance of that attribute. Whereas the argu
ment a priori ....
You seem to reason, Demea, interposed Cleanthes, as
if those advantages and conveniences in the abstract
argument were full proofs of its solidity. But it is
first proper, in my opinion, to determine what argument
of this nature you choose to insist on; and we shall
afterwards, from itself, better than from its useful con
sequences, endeavour to determine what value we ought
to put upon it.
The argument, replied Demea, which I would insist
on, is the common one. Whatever exists, must have
a cause or reason of its existence; it being absolutely
impossible for anything to produce itself, or be the
cause of its own existence. In mounting up, therefore,
from effects to causes, we must either go on in tracing
an infinite succession, without any ultimate cause at all;
or must at last have recourse to some ultimate cause,
that is necessarily existent: now that the first supposi
tion is absurd, may be thus proved. In the infinite
chain or succession of cause and effect, each single effect
is determined to exist by the power and efficacy of that
cause which immediately preceded; but the whole
eternal chain or succession, taken together, is not
determined or caused by anything; and yet it is
evident that it requires a cause or reason, as much
as any particular object which begins to exist in time.
The question is still reasonable, why this particular
succession of causes existed from eternity, and not
any other succession, or no succession at all. If
there be no necessarily-existent being, any supposi
tion which can be formed is equally possible; nor is
there any more absurdity in Nothing’s having existed
from eternity, than there is in that succession of causes
which constitutes the universe. What was it, then,
which determined Something to exist rather than
Nothing, and bestowed being on a particular possibility,
�Part IX.
77
exclusive of the rest ? External causes, there are
supposed to he none. Chance is a word without a
meaning. Was it Nothing ? But that can never pro
duce anything. We must, therefore, have recourse to
a necessarily-existent Being, who carries the Reason of
his existence in himself; and who cannot be supposed
not to exist, without an express contradiction. There
is consequently such a Being ; that is, there is a Deity.
I shall not leave it to Philo, said Cleanthes, (though
I know that the starting objections is his chief delight)
to point out the weakness of this metaphysical reason
ing. It seems to me so obviously ill-grounded, and at
the same time of so little consequence to the cause of
true piety and religion, that I shall myself venture to
show the fallacy of it.
I shall begin with observing, that there is an evident
absurdity in pretending to demonstrate a matter of fact,
or to prove it by any arguments a priori. Nothing is
demonstrable, unless the contrary implies a contra
diction. Nothing, that is distinctly conceivable, im
plies a contradiction. Whatever we conceive as
existent, we can also conceive as non-existent. There
is no being, therefore, whose non-existence implies a
contradiction. Consequently there is no being, whose
existence is demonstrable. I propose this argument as
entirely decisive, and am willing to rest the whole
controversy upon it.
It is pretended that the Deity is a necessarilyexistent being; and this necessity of his existence is
attempted to be explained by asserting, that if we knew
his whole essence or nature, we should perceive it to
be as impossible for him not to exist as for twice two
not to be four. But it is evident, that this can never
happen, while our faculties remain the same as at
present. It will still be possible for us, at any time,
to conceive the non-existence of what we formerly con
ceived to exist; nor can the mind ever lie under a
necessity of supposing any object to remain always
�7 8 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
in. being j in the same manner as we lie under a
necessity of always conceiving twice two to be four.
The words, therefore, necessary existence, have no
meaning; or, which is the same thing, none that is
■consistent.
But farther : why may not the material universe be
the necessarily-existent Being, according to this pre
tended explication of necessity? We dare not affirm
that we know all the qualities of matterj and for aught
we can determine, it may contain some qualities, which,
were they known, would make its non-existence appear
as great a contradiction as that twice two is five. I
find only one argument employed to prove that the
material world is not the necessarily-existent Being;
.and this argument is derived from the contingency
both of the matter and the form of the world. “ Any
particle of matter,” it is said *, “ may be conceived to
be annihilated; and any form may be conceived to be
altered. Such an annihilation or alteration, therefore,
is not impossible.” But it seems a great partiality not
to perceive, that the same argument extends equally to
the Deity, so far as we have any conception of him;
and that the mind can at least imagine him to be non
existent, or his attributes to be altered. It must be
some unknown, inconceivable qualities, which can
make his non-existence appear impossible, or his attri
butes unalterable : and no reason can be assigned, why
these qualities may not belong to matter. As they are
altogether unknown and inconceivable, they can never
be proved incompatible with it.
Add to this, that in tracing an eternal succession of
objects, it seems absurd to inquire for a general cause
or first author. How can anything that exists from
eternity, have a cause; since that relation implies a
priority in time, and a beginning of existence ?
In such a chain, too, or succession of objects, each
part is caused by that which preceded it, and causes
* Dr Clarke.
�Part IX.
79
that which succeeds it. Where then is the difficulty ?
But the whole, you say, wants a cause. I answer, that
the uniting of these parts into a whole, like the
uniting of several distinct counties into one king
dom, or several distinct members into one body, is
performed merely by an arbitrary act of the mind, and
has no influence on the nature of things. Did I show
you the particular causes of each individual in a collec
tion of twenty particles of matter, I should think it
very unreasonable, should you afterwards ask me, what
was the cause of the whole twenty. That is suffi
ciently explained in explaining the cause of the parts.
Though the reasonings which you have urged,
Cleanthes, may well excuse me, said Philo, from start
ing any farther difficulties; yet I cannot forbear
insisting still upon another topic. It is observed by
arithmeticians, that the products of 9 compose always
either 9, or some lesser product of 9 ; if you add to
gether all the characters, of which any of the former
products is composed. Thus, of 18, 27, 36, which are
products of 9, you make 9 by adding 1 to 8, 2 to 7, 3
to 6. Thus, of 369 is a product also of 9 ; and if you
add 3, 6, and 9, you make 18, a lesser product of 9 *.
To a superficial observer, so wonderful a regularity may
be admired as the effect either of chance or design:
but a skilful algebraist immediately concludes it to be
the work of necessity; and demonstrates, that it must
for ever result from the nature of these numbers. Is it
not probable, I ask, that the whole economy of the
universe is conducted by a like necessity, though no
human algebra can furnish a key which solves the diffi
culty ? And instead of admiring the order of natural
beings, may it not happen, that, could we penetrate into
the intimate nature of bodies, we should clearly see
why it was absolutely impossible they could ever admit
of any other disposition ? So dangerous is it to intro
duce this idea of necessity into the present question 1
* Republique des Lettres, Aout, 1685.
F
�80
Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
and so naturally does it afford an inference directly
opposite to the religious hypothesis !
But dropping all these abstractions, continued Philo ;
and confining ourselves to more familiar topics ; I shall
venture to add an observation, that the argument a
priori has seldom been found very convincing, except
to people of a metaphysical head, who have accustomed
themselves to abstract reasoning, and who, finding from
mathematics, that the understanding frequently leads
to truth, through obscurity, and contrary to first appear
ances, have transferred the same habit of thinking to
subjects where it ought not to have place. Other
people, even of good sense and the best inclined to
religion, feel always some deficiency in such argu
ments, though they are not perhaps able to explain dis
tinctly where it lies. A certain proof, that men ever
did, and ever will, derive their religion from other
sources than from this species of reasoning.
P A R T X.
It is my opinion, I own, replied Demea, that each man
feels, in a manner, the truth of religion within his own
breast; and from a consciousness of his imbecility and
misery, rather than from any reasoning, is led to
seek protection from that being, on whom he and
all nature is dependent. So anxious or so tedious are
even the best scenes of life, that futurity is still the
object of all our hopes and fears. We incessantly look
forward, and endeavour, by prayers, adoration and
sacrifice, to appease those unknown powers, whom we
find, by experience, so able to afflict and oppress us.
Wretched creatures that we are ! what resource for us
amidst the innumerable ills of life, did not religion sug
gest some methods of atonement, and appease those
terrors with which we are incessantly agitated and
tormented ?
�Part X.
81
I am indeed persuaded, said Philo, that the best, and
indeed the only, method of bringing every one to a due
sense of religion, is by just representations of the
misery and wickedness of men. And for that purpose
a talent of eloquence and strong imagery is more
requisite than that of reasoning and argument. For is
it necessary to prove, what every one feels within bimself? It is only necessary to make us feel it, if
possible, more intimately and sensibly.
The people, indeed, replied Demea, are sufficiently
convinced of this great and melancholy truth. The
miseries of life; the unhappiness of man; the general
corruptions of our nature; the unsatisfactory enjoyment
of pleasures, riches, honours; these phrases have
become almost proverbial in all languages. And who
can doubt of what all men declare from their own
immediate feeling and experience ?
In this point, said Philo, the learned are perfectly
agreed with the vulgar; and in all letters, sacred and
profane, the topic of human misery has been insisted
on with the most pathetic eloquence that sorrow and
melancholy could inspire. The poets, who speak from
sentiment, without a system, and whose testimony has
therefore the more authority, abound in images of this
nature. From Homer down to Dr Young, the whole
inspired tribe have ever been sensible, that no other re
presentation of things would suit the feeling and
observation of each individual.
As to authorities, replied Demea, you need not seek
them. Look round this library of Cleanthes. I shall
venture to affirm, that, except authors of particular
sciences, such as chemistry or botany, who have no
occasion to treat of human life, there is scarce one of
those innumerable writers, from whom the sense of
human misery has not, in some passage or other, extorted
a complaint and confession of it. At least, the chance
is entirely on that side; and no one author has ever, so
far as I can recollect, been so extravagant as to deny it.
�82 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
There you must excuse me, said Philo : Leibnitz has
denied it; and is perhaps the first * who ventured upon
so bold and paradoxical an opinion; at least, the first
who made it essential to his philosophical system.
And by being the first, replied Demea, might he not
have been sensible of his error ? For is this a subject
in which philosophers can propose to make discoveries,
especially in so late an age ? And can any man hope
by a simple denial (for the subject scarcely admits of
reasoning) to bear down the united testimony of man
kind, founded on sense and consciousness 2
And why should man, added he, pretend to an
exemption from the lot of all other animals ? The whole
earth, believe me, Philo, is cursed and polluted. + A
perpetual war is kindled amongst all living creatures.
Necessity, hunger, want, stimulate the strong and
courageous: Fear, anxiety, terror, agitate the weak and
infirm. The first entrance into life gives anguish to the
new-born infant and to its wretched parent: weakness,
impotence, distress, attend each stage of that life: and
it is at last finished in agony and horror.
Observe too, says Philo, the curious artifices of Nature
in order to embitter the life of every living being. The
stronger prey upon the weaker, .and keep them in per
petual terror and anxiety. The weaker too, in their
turn, often prey upon the stronger, and vex and molest
them without relaxation. Consider that innumerable
race of insects, which either are bred on the body of
each animal, or flying about infix their stings in him,
These insects have others still less than themselves,
which torment them. And thus on each hand, before
and behind, above and below, every animal is surround
ed with enemies, which incessantly seek his misery and
destruction.
Man alone, said Demea, seems to be, in part, an
That sentiment had been maintained by Dr King*, and some few
others, before Leibnitz; though by none of so great fame as that
German philosopher.
t Romans viii. 22.
�Part X.
exception to this rule. For by combination in society,
he can easily master lions, tigers, and bears, whose
greater strength and agility naturally enable them to
prey upon him.
On the contrary, it is here chiefly, cried Philo, that
the uniform and equal maxims of Nature are most ap
parent. Man, it is true, can, by combination, surmount
all his real enemies, and become master of the whole
animal creation : but does he not immediately raise up
to himself imaginary enemies, the daemons of his fancy,
who haunt him with superstitious terrors, and blast
every enjoyment of life ? His pleasure, as he imagines,
becomes, in their eyes, a crime: his food and repose give
them umbrage and offence : his very sleep and dreams
furnish new materials to anxious fear: and even death,
his refuge from every other ill, presents only the dread
of endless and innumerable woes. Nor does the wolf
molest more the timid flock, than superstition does the
anxious breast of wretched mortals.
Besides, consider, Demea: This very society, by which
we surmount those wild beasts, our natural enemies;
what new enemies does it not raise to us ? What woe and
misery does it not occasion 1 Man is the greatest enemy
of man. Oppression, injustice, contempt, contumely,
violence, sedition, war, calumny, treachery, fraud; by
these they mutually torment each other: and they would
soon dissolve that society which they had formed, were
it not for the dread of still greater ills, which must
attend their separation.
But though these external insults, said Demea, from
animals, from men, from all the elements, which assault
us, form a frightful catalogue of woes, they are nothing
in comparison of those which arise within ourselves,
from the distempered condition of our mind and body.
How many lie under the lingering torment of diseases ?
Hear the pathetic enumeration of the great poet—
Intestine stone and ulcer, colic-pangs,
Daemoniac frenzy, moping melancholy,
�84 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy,
Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence.
Dire was the tossing, deep the groans : Despair
Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch.
And over them triumphant Death his dart
Shook ; but delay’d to strike, tho’ oft invok’d
With vows, as their chief good and final hope.*
The disorders of the mind, continued Demea, though
more secret, are not perhaps less dismal and vexatious.
Remorse, shame, anguish, rage, disappointment, anxiety,
fear, dejection, despair; who has ever passed through
life without cruel inroads from these tormentors ?
How many have scarcely ever felt any better sensa
tions ? Labour and poverty, so abhorred by every one,
are the certain lot of the far greater number : and
those few privileged persons, who enjoy ease and
opulence, never reach contentment or true felicity.
All the goods of life united would not make a very
happy man : but all the ills united would make a
wretch indeed ; and any one of them almost (and who
can be free from every one ?) nay often the absence of
one good (and who can possess all ?) is sufficient to
render life ineligible.
Were a stranger to drop, on a sudden, into this world,
I would show him, as a specimen of its ills, an hospital
full of diseases, a prison crowded with malefactors
and debtors, a field of battle strewed with carcases, a
fleet foundering in the ocean, a nation languishing under
tyranny, famine, or pestilence. To turn the gay side
of life to him and give him a notion of its pleasures ;
whither should I conduct him ? to a ball, to an opera,
to court 1 He might justly think, that I was only
showing him a diversity of distress and sorrow.
There is no evading such striking instances, said
Philo, but by apologies, which still farther aggravate
the charge. Why have all men, I ask, in all ages,
complained incessantly of the miseries of life ? . . .
They have no just reason, says one : these complaints
* Paradise Lost, xi. 484— 493.
�Part X.
85
proceed only from their discontented, repining, anxious
disposition. . . . And can there possibly, I reply, be a
more certain foundation of misery, than such a
wretched temper ?
But if they were really as unhappy as they pretend,
•says my antagonist, why do they remain in life 1 . . .
Not satisfied with life, afraid of death.
This is the secret chain, say I, that holds us. We are
terrified, not bribed to the continuance of our ex
istence.
It is only a false delicacy, he may insist, which a
few refined spirits indulge, and which has spread these
■complaints among the whole race ? of mankind. . . .
And what is this delicacy, I ask, which you blame ?
Is it anything but a greater sensibility to all the
pleasures and pains of life ? and if the man of a
delicate, refined temper, by being so much more alive
than the rest of the world, is only so much more
unhappy; what judgment must we form in general of
human life ?
Let men remain at rest, says our adversary; and
they will be easy. They are willing artificers of their
own misery. . . . No ! reply I: an anxious languor
follows their repose; disappointment, vexation, trouble
their activity and ambition.
I can observe something like what you mention in
some others, replied Cleanthes : but I confess, I feel
little or nothing of it in myself; and hope that it is
not so common as you represent it.
If you feel not human misery yourself, cried Demea,
I congratulate you on so happy a singularity. Others,
seemingly the most prosperous, have not been ashamed
to vent their complaints in the most melancholy
strains. Let us attend to the great, the fortunate
-emperor, Charles V. when, tired with human grandeur,
he resigned all his extensive dominions into the hands
of his son. In the last harangue, which he made on
�86 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
that memorable occasion, he publicly avowed, “ that
the greatest prosperities which he had ever enjoyed, had
been mixed with so many adversities, that he might
truly say he had never enjoyed any satisfaction or
contentmentBut did the retired life, in which he
sought for shelter, afford him any greater happiness 1
If we may credit his son’s account, his repentance
commenced the very day of his resignation.
Cicero’s fortune, from small beginnings, rose to the
greatest lustre and renown; yet what pathetic com
plaints of the ills of life do his familiar letters, as well
as philosophical discourses, contain ? And suitably to
his own experience, he introduces Cato, the great, the
fortunate Cato, protesting in his old age, that had he
a new life in his offer, he would reject the present.
Ask yourself, ask any of your acquaintance, whether
they would live over again the last ten or twenty years
of their life. No ! but the next twenty, they say, will
be better :
And from the dregs of life, think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give. *
Thus at last they find (such is the greatness of human
misery; it reconciles even contradictions) that they
complain, at once of the shortness of life, and of its
vanity and sorrow.
And is it possible, Cleanthes, said Philo, that after
all these reflections, and infinitely more, which might
be suggested, you can still persevere in your Anthro
pomorphism, and assert the moral attributes of the
Deity, his justice, benevolence, mercy, and rectitude,
to be of the same nature with these virtues in human
creatures ? His power we allow infinite : whatever
he wills is executed: but neither man nor any other
animal is happy: therefore he does not will their
happiness. His wisdom is infinite: he is never
mistaken in choosing the means to any end : but the
course of Nature tends not to human or animal felicity :
* From Dryden’s “ Aurengzebe. ”
�Part X.
87
therefore it is not established for that purpose.
Through the whole compass of human knowledge,
there are no inferences more certain and infallible than
these. In what respect, then, do his benevolence and
mercy resemble the benevolence and mercy of men ?
Epicurus’ old questions are yet unanswered.
Is he willing to prevent evil, but not able 1 then ishe impotent. Is he able, but not willing ? then is he
malevolent. Is he both able and willing 1 whence
then is evil 1
You ascribe, Cleanthes, (and I believe justly) a
purpose and intention to Nature. But what, I beseech
you, is the object of that curious artifice and machinery,
which she has displayed in all animals ? The preserva
tion alone of individuals, and propagation of the species.
It seems enough for her purpose, if such a rank be
barely upheld in the universe, without any care or con
cern for the happiness of the members that compose it.
No resource for this purpose : no machinery, in order
merely to give pleasure or ease : no fund of pure joy
and contentment: no indulgence, without some want
or necessity accompanying it.
At least, the few .
phenomena of this nature are overbalanced by opposite
phenomena of still greater importance.
Our sense of music, harmony, and indeed beauty of
all kinds, gives satisfaction, without being absolutely
necessary to the preservation and propagation of the
species. But what racking pains, on the other hand,
arise from gouts, gravels, megrims, toothaches, rheu
matisms ; where the injury to the animal-machinery
is either small or incurable ? Mirth, laughter, play,
frolic, seem gratuitous satisfactions, which have no
farther tendency : spleen, melancholy, discontent,
superstition, are pains of the same nature. How then
does the divine benevolence display itself, in the sense
of you Anthropomorphites ? None but we Mystics, asyou were pleased to call us, can account for this strange
mixture of phenomena, by deriving it from attributes,
infinitely perfect, but incomprehensible.
�88 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
And have you at last, said Cleanthes smiling,
betrayed your intentions, Philo ? Your long agreement
with Demea did indeed a little surprise me; but I find
you were all the while erecting a concealed battery
against me. And I must confess, that you have now fallen
upon a subject worthy of your noble spirit of opposition
and controversy. If you can make out the present
point, and prove mankind to be unhappy or corrupted,
there is an end at once of all religion. Por to what
purpose establish the natural attributes of the Deity,
while the moral are still doubtful and uncertain ?
You take umbrage very easily, replied Demea, at
opinions the most innocent, and the most generally re
ceived even amongst the religious and devout themselves:
and nothing can be more surprising than to find a topic
like this, concerning the wickedness and misery of
man, charged with no less than Atheism and profane
ness. Have not all pious divines and preachers, who
have indulged their rhetoric on so fertile a subject;
have they not easily, I say, given a solution of any
difficulties which may attend it! This world is but a
. point in comparison of the universe; this life but a
moment in comparison of eternity. The present evil
phenomena, therefore, are rectified in other regions,
and in some future period of existence. And the eyes
of men, being then opened to larger views of things,
see the whole connection of general laws; and trace,
with adoration, the benevolence and rectitude of the
Deity, through all the maze and intricacies of his
providence.
No 1 replied Cleanthes, No ! These arbitrary sup
positions can never be admitted, contrary to matter of
fact, visible and uncontroverted. Whence can any
cause be known but from its known effects ? Whence
can any hypothesis be proved but from the apparent
phenomena ? To establish one hypothesis upon
another, is building entirely in the air ; and the utmost
we ever attain, by these conjectures and fictions, is to
�Part X.
89
ascertain the bare possibility of our opinion; but never
can we, upon such terms, establish its reality.
The only method of supporting divine benevolence
(and it is what I willingly embrace) is to deny ab
solutely the misery and wickedness of man. Your
representations are exaggerated; your melancholy views
mostly fictitious ; your inferences contrary to fact and
experience. Health is more common than sickness;
pleasure than pain ; happiness than misery. And for
one vexation which we meet with, we attain, upon
computation, a hundred enjoyments.
Admitting your position, replied Philo, which yet is
extremely doubtful; you must, at the same time, allow,
that, if pain be less frequent than pleasure, it is in
finitely more violent and durable. One hour of it is
often able to outweigh a day, a week, a month of our
common insipid enjoyments. And how many days,
weeks, and months, are passed by several in the most
acute torments ? Pleasure, scarcely in one instance, is
ever able to reach ecstasy and rapture : and in no one in
stance can it continue for any time at its highest pitch
and altitude. The spirits evaporate ; the nerves relax;
the fabric is disordered • and the enjoyment quickly de
generates into fatigue and uneasiness. But pain often,
how often ! rises to torture and agony ? and the longer
it continues, it becomes still more genuine agony and
torture. Patience is exhausted; courage languishes ;
melancholy seizes us ; and nothing terminates our
misery but the removal of its cause, or another event,
which is the sole cure of all evil, but which, from our
natural folly, we regard with still greater horror and
consternation.
But not to insist upon these topics, continued Philo,
though most obvious, certain, and important; I must
use the freedom to admonish you, Cleanthes, that you
have put the controversy upon a most dangerous issue,
and are unawares introducing a total Scepticism into the
most essential articles of natural and revealed theology.
�90 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
What! no method of fixing a just foundation for
religion, unless we allow the happiness of human life,
and maintain a continued existence even in this world,
with all our present pains, infirmities, vexations, and
follies, to he eligible and desirable! But this is con
trary to every one’s feeling and experience : It is con
trary to an authority so established as nothing can
subvert. No decisive proofs can ever be produced
against this authority; nor is it possible for you to
compute, estimate, and compare, all the pains and all
the pleasures in the lives of all men and of all animals
and thus by your resting the whole system of religion
on a point, which, from its very nature, must for ever
be uncertain, you tacitly confess, that that system is
equally uncertain.
But allowing you, what never will be believed; at
least, what you never possibly can prove; that animal,
or at least human happiness, in this life, exceeds its
misery; you have yet done nothing : For this is not,
by any means, what we expect from infinite power,
infinite wisdom, and infinite goodness. Why is there
any misery at all in the world 1 Not by chance surely.
From some cause then. Is it from the intention
of the Deity ? But he is perfectly benevolent. Is it
contrary to his intention? But he is almighty.
Nothing can shake the solidity of this reasoning, so
short, so clear, so decisive : except we assert, that these
subjects exceed all human capacity, and that our
common measures of truth and falsehood are not
applicable to them; a topic, which I have all along
insisted on, but which you have from the beginning
rejected with scorn and indignation.
But I will be contented to retire still from this
intrenchment, for I deny that you can ever force me in
it: I will allow, that pain or misery in man is com
patible with infinite power and goodness in the Deity,
even in your sense of these attributes : What are you
advanced by all these concessions? A mere possible
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■compatibility is not sufficient. You must prove these
pure, unmixed, and uncontrollable attributes from the
present mixed and confused phenomena and from these
alone. A hopeful undertaking ! Were the phenomena
ever so pure and unmixed, yet being finite, they would
be insufficient for that purpose. How much more,
where they are also so jarring and discordant?
Here, Cleanthes, I find myself at ease in my argu
ment. Here I triumph. Formerly, when we argued
concerning the natural attributes of intelligence and
design, I needed all my sceptical and metaphysical
subtlety to elude your grasp. In many views of the
universe, and of its parts, particularly the latter, the
beauty and fitness of final causes strike us with such
irresistible force, that all objections appear (what I
believe they really are) mere cavils and sophisms; nor
can we then imagine how it was ever possible for us to
repose any weight on them. But there is no view of
human life, or of the condition of mankind, from which,
without the greatest violence, we can infer the moral
attributes, or learn that infinite benevolence, conjoined
with infinite power and infinite wisdom, which we must
discover by the eyes of faith alone. It is your turn
now to tug the labouring oar, and to support your
philosophical subtleties against the dictates of plain
reason and experience.
PAET XI.
I
scruple not to allow, said Cleanthes, that I have
been apt to suspect the frequent repetition of the word
infinite, which we meet with in all theological writers,
to savour more of panegyric than of philosophy; and
that any purposes of reasoning, and even of religion,
would be better served, were we to rest contented with
more accurate and more moderate expressions. The
�92 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
terms admirable, excellent, superlatively great, wise,
and holy; these sufficiently fill the imaginations of
men; and anything beyond, besides that it leads into
absurdities, has no influence on the affections or senti
ments. Thus, in the present subject, if we abandon all
human analogy, as seems your intention, Demea, I am
afraid we abandon all religion, and retain no conception
of the great object of our adoration. If we preserve
human analogy, we must for ever find it impossible to
reconcile any mixture of evil in the universe with
infinite attributes ; much less can we ever prove the
latter from the former. But supposing the Author of
Nature to be finitely perfect, though far exceeding
mankind ; a satisfactory account may then be given of
natural and moral evil, and every untoward phenome
non be explained and adjusted. A less evil may then
be chosen, in order to avoid a greater: Inconveniencies be submitted to, in order to reach a desirable
end. And, in a word, benevolence, regulated by
wisdom, and limited by necessity, may produce just
such a world as the present. You, Philo, who are so
prompt at starting views, and reflections, and analogies;
I would gladly hear, at length, without interruption,
your opinion of this new theory • and if it deserve our
attention, we may afterwards, at more leisure, reduce it
into form.
My sentiments, replied Philo, are not worth being
made a mystery of; and therefore, without any cere
mony, I shall deliver what occurs to me with regard to
the present subject. It must, I think, be allowed,
that if a very limited intelligence, whom we shall suppose
utterly unacquainted with the universe, were assured,
that it were the production of a very good, wise, and
powerful Being, however finite, he would, from .his
conjectures, form beforehand a different notion of it
from what we find it to be by experience; nor would
he ever imagine, merely from these attributes of the
cause, of which he is informed, that the effect could be
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93
so full of vice, and misery, and disorder, as it appears
in this life. Supposing now, that this person were
brought into the world, still assured that it was the
workmanship of such a sublime and benevolent Being ;
he might, perhaps, be surprised at the disappointment;
But would never retract his former belief, if founded on
any very solid argument; since such a limited intelli
gence must be sensible of his own blindness and
ignorance, and must allow, that there may be many
solutions of those phenomena, which will for ever
escape his comprehension. But supposing, which is
the real case with regard to man, that' 'this creature is
not antecedently convinced of a supreme intelligence,
benevolent and powerful, but is left to gather such a
belief from the appearances of things; this entirely
alters the case, nor will he ever find any reason for such a
conclusion. He may be fully convinced of the narrow
limits of his understanding ■ but this will not help him
in forming an inference concerning the goodness of
superior powers, since he must form that inference
from what he knows, not from what he is ignorant of.
The more you exaggerate his weakness and ignorance,
the more diffident you render him, and give him the
greater suspicion that such subjects are beyond the reach
of his faculties. You are obliged, therefore, to reason
with him merely from the known phenomena, and to
drop every arbitrary supposition or conjecture.
Bid I show you a house or palace, where there was
not one apartment convenient or agreeable ; where the
windows, doors, fires, passages, stairs, and the whole
economy of the building, were the source of noise, con
fusion, fatigue, darkness, and the extremes of heat and
cold; you would certainly blame the contrivance, with
out any farther examination. The architect would in
vain display his subtlety, and prove to you, that if this
door or that window were altered, greater ills would
ensue. What he says may be strictly true: The
alteration of one particular, while the other parts of the
�94 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
building remain, may only augment the inconveniences.
But still you would assert in general, that, if the archi
tect had had skill and good intentions, he might have
formed such a plan of the whole, and might have
adjusted the parts in such a manner, as would have
remedied all or most of these inconveniences. His
ignorance, or even your own ignorance, of such a plan,
will never convince you of the impossibility of it.
If you find many inconveniencies and deformities in
the building, you will always, without entering into
any detail, condemn the architect.
In short, I repeat the question. Is the world, con
sidered in general, and as it appears to us in this life,
different from what a man, or such a limited being,
would, beforehand, expect from a very powerful, wise,
and benevolent Deity ? It must be strange prejudice to
assert the contrary. And from thence I conclude, that,
however consistent the world may be, allowing certain
suppositions and conjectures, with the idea of such a
Deity, it can never afford us an inference concerning his
existence. The consistence is not absolutely denied,
only the inference.
Conjectures, especially where
infinity is excluded from the divine attributes, may
perhaps, be sufficient to prove a consistence; but can
never be foundations for any inference.
There seem to be four circumstances, on which
depend all, or the greatest part of the ills, that molest
sensible creatures j and it is not impossible but all these
circumstances may be necessary and unavoidable. We
know so little beyond common life, or even of common
life, that, with regard to the economy of a universe,
there is no conjecture, however wild, which may not be
just; nor any one, however plausible, which may not be
erroneous. All that belongs to human understanding,
in this deep ignorance and obscurity, is to be sceptical,
or at least cautious; and not to admit of any hypothesis
whatever; much less, of any which is supported by no
appearance of probability. Now, this I assert to be the
�Part XI.
95
case with regard, to all the causes of evil, and the cir
cumstances on which it depends.
None of them
appear to human reason, in the least degree, necessary
or unavoidable; nor can we suppose them such, without
the utmost license of imagination.
The first circumstance which introduces evil, is that
contrivance or economy of the animal creation, by
which pains, as well as pleasures, are employed to
excite all creatures to action, and make them vigilant
in the great work of self-preservation. Now pleasure
alone, in its various degrees, seems to human understanding sufficient for this purpose. All animals might
be constantly in a state of enjoyment; but when urged
by any of the necessities of nature, such as thirst,
hunger, weariness; instead of pain, they might feel
a diminution of pleasure, by which they might be
prompted to seek that object which is necessary to
their subsistence. Men who pursue pleasure as
eagerly as they avoid pain ; at least, might have been
so constituted. It seems, therefore, plainly possible
to carry on the business of life without any pain.
Why then is any animal ever rendered susceptible of
such a sensation 1 If animals can be free from it an
hour, they might enjoy a perpetual exemption from
it • and it required as particular a contrivance of their
organs to produce that feeling, as to endow them with
sight, hearing, or any of the senses. Shall we con
jecture that such a contrivance was necessary, without
any appearance of reason ? and shall we build on that
conjecture, as on the most certain truth ?
But a capacity of pain would not alone produce,
pain, were it not for the second circumstance, viz., the
conducting of the world by general laws; and this
seems nowise necessary to a very perfect Being. It is
true ; if everything were conducted by particular voli
tions, the course of nature would be perpetually
broken, and no man could employ his reason in the
conduct of life. But might not other particular voliG
�g6 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
tions remedy this inconvenience ? In short, might
not the Deity exterminate all ill, wherever it were to
be found ; and produce all good, without any prepara
tion or long progress of causes and effects ?
Besides, we must consider, that, according to the
present economy of the world, the course of nature,
though supposed exactly regular, yet to us appears
not so, and many events are uncertain, and many dis
appoint our expectations. Health and sickness, calm
and tempest, with an infinite number of other accidents,
whose causes are unknown and variable, have a great
influence both on the fortunes of particular persons,
and on the prosperity of public societies ; and indeed
all human life, in a manner, depends on such accidents.
A being, therefore, who knows the secret springs of
the universe, might easily, by particular volitions,
turn all these accidents to the good of mankind, and
render the whole world happy, without discovering
himself in any operation. A fleet, whose purposes
were salutary to society, might always meet with a
fair wind; good princes enjoy sound health and long
life; persons born to power and authority, be framed
with good tempers and virtuous dispositions. A few
such events as these, regularly and wisely conducted,
would change the face of the world, and yet would no
more seem to disturb the course of nature, or confound
human conduct, than the present economy of things,
where the causes are secret, and variable, and com
pounded. Some small touches given to Caligula’s
brain in his infancy, might Lave converted him into
a Trajan; one wave, a little higher than the rest, by
burying Caesar and his fortune in the bottom of the
ocean, might have restored liberty to a considerable
part of mankind. There may, for aught we know, be
good reasons, why Providence interposes not in this
manner; but they are unknown to us; and though
the mere supposition, that such reasons exist, may be
sufficient to save the conclusion concerning the divine
�Part XI.
97
attributes, yet surely it can never be sufficient to
establish that conclusion.
If everything in the universe be conducted by
general laws, and if animals be rendered susceptible of
pain, it scarcely seems possible but some ill must arise
in the various shocks of matter, and the various con
currence and opposition of general laws. But this ill
would be very rare, were it not for the third circum
stance, which I proposed to mention, viz., the great
frugality with which all powers and faculties are dis
tributed to every particular being. So well adjusted
are the organs and capacities of all animals, and so
well fitted to their preservation, that, as far as history
or tradition reaches, there appears not to be any single
species which has yet been extinguished in the
universe.* Every animal has the requisite endow
ments ; but these endowments are bestowed with so
scrupulous an economy, that any considerable diminu
tion must entirely destroy the creature. Wherever
one power is increased, there is a proportional abate
ment in the others, Animals, which excel in swift* Here Hume was quite in error, and consequently made an
admission against himself by thinking that no race of animals has
ever become extinct. The truth is that the very reverse is the.
case. A whole animal and vegetable creation have become
extinct, as the fossil remains of gigantic animals and gigantic
trees abundantly testify. Even tropical climates in parts of the
earth have been, as it were, extinguished, and their places
occupied in some cases by arctic, and in others by temperate
climates. It was probably a change of climate which came on
in places whence the now extinct animals could not get away,
that caused their destruction. At Maidstone, in England, there
have been found the fossil remains of a ’ saurian reptile, called
iguanodon. From these remains naturalists have calculated that
the animal was seventy feet (or more) in length. Therefore these
facts strengthen Hume’s position. They shew at least that this
part of creation is imperfect. They shew that the present order
of things on earth may be as mortal and perishable as that which
preceded it. The fossil remains of the human race may prove a
puzzle to a superior order of animals four hundred thousand years
hence.
But in the days of Hume, geology was not among the sciences
then known. Fossils were an insoluble riddle. It was not until
a long time after Hume’s death, and after the pioneers of
�98 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
ness, are commonly defective in force. Those which
possess both, are either imperfect in some of their
senses, or are oppressed with the most craving wants.
The human species, whose chief excellency is reason
and sagacity, is of all others the most necessitous, and
the most deficient in bodily advantages; without
clothes, without arms, without food, without lodging,
without any convenience of life, except what they owe
to their own skill and industry. In short, nature
seems to have formed an exact calculation of the
necessities of her creatures; and, like a rigid master,
has afforded them little more powers or endowments
than what are strictly sufficient to supply those
necessities. An indulgent parent would have bestowed
a large stock, in order to guard against accidents, and
secure the happiness and welfare of the creature in the
most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances. Every
course of life would not have been so surrounded with
precipices, that the least departure from the true path,
by mistake or necessity, must involve us in misery and
ruin. Some reserve, some fund, would have been
provided to ensure happiness; nor would the powers
and the necessities have been adjusted with so rigid
an economy. The author of nature is inconceivably
• powerful; his force is supposed great, if not altogether
inexhaustible: nor is there any reason, as far as we
can judge, to make him observe this strict frugality in
Geology had groped and lost their way through numbers of
Noachian, and other equally absurd theories by which they tried
to account for the origin and existence of fossil organisms, that
the true theories of geological science were discovered.
There is scarcely any thing in the history of human enlighten
ment, that is more strange and interesting than the steady advance
and triumph of scientific geology over the fables of the Hebrew
and other nonsensical cosmogonies. Only at rare intervals, and
in remote corners of civilization, can there be found even a
Christian priest who has the stupidity, ignorance, and audacity
to question the completeness of this triumph. Religion has fre
quently led men astray, when seeking moral and scientific Truth ;
but religion has never taught men anything worth knowing,
except the knowledge of its own immorality and worthlessness.
�Part XI.
99
his dealings with his creatures. It would have been
better, were his power extremely limited, to have
created fewer animals, and to have endowed these with
more faculties for their happiness and preservation.
A builder is never esteemed prudent, who undertakes
a plan beyond what his stock will enable him to
finish.
In order to cure most of the ills of human life, I
require not that man should have the wings of the
eagle, the swiftness of the stag, the force of the ox,
the arms of the lion, the scales of the crocodile or
rhinoceros ; much less do I demand the sagacity of an
angel or cherubim. I am contented to take an increase
in one single power or faculty of his soul. Let him be
endowed with a greater propensity to industry and
labour ; a more vigorous spring and activity of mind;
a more constant bent to business and application.
Let the whole species possess naturally an equal
diligence with that which many individuals are able
to attain by habit and reflection; and the most bene
ficial consequences, without any alloy of ill, is the
immediate and necessary result of this endowment.
Almost all the moral, as well as natural evils of human
life arise from idleness ; and were our species, by the
original constitution of their frame, exempt from this
vice or infirmity, the perfect cultivation of land, the
improvement of arts and manufactures, the exact
execution of every office and duty, immediately follow ;
and men at once may fully reach that state of society,
which is so imperfectly attained by the best regulated
government. But as industry is a power, and the
most valuable of any, nature seems determined, suitably
to her usual maxims, to bestow it on men with a very
sparing hand; and rather to punish him severely for
his deficiency in it, than to reward him for his attain
ments. She has so contrived his frame, that nothing
but the most violent necessity can oblige him to
labour; and she employs all his other wants to over-
�ioo Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
come, at least in part, the want of diligence, and to
endow him with some share of a faculty of which she
has thought fit naturally to bereave him. Here our
demands may be allowed very humble, and therefore
the more reasonable. If we required the endowments
of superior penetration and judgment, of a more
delicate taste of beauty, of a nicer sensibility to bene
volence and friendship; we might be told, that we
impiously pretend to break the order of nature; that
we want to exalt ourselves into a higher rank of
being; that the presents which we require, not being
suitable to our state and condition, would only be
pernicious to us. But it is hard ; I dare to repeat it,
it is hard, that being placed in a world so full of wants
and necessities, where almost every being and element
is either our foe, or refuses its assistance . . . we
should also have our own temper to struggle with, and
should be deprived of that faculty which can alone
fence against these multiplied evils.
The fourth circumstance, whence arises the misery
and ill of the universe, is the inaccurate workmanship
of all the springs and principles of the great machine of
nature. It must be acknowledged, that there are few
parts of the universe, which seem not to serve some
purpose, and whose removal would not produce a visible
defect and disorder in the whole. The parts hang all
together ; nor can one be touched without affecting the
rest, in a greater or less degree. But at the same time,
it must be observed, that none of these parts or prin
ciples, however useful, are so accurately adjusted, as to
keep precisely within those bounds in which their
utility consists ; but they are, all of them, apt, on every
occasion, to run into the one extreme or the other.
One would imagine, that this grand production had not
received the last hand of the maker; so little finished is
every part, and so coarse are the strokes with which it is
executed. Thus, the winds are requisite to convey the
vapours along the surface of the globe, and to assist
�Part XI.
IOI
Bien in navigation : bnt how oft, rising up to tempests
and hurricanes, do they become pernicious ? Rains are
necessary to nourish all the plants and animals of the
earth: but how often are they defective, how often ex
cessive ? Heat is requisite to all life and vegetation; but
is not always found in the due proportion. On the mix
ture and secretion of the humours and juices of the body
depend the health and prosperity of the animal: but the
parts perform not regularly their proper function. What
more useful than all the passions of the mind, ambition,
vanity, love, anger ? But how oft do they break their
bounds, and cause the greatest convulsions in society 1
There is nothing so advantageous in the universe, but
what frequently becomes pernicious, by its excess or
defect; nor has Nature guarded, with the requisite
accuracy, against all disorder or confusion. The irregu
larity is never, perhaps, so great as to destroy any
species; * but is often sufficient to involve the in
dividuals in ruin and misery.
On the concurrence, then, of these four circumstances,
does all or the greatest part of natural evil depend.
Were all living creatures incapable of pain, or were the
world administered by particular volitions, evil never
could have found access into the universe : and were ani
mals endowed with a large stock of powers and faculties,
beyond what strict necessity requires; or were the
several springs and principles of the universe so accur
ately framed as to preserve always the just temperament
and medium; there must have been very little ill in
comparison of what we feel at present. What then
shall we pronounce on this occasion ? Shall we say,
that these circumstances are not necessary, and that
they might easily have been altered in the contrivance
of the universe ? This decision seems too presump
tuous for creatures so blind and ignorant. Let us be
more modest in our conclusions. Let us allow, that if
the goodness of the deity (I mean a goodness like the
* See the Note at page 97.
�102 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
human) could be established on any tolerable reasons a
priori, these phenomena, however untoward, would not
be sufficient to subvert that principle; but might easily,
in some unknown manner, be reconcilable to it. But
let us still assert, that as this goodness is not antece
dently established, but must be inferred from the phe
nomena, there can be no grounds for such an inference,
while there are so many ills in the universe, and while
these ills might so easily have been remedied, as far as
human understanding can be allowed to judge on such
a subject. I am sceptic enough to allow, that the bad
appearances, notwithstanding all my reasonings, may
be compatible with such attributes as you suppose :
But surely they can never prove these attributes. Such
a conclusion cannot result from scepticism; but must
arise from the phenomena, and from our confidence in
the reasonings which we deduce from these phenomena.
Look round this universe. What an immense pro
fusion of beings, animated and organized, sensible and
active 1 You admire this prodigious variety and
fecundity. But inspect a little more narrowly these
living existences, the only beings worth regarding.
How hostile and destructive to each other! How
insufficient all of them for their own happiness I How
contemptible or odious to the spectator 1 The whole
presents nothing but the idea of a blind Nature,
impregnated by a great vivifying principle, and pouring
forth from her lap, without discernment or parental
care, her maimed and abortive children.*
Here the Manichaean system occurs as a proper
hypothesis to solve the difficulty : and no doubt, in
some respects, it is very specious, and has more probabil
ity than the common hypothesis, by giving a plausible
account of the strange mixture of good and ill which
* “As is the race of leaves, even such is the race of men.
Leaves, some indeed the wind sheds on the ground, but the bud
ding wood produces others when the season of spring comes on ;
thus does the race of men, one produce, another cease [produc
ing].”—Iliad vi. 146-9.
�Part XL
Io3
appears in life. But if we consider, on the other hand,
the perfect uniformity and agreement of the parts of
the universe, we shall not discover in it any marks of
the combat of a malevolent with a benevolent being.
There is indeed an opposition of pains and pleasures
in the feelings of sensible creatures : but are not all
the operations of Nature carried on by an opposition of
principles, of hot and cold, moist and dry, light and
heavy? The true conclusion is, that the original
Source of all things is entirely indifferent to all these
principles ; and has no more regard to good above ill,
than to heat above cold, or to drought above moisture,
or to light above heavy*
There may four hypotheses be framed concerning the
first causes of the universe : that they are endowed
with perfect goodness ; that they have perfect malice ;
that they are opposite, and have both goodness and
malice; that they have neither goodness nor malice.
Mixed phenomena can never prove the two former un
mixed principles. And the uniformity and steadiness of
general laws seem to oppose the third. The fourth,
therefore, seems by far the most probable.
What I have said concerning natural evil will apply
to moral, with little or no variation; and we have no
more reason to infer, that the rectitude of the Supreme
Being resembles human rectitude, than that his
benevolence resembles the human. Nay, it will be
thought, that we have still greater cause to exclude
from him moral sentiments, such as we feel them;
since moral evil, in the opinion of many, is much more
predominant above moral good than natural evil
above natural good.
* A remarkable passage in Tacitus (Annals xvi. 33,) contains a
similar idea. He says, “ The same day furnished a bright ex
ample of virtue in the person of Cassus Asclepiodotus, a man con
spicuous among the Bithynians for the extent of his wealth, who
continued to treat Soranus in his decline with the same respect he
had constantly shewn him in the meridian of his fortune. The
consequence was, that he was stripped of all his property and
driven into exile: thus exemplifying the indifference of the Gods
towards patterns of virtue and of vice ! ”
�104 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
But even though, this should not he allowed; and
though the virtue, which is in mankind, should be
acknowledged much superior to the vice; yet so long
as there is any vice at all in the universe, it will very
much puzzle you Anthropomorphites, how to account for
it. You must assign a cause for it, without having
recourse to the first cause. But as every effect must have
a cause, and that cause another; you must either carry
on the progression in infinitum, or rest on that
original principle, who is the ultimate cause of all
things.............
Hold ! Hold! cried Demea: Whither does your
imagination hurry you ? I joined in alliance with you,
in order to prove the incomprehensible nature of the
Divine Being, and refute the principles of Cleanthes,
who would measure everything by a human rule and
standard. But I now find you running into all the
topics of the greatest libertines and infidels; and
betraying that holy cause, which you seemingly
espoused. Are you secretly, then, a more dangerous
enemy than Cleanthes himself ?
And are you so late in perceiving it 1 replied
Cleanthes. Believe me, Demea; your friend Philo,
from the beginning, has been amusing himself at both
our expense; and it must be confessed, that the
injudicious reasoning of our vulgar theology has
given him but too just a handle of ridicule. The
total infirmity of human reason, the absolute incom
prehensibility of the Divine Nature, the great and
universal misery and still greater wickedness of
men; these are strange topics, surely, to be so
fondly cherished by orthodox divines and doctors. In
ages of stupidity and ignorance, indeed, these
principles may safely be espoused; and, perhaps, no
views of things are more proper to promote
superstition, than such as encourage the blind amaze
ment, the diffidence, and melancholy of mankind.
But at present ....
�Part Xll.
105
Blame not so much, interposed Philo, the ignorance
of these reverend gentlemen. They know how to
change their style with the times. Formerly it was a
most popular theological topic to maintain, that human
life was vanity and misery, and to exaggerate all the
ills and pains which are incident to men. But of late
years, divines, we find, begin to retract this position ;
and maintain, though still with some hesitation, that
there are more goods than evils, more pleasures than,
pains, even in this life. When religion stood entirely
upon temper and education, it was thought proper to
encourage melancholy; as indeed, mankind never have
recourse to superior powers so readily as in that dis
position. But as men have now learned to form
principles, and to draw consequences, it is necessary to
change the batteries, and to make use of such argu
ments as will endure at least some scrutiny and
examination. This variation is the same (and from the
same causes) with that which 1 formerly remarked
with regard to Scepticism.
Thus Philo continued to the last his spirit of
opposition, and his censure of established opinions.
But I could observe, that Demea did not at all relish
the latter part of the discourse; and he took occasion
soon after, on some pretence or other, to leave the
company.
PART XII.
After Demea’s departure, Cleanthes and Philo con
tinued the conversation in the following manner. Our
friend, I am afraid, said Cleanthes, will have little
inclination to revive this topic of discourse, while you
are in company; and to tell truth, Philo, I should rather
wish to reason with either of you apart on a subject so
sublime and interesting. Your spirit of controversy,
�io6 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
joined to your abhorrence of vulgar superstition, carries
you strange lengths, when engaged in an argument;
and there is nothing so sacred and venerable, even in
your own eyes, which you spare on that occasion.
I must confess, replied Philo, that I am less cautious
on the subject of Natural Religion than on any other;
both because I know that I can never, on that head,
corrupt the principles of any man of common sense;
and because no one, I am confident, in whose eyes I
appear a man of common sense, will ever mistake my
intentions. You in particular, Cleanthes, with whom
I live in unreserved intimacy; you are sensible, that not
withstanding the freedom of my conversation, and my
love of singular arguments, no one has a deeper sense
of religion impressed on his mind, or pays more profound
adoration to the Divine Being, as he discovers himself
to reason, in the inexplicable contrivance and artifice
of Nature. A purpose, an intention, a design, strikes
everywhere the most careless, the most stupid thinker;
and no man can be so hardened in absurd systems, as
at all times to reject it. That Nature does nothing in
vain, is a maxim established in all the schools, merely
from the contemplation of the works of Nature, without
any religious purpose; and, from a firm conviction of
its truth, an anatomist, who had observed a new organ
or canal, would never be satisfied till he had also dis
covered its use and intention. One great foundation of
the Copernican system is the maxim, That Nature acts
by the simplest methods, and chooses the most proper
means to any end; and astronomers often, without
thinking of it, lay this strong foundation of piety and
religion. The same thing is observable in other parts
of philosophy; And thus all the sciences almost lead
us insensibly to acknowledge a first intelligent Author;
and their authority is often so much the greater, as they
do not directly profess that intention.
It is with pleasure I hear Galen reason concerning
the structure of the human body. The anatomy of a
�Part XII.
1O7
man, says he, * discovers above 600 different muscles ;
and whoever duly considers these, will find, that in
each of them Nature must have adjusted at least ten
different circumstances, in order to attain the end which
she proposed; proper figure, j ust magnitude, right
disposition of the several ends, upper and lower position
of the whole, the due insertion of the several nerves,
veins, and arteries: So that, in the muscles alone, above
6000 several views and intentions must have been
formed and executed. The bones he calculates to be
284 : The distinct purposes, aimed at in the structure
of each, above forty. What a prodigious display of
artifice, even in these simple and homogeneous parts ?
But if we consider the skin, ligaments, vessels, glandules,
humours, the several limbs and members of the body;
how must our astonishment rise upon us, in proportion
to the number and intricacy of the parts so artificially
adjusted 1 The farther we advance in these researches,
we discover new scenes of art and wisdom: But descry
still, at a distance, farther scenes beyond our reach ; in
the fine internal structure of the parts, in the economy
of the brain, in the fabric of the seminal vessels. All
these artifices are repeated in every different species of
animal, with wonderful variety, and with exact propriety
suited to the different intentions of Nature in fra,mi ng
each species. And if the infidelity of Galen, even when
these natural sciences were still imperfect, could not
withstand such striking appearances • to what pitch of
pertinacious obstinacy must a philosopher in this age
have attained, who can now doubt of a Supreme
Intelligence ? f
* De formations foetus.
t Without denying the truth of what Hume says here, to the effect,
that the human frame shews clear and unmistakable proofs of
design ; yet it is doubtful whether his eminently philosophical mind
would have allowed him to state the fact in such very decided
terms as these, if he had been acquainted with even a glimpse of
the evolution theory. But Oken was not born until three years
after Hume’s death. And Darwin’s “Descent of Man” was not
published until more than a century after Hume had ceased to
�io8 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
Could I meet with one of this species, I would ask
him: Supposing there were a God, who did not dis
cover himself immediately to our senses; were it
possible for him to give stronger proofs of his exist
ence, than what appear on the whole face of nature ?
What indeed could such a divine being do but copy
the present economy of things ; render many of his
artifices so plain, that no stupidity could mistake
them; afford glimpses of still greater artifices, which
demonstrate his prodigious superiority above our
narrow apprehensions; and conceal altogether a great
many from such imperfect creatures? Now, according
to all rules of just reasoning, every fact must pass for
undisputed, when it is supported by all the arguments
write. Oken and his followers discovered that the skull and limbs
of vertebrate animals are merely modified forms. And Darwin
discovered that the human animal is merely a development from an
inferior one. Oken has left on record how the light first dawned
on his mind ; and a knowledge of the circumstance is of importance
to the thinker.
In August 1806, while Oken was among the Hartz mountains, he
unexpectedly saw the well-preserved skull of a hind. From the
appearance which the skull accidentally presented to him, he
exclaimed “ a vertebral column ! ” This was a piece of reasoning
a priori. Nevertheless, by thinking over this suggestion he
ultimately discovered that, in all vertebrate animals, the bones of the
skull are only modified vertebrae.
Perhaps he who thinks on Probability will perceive that although
arguments grounded on a priori reasoning are utterly barren of
proof and consequently of result, yet, so far as we know, all the
important discoveries, hitherto made, have been generated from
suggestions arising from a priori considerations. “ Nature does
nothing in vain.” As yet, it is on such suggestions that the
evolution theory is grounded. From considerations such as this
the true thinker will be on his guard, and will not give way to that
prevalent weakness of the human mind, when, upon a comparison
of two important things relating to the same subject, one is found
to be of less importance than the other,To consider the less important
as_ of scarcely any value whatever. “ The Cyclic Poems ” are a
fair sample of an important matter which was despised unphilosophically. During twenty-one centuries they were regarded as
nearly beneath contempt. Yet from Mr F. A. Paley’s “ Introduction ”
to his first volume of the Iliad, we know, in his skilful hands,
how almost invaluable the remains of the “ Cyclic Poems ” proved
towards ascertaining the correct date of our “ Homer.”
�Part XII.
109
which, its nature admits of; even though these
arguments be not, in themselves, very numerous or
forcible. How much more, in the present case, where
no human imagination can compute their number,
and no understanding estimate their cogency ?
I shall farther add, said Cleanthes, to what you
have so well urged, that one great advantage of the
principle of theism, is, that it is the only system of
cosmogony which can be rendered intelligible and
complete, and yet can throughout preserve a strong
analogy to what we every day see and experience in
the world. The comparison of the universe to a
machine of human contrivance, is so obvious and
natural, and is justified by so many instances of order
and design in nature, that it must immediately strike
all unprejudiced apprehensions, and procure universal
approbation. Whoever attempts to weaken this theory,
cannot pretend to succeed by establishing in its place
any other that is precise and determinate. It is
sufficient for him, if he start doubts and difficulties,
and by remote and abstract views of things, reach
that suspense of judgment, which is here the utmost
boundary of his wishes. But besides that this state
of mind is in itself unsatisfactory, it can never be
steadily maintained against such striking appearances
as continually engage us into the religious hypothesis.
From the force of prejudice, human nature is capable
of adhering, with obstinacy and perseverance, to a false
absurd system. But I think it absolutely impossible,
by valid argument, to maintain or defend any system
at all, inculcated by natural propensity and by early
education, in opposition to a theory supported by
strong and obvious reason.
So little, replied Philo, do I esteem this suspense
of judgment in the present case to be possible, that
I am apt to suspect there enters somewhat of a dispute
of words into this controversy, more than is usually
imagined. That the works of nature bear a great
analogy to the productions of art, is evident; and
�11 o Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
according to all the rules of good reasoning, we ought
to infer, if we argue at all concerning them, that their
causes have a proportional analogy. But as there are
also considerable differences, we have reason to suppose
a proportional difference in the causes, and in par
ticular ought to attribute a much higher degree of
power and energy to the supreme cause, than any we
have ever observed in mankind. Here then the
existence of a Deity is plainly ascertained by reason;
and if we make it a question, whether on account of
these analogies, we can properly call him a mind or
intelligence, notwithstanding the vast difference which
may reasonably be supposed between him and human
minds ; what is this but a mere verbal controversy ?
No man can deny the analogies between the effects.
To restrain ourselves from inquiring concerning the
causes, is scarcely possible. From this inquiry, the
legitimate conclusion is, that the causes have also an
analogy, and if we are not contented with calling the
first and supreme cause a God or Deity, but desire to
vary the expression ; what can we call him but Mind
or Thought, to which he is justly supposed to bear a
considerable resemblance ?
All men of sound reason are disgusted with verbal
disputes, which abound so much in philosophical and
theological inquiries ; and it is found, that the only
remedy for this abuse must arise from clear definitions,
from the precision of those ideas which enter into any
argument, and from the strict and uniform use of
those terms which are employed. But there is a
species of controversy, which, from the very nature
of language and of human ideas, is involved in
perpetual ambiguity, and can never, by any precaution
or any definitions, be able to reach a reasonable
certainty or precision. These are the controversies
concerning the degrees of any quality or circumstance.
Men may argue to all eternity, whether Hannibal be
a great, or a very great, or a superlatively great man;
�Part XII.
111
what degree of beauty Cleopatra possessed; what
epithet of praise Livy or Thucidydes is entitled to,
without bringing the controversy to any determination.
The disputants may here agree in their sense, and
differ in the terms, or vice versa ; yet never be able
to define their terms, so as to enter into each other’s
meaning: Because the degrees of these qualities are
not, like quantity or number, susceptible of any exact
mensuration, which may be the standard in the con
troversy. That the dispute concerning theism is of
this nature, and consequently is merely verbal, or
perhaps, if possible, still more incurably ambiguous,
will appear upon the slightest inquiry. I ask the
theist if he does not allow, that there is a great
and immeasurable, because incomprehensible, difference
between the human and the divine mind. The more
pious he is, the more readily will he assent to the
affirmative, and the more will he be disposed to
magnify the difference. He will even assert that the
difference is of a nature which cannot be too much
magnified. I next turn to the atheist, who, I assert,
is only nominally so, and can never possibly be in
earnest; and I ask him, whether, from the coherence
and apparent sympathy in all the parts of this world,
there be not a certain degree of analogy among all the
operations of nature, in every situation and in every
age, whether the rotting of a turnip, the generation of
an animal, and the structure of human thought, be
not energies that probably bear some remote analogy
to each other. It is impossible he can deny it. He
will readily acknowledge it. Having obtained this
concession, I push him still farther in his retreat; and
I ask him, if it be not probable, that the principle
which first arranged, and still maintains, order in this
universe, bears not also some remote inconceivable
analogy to the other operations of nature, and among
the rest to the economy of human mind and thought.
However reluctant, he must give his assent. Where
H
�112 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
then, cry I to both these antagonists, is the subject
of your dispute ? The Theist allows that the original
intelligence is very different from human reason. The
atheist allows, that the original principle of order bears
some remote analogy to it. Will you quarrel, gentle
men, about the degrees ; and enter into a controversy
which admits not of any precise meaning, nor conse
quently of any determination ? If you should be so
obstinate, I should not be surprised to find you
insensibly change sides; while the theist, on the one
hand exaggerates the dissimilarity between the supreme
Being, and frail, imperfect, variable, fleeting, and
mortal creatures; and the atheist, on the other, magni
fies the analogy among all the operations of nature,
in every period, every situation, and every position.
Consider then, where the real point of controversy lies,
and if you cannot lay aside your disputes, endeavour,
at least, to cure yourselves of your animosity.
And here I must also acknowledge, Cleanthes, that,
as the works of Nature have a much greater analogy to
the effects of our art and contrivance, than to those of
our benevolence and j ustice ; we have reason to infer,
that the natural attributes of the Deity have a greater
resemblance to’those of men, than his moral have to
human virtues. But what is the consequence ?
Nothing but this, that the moral qualities of man are
more defective in their kind than his natural abilities.
For as the Supreme Being is allowed to be absolutely
and entirely perfect; whatever differs most from him,
departs the farthest from the supreme standard of recti
tude and perfection.*
* It seems evident, that the dispute between the Sceptics and
Dogmatists is entirely verbal; or at least regards only the degrees
of doubt and assurance, which we ought to indulge with regard to all
reasoning : and such disputes are commonly, at the bottom, verbal,
and admit not of any precise determination. No philosophical
Dogmatist denies, that there are difficulties both with regard to
the senses and to all science ; and that these difficulties are in a
regular, logical method, absolutely insolvable. No Sceptic denies
�Part XII.
1T3
These, Cleanthes, are my unfeigned sentiments on
this subject; and these sentiments, you know, I have
ever cherished and maintained. But in proportion to
my veneration for true religion, is my abhorrence of
vulgar superstitions ; and I indulge a peculiar pleasure,
I confess, in pushing such principles, sometimes into
absurdity, sometimes into impiety.
And you are
sensible, that all bigots, notwithstanding their great
aversion to the latter above the former, are commonly
equally guilty of both.
My inclination, replied Cleanthes, lies, I own, a con
trary way. Religion, however corrupted, is still better
than no religion at all. The doctrine of a future state
is so strong and necessary a security to morals, that we
never ought to abandon or neglect it. For if finite and
temporary rewards and punishments have so great an
effect, as we daily find: how much greater must be
expected from such as are infinite and eternal ?
How happens it then, said Philo, if vulgar super
stition be so salutary to society, that all history
abounds so much with accounts of its pernicious
consequences on public affairs ? Factions, civil wars, •
persecutions, subversions of government, oppression,
slavery ; these are the dismal consequences which always
attend its prevalency over the minds of men. If the
religious spirit be ever mentioned in any historical
narration, we are sure to meet afterwards with a detail
of the miseries which attend it. And no period of time
can be happier or more prosperous, than those in which
it is never regarded or heard of.
The reason of this observation, replied Cleanthes, is
obvious. The proper office of religion is to regulate
that we lie under an absolute necessity, notwithstanding these
difficulties, of thinking, and believing, and reasoning, with regard
to all kinds of subjects, and even of frequently assenting with
confidence and security. The only difference, then, between these
facts, if they merit that name, is, that the Sceptic, from habit,
caprice, or inclination, insists most on the difficulties; the Dog
matist, for like reasons, on the necessity.
�114 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
*
the heart of men, humanize their conduct, infuse the
spirit of temperance, order, and obedience : and as its
operation is silent, and only enforces the motives of
morality and justice, it is in danger of being overlooked,
and confounded with these other motives. When it
distinguishes itself, and acts as a separate principle
oyer men, it has departed from its proper sphere, and
has become only a cover to faction and ambition.
And so will all religion, said Philo, except the
philosophical and rational kind. Your reasonings are
more easily eluded than my facts. The inference is
not just, because finite and temporary rewards and
punishments have so great influence, that therefore
such as are infinite and eternal must have so much
greater.
Consider, I beseech you, the attachment
which we have to present things, and the little concern
which we discover for objects so remote and uncertain.
When divines are declaiming against the common be
haviour and conduct of the world, they always represent
this principle as the strongest imaginable, (which
indeed it is); and {describe almost all human kind as
lying under the influence of it, and sunk into the deepest
lethargy and unconcern about their religious interests.
Yet these same divines, when they refute their specu
lative antagonists, suppose the motives of religion to
be so powerful, that, without them, it were impossible
for civil society to subsist; nor are they ashamed of so
palpable a contradiction. It is certain, from experience,
that the smallest grain of natural honesty and benevo
lence has more effect on men’s conduct, than the most
pompous views suggested by theological theories and
systems. A man’s natural inclination works incessantly
upon him ; it is for ever present to the mind; and
■ mingles itself with every view and consideration :
whereas religious motives, where they act at all, operate
only by starts and bounds ; and it is scarcely possible
4'or them to become altogether habitual to the mind.
The force of the greatest gravity, say the philosophers,
�Part XII.
JI5
is infinitely small, in comparison of that of the least
impulse : yet it is certain, that the smallest gravity will,
in the end, prevail above a great impulse ; because no
strokes or blows can be repeated with such constancy
as attraction and gravitation.
Another advantage of inclination : it engages on its
side all the wit and ingenuity of the mind : and when
get in opposition to religious principles, seeks every
method and art of eluding them : in which it is almost
always successful. Who can explain the heart of man,
or account for those strange salvos and excuses, with
which people satisfy themselves, when they follow their
inclinations in opposition to their religious duty ? This
is well understood in the world; and none but fools
ever repose less trust in a man, because they hear, that,
from study and philosophy, he has entertained some
speculative doubts with regard to theological subjects.
And when we have to do with a man, who makes a
great profession of religion and devotion ; has this any
other effect upon several, who pass for prudent, than
to put them on their guard, lest they be cheated and
deceived by him ?
We must farther consider, that philosophers, who-.
♦
cultivate reason and reflection, stand less in need of
such motives to keep them under the restraint of
morals : and that the vulgar, who alone may need
them, are utterly incapable of so pure a religion as
- *
represents the Deity to be pleased with nothing but
virtue in human behaviour. The recommendations to
the Divinity are generally supposed to be either
frivolous observances, or rapturous ecstasies, or a
bigoted credulity.
We need not run back into
antiquity, or wander into remote regions, to find
instances of this degeneracy. Amongst ourselves, soniehave been guilty of that atrociousness, unknown to the '*
Egyptian and Grecian superstitions, of declaiming, in
express terms, against morality ; and representing it as,
a sure forfeiture of the divine favour, if the least trust
•or reliance be laid upon it.
�116 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
But even though superstition or enthusiasm should
not put itself in direct opposition to morality; the
very diverting of the attention, the raising up a new
and frivolous species of merit, the preposterous distri
bution which it makes of praise and blame, must have
the most pernicious consequences, and weaken ex
tremely men’s attachment to the natural motives of
justice and humanity.
Such a principle of action likewise, not being any of
the familiar motives of human conduct, acts only by
intervals on the temper; and must be roused by
continual efforts, in order to render the pious zealot
satisfied with his own conduct, and make him fulfil
his devotional task. Many religious exercises are entered
into with seeming fervour, where the heart, at the time,
feels cold and languid. A habit of dissimulation is by
degrees contracted: and fraud and falsehood become
the predominant principle. Hence the reason of that
vulgar observation, that the highest zeal in religion
and the deepest hypocrisy, so far from being incon
sistent, are often or commonly united in the same
individual character.
The bad effects of such habits, even in common life, '
are easily imagined : but where the interests of religion
are concerned, no morality can be forcible enough to
bind the enthusiastic zealot. The sacredness of the
cause sanctifies every measure which can be made use
of to promote it.
The steady attention alone to so important an
interest as that of eternal salvation, is apt to extinguish
the benevolent affections, and beget a narrow, con
tracted selfishness. And when such a temper is
encouraged, it easily eludes all the general precepts of
charity and benevolence.
Thus the motives of vulgar superstition have no
great influence on general conduct; nor is their opera
tion very favourable to morality, in the instances where
they predominate.
�Part Xll.
117
Is there any maxim in politics more certain and
infallible, than that both the number and authority of
priests should be confined within very narrow limits;
and that the civil magistrate ought, for ever, to keep
his fasces and axes from such dangerous hands ? But
if the spirit of popular religion were so salutary to
society, a contrary maxim ought to prevail. The
greater number of priests, and their greater authority
and riches, will always augment the religious spirit.
And though the priests have the guidance of this spirit,
why may we not expect a superior sanctity of life, and
greater benevolence and moderation, from persons who
are set apart for religion, who are continually inculcat
ing it upon others, and who must themselves imbibe a
greater share of it ? Whence comes it then, that, in
fact, the utmost a wise magistrate can propose with
regard to popular religions, is, as far as possible, to
make a saving game of it, and to prevent their
pernicious consequences with regard to society ? Every
expedient which he tries for so humble a purpose is
surrounded with inconveniences. If he admits only
one religion among his subjects, he must sacrifice, to
an uncertain prospect of tranquillity, every considera
tion of public liberty, science, reason, industry, and
even his own independency. If he gives indulgence to
several sects, which is the wiser maxim, he must pre
serve a very philosophical indifference to all of them,
and carefully restrain the pretensions of the prevailing
sect; otherwise he can expect nothing but endless
disputes, quarrels, factions, persecutions, and civil
commotions.
True religion, I allow, has no such pernicious con
sequences : but we must treat of religion, as it has
commonly been found in the world ; nor -have I any
thing to do with that speculative tenet of Theism,
which, as it is a species of philosophy, must partake of
the beneficial influence of that principle, and at the
same time must lie under a like inconvenience, of being
always confined to a very few persons.
�118 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
Oaths are requisite in all courts of judicature ; but
it is a question whether their authority arises from any
popular religion. It is the solemnity and importance
of the occasion, the regard to reputation, and the
reflecting on the general interest of society, which are
the chief restraints upon mankind. Custom-house
oaths and political oaths are but little regarded even by
some who pretend to principles of honesty and
religion ; and a Quaker’s asseveration is with us justly
put upon the same footing with the oath of any other
person. I know, that Polybius * ascribes the infamy
of Greek faith to the prevalency of the Epicurean
philosophy : but I know also, that Punic faith had as
bad a reputation in ancient times, as Irish evidence has
in modern ; though we cannot account for these vulgar
observations by the same reason. Not to mention,
that Greek faith was infamous before the rise of the
Epicurean philosophy; and Euripides f, in a passage
which I shall point out to you, has glanced a remark
able stroke of satire against his nation, with regard to
this circumstance.
Take care, Philo, replied Cleanthes, take care : push
not matters too far : allow not your zeal against false
religion to undermine your veneration for the true.
Forfeit not this principle, the chief, the only great
comfort in life; and our principal support amidst all
the attacks of adverse fortune. The most agreeable
reflection, which it is possible for human imagination
to suggest, is that of genuine Theism, which represents
us as the workmanship of a Being perfectly good, wise,
and powerful; who created us for happiness ; and who,
having implanted in us immeasurable desires of good,
will prolong our existence to all eternity, and will trans
fer us into an infinite variety of scenes, in order to satisfy
those desires, and render our felicity complete and
* Lib. vi. cap. 54.
+ Iphigenia in Tauride, 1206.
Triarov 'EXXas ol8ei> ovSev.
“ The Greeks are ignorant of good faith. ”
�Part XII.
119
durable. Next to such a Being himself (if the
comparison be allowed), the happiest lot which we can
imagine, is that of being under his guardianship and
protection.
These appearances, said Philo, are most engaging
and alluring; and with regard to the true philosopher,
they are more than appearances. But it happens here,
as in the former case, that, with regard to the greater
part of mankind, the appearances are deceitful, and that
the terrors of religion commonly prevail above its
comforts.
It is allowed, that men never have recourse to de
votion so readily as when dejected with grief or
depressed with sickness. Is not [this a proof, that the
religious spirit is not so nearly allied to joy as to
sorrow 1
But men, when afflicted, find consolation in religion,
replied Cleanthes. Sometimes, said Philo : but it is
natural to imagine, that they will form a notion of
those unknown beings, suitably to the present gloom
and melancholy of their temper, when they betake
themselves to the contemplation of them. Accordingly,
we find the tremendous images to predominate in all
religions ; and we ourselves, after having employed the
most exalted expression in our descriptions of the Deity,
fall into the flattest contradiction, in affirming, that the
damned are infinitely superior in number to the elect.
I shall venture to affirm, that there never was a
popular religion, which represented the state of
departed souls in such a light, as would render it
eligible for human kind, that there should be such a
state. These fine models of religion are the mere
product of philosophy. Eor as death lies between the
eye and the prospect of futurity, that event is so shock
ing to Nature, that it must throw a gloom on all the
regions which lie beyond it; and suggest to the
generality of mankind the idea of Cerberus and Furies ;
devils, and torrents of fire and brimstone.
�120 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
It is true, both, fear and hope enter into religion ;
because both these passions, at different times, agitate
the human mind, and each of them forms a species of
divinity suitable to itself. But when a man is in a
cheerful disposition, he is fit for business, or company,
or entertainment of any kind; and he naturally
applies himself to these, and thinks not of religion.
When melancholy and dejected, he has nothing to do
but brood upon the terrors of the invisible world, and
to plunge himself still deeper in affliction. It may,
indeed, happen, that after he has, in this manner,
engraved the religious opinions deep into his thought
and imagination, there may arrive a change of health
or circumstances, which may restore his good-humour,
and raising cheerful prospects of futurity, make him
run into the other extreme of joy and triumph. But
still it must be acknowledged, that, as terror is the
primary principle of religion, it is the passion which
always predominates in it, and admits but of short
intervals of pleasure.
Not to mention, that these fits of excessive, enthusi
astic joy, by exhausting the spirits, always prepare the
way for equal fits of superstitious terror and dejection ;
nor is there any state of mind so happy as the calm
and equable. But this state it is impossible to support,
where a man thinks, that he lies, in such profound
darkness and uncertainty, between an eternity of
happiness and an eternity of misery. No wonder, that
such an opinion disjoints the ordinary frame of the
mind, and throws it into the utmost confusion. Ard
though that opinion is seldom so steady in its operation
as to influence all the actions; yet is it apt to make a
considerable breach in the temper, and to produce that
gloom and melancholy so remarkable in all devout people.
It is contrary to common sense to entertain appre
hensions or terrors upon account of any opinion what
soever, or to imagine that we run any risk hereafter, by
the freest use of our reason. Such a sentiment implies
�Part XII.
I2I
both, an absurdity and an inconsistency. It is an
absurdity to believe that the Deity has human passions,
and one of the lowest of human passions, a restless
appetite for applause. It is an inconsistency to believe,
that, since the Deity has this human passion, he has
not others also • and in particular, a disregard to the
opinions of creatures so much inferior.
“ To know God,” says Seneca, “ is to worship him.”
All other worship is indeed absurd, superstitious, and
even impious. It degrades him to the low condition of
mankind, who are delighted with intreaty, solicitation,
presents, and flattery. Yet is this impiety the smallest
of which superstition is guilty. Commonly, it de
presses the Deity far below the condition of mankind;
and represents him as a capricious demon, who exercises
his power without reason and without humanity!
And were that Divine Being disposed to be offended
at the vices and follies of silly mortals, who are his own
workmanship ; ill would it surely fare with the votaries
of most popular superstitions. Nor would any of
human race merit his favour, but a very few, the
philosophical Theists, who entertain, or rather indeed
endeavour to entertain, suitable notions of his divine
perfections : as the only persons, entitled to his com
passion and indulgence, would be the philosophical
Sceptics, a set almost equally rare, who, from a
natural diffidence of their own capacity, suspend, or
endeavour to suspend, all judgment with regard to
such sublime and such extraordinary subjects.
If the whole of Natural Theology, as some' people
seem to maintain, resolves itself into one simple,
though somewhat ambiguous, at least undefined pro
position, That the cause or causes of order in the
universe probably bears some remote analogy to human
intelligence : if this proposition be not capable of ex
tension, variation, or more particular explication : if it
affords no inference that affects human life, or can be
the source of any action or forbearance: and if the
analogy, imperfect as it is, can be carried no farther
�122 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion,,
than to the human intelligence; and cannot be trans
ferred, with any appearance of probability, to the other
qualities of the mind: if this really be the case, what
can the most inquisitive, contemplative, and religious
man do more than give a plain, philosophical assent to
the proposition, as often as it occurs ; and believe that
the arguments on which it is established, exceed the
objections which lie against it ? Some astonishment
indeed will naturally arise from the greatness of the
object; some melancholy from its obscurity; some
contempt of human reason, that it cannot give any
solution more satisfactory with regard to so extraordin
ary and magnificent a question. But, believe me,
Cleanthes, the most natural sentiment, which a welldisposed mind will feel on this occasion, is a longing
desire and expectation that heaven would be pleased to
dissipate, or at least alleviate this profound ignorance
by affording some more particular revelation to man
kind, and making discoveries of the nature, attributes,
and operations of the divine Object of our faith. A
person seized with a just sense of the imperfections of
natural reason, will fly to revealed truth with the
greatest avidity: while the haughty dogmatist, per
suaded that he can erect a complete system of theology
by the mere light of philosophy, disdains any further
aid, and rejects this adventitious instructor. To be a
philosophical sceptic, in a man of letters, is the first and
most essential step towards being a sound, believing
Christian ; a proposition which I will willingly re
commend to the attention of Pamphilus; and I hope
Cleanthes will forgive me for interposing so far in the
education and instruction’of his pupil.
Cleanthes and Philo pursued not this conversation
much further; and as nothing ever made greater
impression on me than all the reasonings of that day;
so, I confess, that upon a serious review of the whole I
cannot but think that Philo’s principles are more
probable than Demea’s ; but that those of Cleanthes
approach still nearer to the truth.
�POSTSCRIPT.
A short account of the “ Dialogues ” will probably be
acceptable to the reader.
It has been stated, in the Preface to this edition of
them, that they were laid in manuscript before Sir
Gilbert Elliott in the year 1751. Hume was most
anxious to publish them, but his friends always dis
suaded him from doing so, knowing how dangerous to
his personal and social peace the experiment might
prove. So, by his will, he appointed his friend Dr.
« -Adam Smith his literary executor, with full power
over all his papers except the “ Dialogues,” which,
however, Dr. Smith was directed to publish. As an
inducement to Dr. Smith to comply with this direction,
Hume added the following clause :—“ Though I can
trust to that intimate and sincere friendship which has
ever subsisted between us for his faithful execution
of this part of my will, yet as a small recompense of
his pains in correcting and publishing this work, I
leave him £200 to be paid immediately after the
publication of it.”
Although there is not the least reason to call in
question the sincerity of the friendship above referred
to, yet Hume foresaw that Dr. Smith would not com
ply with the direction, couched in such affectionate
language, and followed by a substantial legacy; for
by a codicil bearing date the 7 th’ August 1776, only
a few days before Hume’s death, he made the following
provision :—“ I do ordain that if my Dialogues, from
whatever cause, be not published within two years
and a half after my death, as also an account of my
�124 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion.
life, the property shall return to my nephew, David,
whose duty in publishing them, as the last request of
his uncle, must be approved of by all the world/’
Almost immediately after Hume’s death, his friend,
Dr. Smith, edited the autobiography, “ My own Life,”
alluded to in the codicil; and in a letter addressed to
William Strahan, Esq., dated 9 Nov. 1776, Dr. Smith
gave an account “ of the behaviour of our late excellent
friend, Mr Hume, during his last illness.” That
letter concludes thus :—“ Upon the whole, I have
always considered him, (Hume) both in his lifetime,
and since his death, as approaching as nearly to the
idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man, as perhaps
the nature of human frailty will permit.” But Dr.
Smith was afraid to publish the “ Dialogues,” and,
although both they and the legacy of <£200 were
offered to him independently of any condition that
might be implied in the terms of the bequest, he
refused both. So it was left to be seen what “ my
nephew, David,” would do.
This David Hume was an advocate at the Scotch
bar, and subsequently a baron in the Court of
Exchequer. He was a true Christian, a very bad
writer, a staunch supporter of terrorism, and a bigoted
upholder of all the arbitrary oppressions exercised by
the English government during the period from 1793
to 1830. He was very unwilling to publish the
“ Dialogues.” However, in the year 1779, he printed
them, but without the name of any publisher, printer,
or even place of printing attached to the volume. The
editor has in his possession a copy of this first and
merely printed edition of the “ Dialogues.” Its title
page stands thus:—“Dialogues concerning Natural Reli
gion, by David Hume, Esq.; Printed in 1779.”—On
the fly leaf there is written, “From the Author’s
Nephew,” indicating that the merely printed copies
were not exposed -for sale, and were circulated only
privately. But as delivery of any written or printed
�Postscript.
125
matter to only one person is “publication ” in the eye
of the law, perhaps the baron persuaded himself that
he had complied with “ the last request of his uncle ”—
in the eye of the law.
So intense was Baron Hume’s dread of the social
persecution which hitherto has always been suffered
by those persons who have sided with the plaintiff in
the good old cause of “ Truth v. Christianity. ” A
cause not yet decided against the plaintiff, notwith
standing the atrocities which the defendant inflicts,
almost every year on those who side with the plaintiff.
The late Dr. John P. Nichol of Glasgow University,
says, “It is at once unjust and unwise to consider
errors and crimes of this sort (persecutions) as ex
clusive attributes of the Romish Church; on the
contrary, their root lies deep in the heart of man.
The domain of physical inquiry is now wholly safe
from the disorders of intolerance; but there are large
departments of knowledge within which Reason is
not yet free; where authority abides on its throne,
and popular prejudice stores its thunderbolts’’
TURNBULL AND SPEAKS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
�
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Dialogues concerning natural religion No. II
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 64-125 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: New edition. Includes bibliographical references. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. "A new edition, with a Preface and Notes..."[Title page]. Printed by Turnbull and Spears, Edinburgh.
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Text
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
ORATION
ON
VOLTAIRE
COLONEL H. G. INGERSOLL.
Price Threepence.
LONDON :
R. FORDER, 28 STONECUTTER STREET, E.CL
1892.
�On Saturday evening, October 8, Colonel K. Gr. Ingersoll
delivered his new lecture on “Voltaire” before the Chicago
Press Club, the audience numbering six thousand persons.
The delivery of the lecture occupied two hours and a half, and
from boginning to end the orator held the attention of the
audience completely, and was most vociferously cheered
throughout.
�B X73 V
Oration on Voltaire.
O
Ladies and Gentlemen,—The infidels of one age have often
been the aureoled saints of the next. The destroyers of the
old are the creators of the new. (Applause.)
As time sweeps on, the old passes away and the new in its
turn becomes old. There is in the intellectual world, as in
the physical, decay and growth, and ever by the grave of
buried age stand youth and joy. (Applause.)
The history of intellectual progress is written in the lives
of infidels. Political rights have been preserved by traitors;
liberty of mind by heretics. (Applause.)
To attack the king was treason; to dispute the priest was
blasphemy. For many centuries the sword and the cross
were allies. Together they attacked the rights of man. They
defended each other. The throne and the altar were twins—
two vultures from the same egg. (Applause.)
James I. said, “No Bishop, no King.” He might have
added, No cross, no crown. The king owned the bodies of
men; the priest the souls. One lived on taxes collected by
force, the other on alms collected by fear. Both robbers—
both beggars.
These robbers and these beggars controlled two worlds.
The king made laws, the priest made creeds. Both obtained
their authority from God; both were the agents of the
infinite. With bowed backs the people carried the burdens
of the one, and with Wonder’s open mouth received the
dogmas of the other. If the people aspired to be free, they
were crushed by the king; and every priest was a Herod
who slaughtered the children of the brain. (Applause)
�( 4 )
The king ruled by force, the priest by fear, and each sup
ported the other. The king said to the people, “ God made
you peasants, and he made me to be king; he made you to
labor and me to enjoy; he made rags and hovels for you,
robes and palaces for me. He made you to obey, and me to
command. Such is the justice of God.” And the priest
said, “ God made you ignorant and vile; he made me holy
and wise. You are the sheep and I am the shepherd; your
fleeces belong to me. If you do not obey me here, God will
punish you now and torment you for ever in another world.
Such is the mercy of God. You must not reason. Reason
is a rebel. You must not contradict; contradiction is born
of egotism. You must believe. ‘ He that hath ears to ear,
let him hear.’ Heaven is a question of ears.” (Laughter
and applause.)
Fortunately for us, there have been traitors and there have
been heretics, blasphemers, thinkers, investigators, lovers of
liberty, men of genius, who have given theii’ lives to better
the condition of their fellow-men.
It may be well enough here to ask the question, “ What is
greatness ?” A great man adds to the sum of knowledge,
extends the horizon of thought, releases souls from the
Bastille of fear, crosses unknown and mysterious seas, gives
new islands and new continents to the domain of thought,
new constellations to the firmament of mind. A great man
does not seek applause or place; he seeks for truth; he seeks
the road to happiness, and what he ascertains he gives to
others. (Applause.)
A great man throws pearls before swine, and the swine are
sometimes changed to men. (Applause.) If the great men
had always kept their pearls, vast multitudes would be bar
barians now. (Applause.)
A great man is a torch in the darkness, a beacon in super
stition’s night, an inspiration and a prophecy. Greatness is
�( 5 )
not the gift of majorities; it cannot be thrust upon any man;
men cannot give it to another; they can give place and
power, but not greatness. The place does not make the
man nor the sceptre the king. Greatness is from within.
(Applause.)
The great men are the heroes who have freed the bodies
of men; they are the philosophers and thinkers who have
given liberty to the soul; they are the poets who have trans
figured the common, and filled the lives of many millions
with love and song. (Great applause.) They are the artists
who have covered the bare walls of weary life with triumphs
of genius. They are the heroes who have slain the monsters
of ignorance and fear, who have outgazed the Gorgon and
driven the cruel gods from their thrones. They are the
inventors, the discoverers, the great mechanics, the kings of
the useful who have civilised this world. (Applause.)
At the head of this heroic army—foremost of all—stands
Voltaire, whose memory we are honoring to-night. (Great
applause.) Voltaire! A name that excites the admiration
of men, the malignity of priests. Pronounce that name in
the presence of a clergyman, and you will find that you have
made a declaration of war. Pronounce that name, and from
the face of the priest the mask of meekness will fall, and from
the mouth of forgiveness will pour a Niagara of vituperation
and calumny. And yet Voltaire was the greatest man of his
century, and did more for the human race than any other of
the sons of men.
VOLTAIRE COMES TO “THIS GREAT STAGE OE TOOLS.”
On Sunday, Nov. 21, 1694, a babe was born—a babe exceed
ingly frail, whose breath hesitated about remaining. This
babe became the greatest man of the eighteenth century.
When Voltaire came to “this great stage of fools,” his
country had been Christianised—not civilised—for about
fourteen hundred years. For a thousand years the religion of
�( 6 )
peace and goodwill had been supreme. The laws had been
given by Christian kings and sanctioned by “ wise and holy
men.” (Laughter.)
Under the benign reign of universal love, every court had
its chamber of torture, and every priest relied on the thumb
screw and rack. (Laughter and applause.) Such had been
the success of the blessed gospel that every science was an
outcast. To speak your honest thoughts, to teach your
fellow men, to investigate for yourself, to seek the truth—
these were all crimes; and the “ Holy Mother Church ”
pursued the criminals with sword and flame. (Great
applause.)
The believers in a God of love—an infinite father—punished
hundreds of offences with torture and death. Suspected
persons were tortured to make them confess. Convicted
persons were tortured to make them give the names of their
accomplices. Under the leadership of the Church, cruelty
had become the only reforming power. In this blessed year
1694 all authors were at the mercy of king and priest. The
most of them were cast into prisons, impoverished by fines
and costs, exiled or executed. The little timejthat hangmen
could snatch from professional duties was occupied in
burning books. (Laughter and applause.) The courts of
justice were traps in which the innocent were caught. The
judges were almost as malicious and cruel as though they
had been bishops or saints. There was no trial by jury, and
the rules of evidence allowed the conviction of the supposed
criminal by the proof of suspicion or hearsay. The witnesses,
being liable to be tortured, generally told what the judges
wished to hear. (Laughter.)
ALMOST UNIVERSAL CORRUPTION.
When Voltaire was born, the Church ruled and owned
France. It was a period of almost universal corruption. The
priests were mostly libertines, the judges cruel and venal.
�( 7 )
The royal palace was a house of prostitution. The nobles
were heartless, arrogant, proud, and cruel to the last degree.
The common people were treated as beasts. It took the
Church a thousand years to bring about this happy condition
of things. (Applause and laughter.)
The seeds of the Revolution were being scattered uncon
sciously by every noble and by every priest. They were
germinating slowly in the hearts of the wretched ; they were
being watered by the tears of agony ; blows began to bear
interest. There was a faint longing for blood. Workmen,
blackened by the sun, bowed by labor, deformed by want,
looked at the white throats of scornful ladies and thought
about cutting them. In those days, witnesses were crossexamined with instruments of torture ; the Church was the
arsenal of superstition; miracles, relics, angels and devils
were as common as lies.
Voltaire was of the people. In the language of that day,
he had no ancestors. His real name was François Marie
Arouet. His mother was Marguerite d’Aumard. This
mother died when he was seven years of age. He had an
elder brother, Armand, who was a devotee, very religious,
and exceedingly disagreeable. This elder brother used to
present offerings to the Church, hoping to make amends for
the unbelief of his brother. So far as we know, none of his
ancestors were literary people. The Arouets had never
written a line. The Abbé de Chaulieu was his godfather,
and, although an abbé, was a Deist who cared nothing about
his religion except in connection with his salary. (Laughter.)
Voltaire’s father wanted to make a lawyer of him, but he
had no taste for law. At the age of ten he entered the
College of Louis le Grand. This was a Jesuit school, and
here he remained for seven years, leaving at seventeen, and
never attending any other school. According to Voltaire,
�he learned nothing at this school but a little Greek, a good
deal of Latin, and a vast amount of nonsense.
TORTURE BEHIND THE CREED.
In this College of Louis le Grand they did not teach geo
graphy, history, mathematics, or any science. This was a
Catholic institution, controlled by the Jesuits. In that day
the religion was defended, was protected, or supported by
the State. Behind the entire creed was the bayonet, the
axe, the wheel, the faggot, and the torture-chamber. While
Voltaire was attending the College of Louis le Grand, the
soldiers of the king were hunting Protestants in the moun
tains of Cevennes for magistrates to hang on gibbets, to put
to torture, to break on the wheel, or to burn at the stake.
There is but one use for law, but one excuse for govern
ment—the preservation of liberty, to give to each man his
own ; to secure to the farmer what he produces from the
soil, to the mechanic what he invents and makes, to the
artist what he creates, to the thinker the right to express his
thoughts. Liberty is the breath of progress. In France the
people were the sport of a king’s caprice. Everywhere was
the shadow of the Bastille. It fell upon the sunniest field,
upon the happiest home. With the king walked the heads
man, and back of the throne was the torture-chamber. The
Church appealed to the rack; faith relied on the faggot.
Science was an outcast, and philosophy, so-called, was the
pander of superstition. Nobles and priests were sacred;
peasants were vermin. Idleness sat at the banquet, and
industry gathered the crusts and crumbs. (Applause.)
At seventeen Voltaire determined to devote his life to
literature. The father said, speaking of his two sons Armand
and François : “ I have a pair of fools for sons, one in verse,
the other in prose.” (Laughter and applause.) In 1713,
Voltaire in a small way became a diplomat. He went to the
�( 9 )
Hague attached to the French Minister. There he fell in
love. The girl’s mother objected. Voltaire sent his clothes
to the young lady that she might visit him. Everything was
discovered and he was dismissed. To this girl he wrote a
letter, and in it you will find the key-note of Voltaire :
“ Do not expose yourself to the fury of your mother. You
know what she is capable of. You have experienced it too
well. Dissemble; it is your only chance. Tell her that you
have forgotten me, that you hate me. Then, after telling
her, love me all the more.”
On account of this episode, Voltaire was formally disin
herited by his father, who procured an order of arrest and
gave his son the choice of going to prison or beyond the seas.
Voltaire finally consented to become a lawyer, and says: “I
have already been a week at work in the office of a solicitor,
learning the trade of a pettifogger.” (Laughter.) About
this time he competed for a prize, writing a poem on the
king’s generosity in building the new choir in the Oathedral
of Notre Dame. He did not win it. After being with the
solicitor but a little while, he learnt to hate the law. He
began to write poetry and the outlines of tragedy. Great
questions were then agitating the public mind—questions
that throw a flood of light upon this epoch.
IN PRISON NOT KNOWING WHY.
Louis XIV. having died, the Regent took possession, and
then the prisons were opened. The Regent called for a list
of all persons then in the prisons sent there at the will of the
king, and he found that, as to many prisoners, nobody knew
any cause Why they had been in prison. They had been for
gotten. Many of the prisoners did not know themselves, and
could not guess why they had been arrested. One Italian had
been in the Bastille thirty-three years without ever knowing
why. On his arrival in Paris thirty-three years before, he was
�( 10 )
arrested and sent to prison. He had grown old. He had
survived his family and friends. When the rest were liberated,
he asked to remain where he was, and lived there the rest of
his life. The old prisoners were pardoned, but in a little while
their places were taken by new ones. At this time Voltaire
was not interested in the great world—knew very little of
religion or of government. He was busy writing poetry,
busy thinking of comedies and tragedies. He was full
of life. All his fancies were winged like moths. He was
charged with having written some cutting epigrams. He
was exiled to Tulle, three hundred miles away. From this
place he wrote in the true vein : “ I am at a chateau, a place
that would be the most agreeable in the world if I had not
been exiled to it, and where there is nothing wanting to my
perfect happiness except the liberty of leaving. It would be
delicious to remain if I only were allowed to go.” At last
the exile was allowed to return. Again he was arrested;
this time sent to the ¡Bastille, where he remained for nearly
a year. While in prison he changed his name from Francois
Marie Arouet to Voltaire, and by that name he has since been
known. Voltaire began to think, to doubt, to inquire. He
studied the history of the Church and of the creed. He found
that the religion of his time rested on the inspiration of the
scriptures—the infallibility of the Church—the dreams of
insane hermits—the absurdities of the fathers—the mistakes
and falsehoods of saints—the hysteria of nuns—the cunning
of priests and the stupidity of the people. He found that the
Emperor Constantine, who lifted Christianity into power,
murdered his wife Fausta and his eldest son Crispus the
same year that he convened the Council of Nice to decide
whether Christ was a man or the son of God. The Council
decided in the year 325, that Christ was consubstantial with
the Father. He found that the Church was indebted to a
husband who assassinated his wife—a father who murdered
�( 11 )
his son—for settling the vexed question of the divinity of the
Savior. He found that Theodosius called a council at Con
stantinople m 381 by which it was decided that the Holy Ghost
proceeded from the Father—that Theodosius, the younger,
assembled a council at Ephesus in 431 that declared the Virgin
Mary to be the mother of God—that the Emperor Marcian
called another council at Ohalcedon in 451 that decided that
Christ had two wills — that Pognatius called another
in 680, that declared that Christ had two natu'res to go with
his two wills—and that in 1274, at the Council of Lyons, the
important fact was found that the Holy Ghost “ proceeded ”
not only from the Father,, but also from the Son at the same
time. (Laughter and applause.)
WHAT THE GREAT EBENCHMAN MOCKED.
So Voltaire has been called a mocker ! What did he mopk P
He mocked kings that were unjust ; kings who cared nothing
for the sufferings of their subjects. He mocked the titled
fools of his day. He mocked the corruption of courts; the
meanness, the tyranny, and the brutality of judges. He
mocked the absurd and cruel laws, the barbarous customs.
He mocked popes and cardinals, bishops and priests, and all
the hypocrites on the earth. He mocked historians who filled
their books with lies, and philosophers who defended super
stition. He mocked the haters of liberty, the persecutors of
their fellow men. He mocked the arrogance, the cruelty the impudence, and the unspeakable baseness of his time.
(Applause.)
He has been blamed because he used the weapon of ridicule.
Hypocrisy has always hated laughter, and always will. Ab
surdity detests humor and stupidity despises wit. Voltaire
was the master of ridicule. He ridiculed the absurd, the
impossible. He ridiculed the mythologies and the miracles,
the stupid lives and lies of saints. He found pretence and
�( 12 )
mendacity crowned by credulity. He found the ignorant
many controlled by the cunning and cruel few. He found the
historian, saturated with superstition, filling his volumes with
the details of the impossible, and he found the scientists
satisfied with “ they say.” (Laughter.) Voltaire had the
instinct of the probable. He knew the law of average; the
sea level; he had the idea of proportion, and so he ridiculed
the mental monstrosities—the non sequiturs—of his day.
Aristotle said women had more teeth than men. This was
repeated again and again by the Catholic scientists of the
eighteenth century. Voltaire counted the teeth. The rest
were satisfied with “ they say.” (Laughter.)
THE APOSTLE OE COMMON SENSE.
We may, however, get an idea of the condition of France
from the fact that Voltaire regarded England as the land of
liberty. While he was in England he saw the body of Sir
Isaac Newton deposited in Westminster Abbey. He read the
works of this great man and afterwards gave to France the
philosophy of this great Englishman. (Applause.) Voltaire
was the apostle of common sense. He knew that there could
have been no primitive or first language from which all
human languages had been formed. He knew that every
language had been influenced by the surroundings of the
people. He knew that the language of snow and ice was not
the language of palm and flower. (Applause.) He knew also
that there had been no miracle in language. He knew it was
impossible that the story of the Tower of Babel should be
true. That everything in the whole world should be natural.
He was the enemy of alchemy, not only in language but in
science. One passage from him is enough to show his philo
sophy in this regard. He says: “To transmute iron into
gold two things are necessary. First, the annihilation of
iron; second, the creation of gold.” Voltaire was a man of
�( 13 )
humor, of good nature, of cheerfulness. He despised with
all his heart the philosophy of Calvin, the creed of the sombre,
of the severe, of the unnatural. He pitied those who needed
the aid of religion to be honest, to be cheerful. He had
the courage to enjoy the present and the philosophy to bear
what the future might bring. And yet for more than a
hundred and fifty years the Christian world has fought this
man and has maligned his memory. In every Christian
pulpit his name has been pronounced with scorn, and every
pulpit has been an arsenal of slander. He is one man of
whom no orthodox minister has ever told the truth. He has
been denounced equally by Catholics and Protestants.
Priests and ministers, bishops and exhorters, presiding
elders and popes have filled the world with slanders, with
calumnies about Voltaire. I am amazed that ministers will
not or cannot tell the truth about an enemy of the church.
As a matter of fact, for more than one thousand years
almost every pulpit has been a mint in which slanders were
coined.
PILLED EUROPE WITH HIS THOUGHTS.
For many years this restless man filled Europe with the
products of his brain. Essays, epigrams, epics, comedies,
tragedies, histories, poems, novels, representing every phase
and every faculty of the human mind. At the same time
engrossed in business, full of speculation, making money like
a millionaire, busy with the gossip of courts, and even with
scandals of priests. At the same time alive to all the dis
coveries of science and the theories of philosophers, and in
this babel never forgetting for a moment to assail the monster
of superstition. Sleeping and waking he hated the Church.
With the eyes of Argus he watched, and with the arms of
Briareius he struck. For sixty years he waged continuous
and unrelenting war, sometimes in the open field, sometimes
striking from the hedges of opportunity, taking care during
�( 14 )
all this time to remain independent of all men. He was in
the highest sense successful. He lived like a prince, became
one of the powers of Europe, and in him, for the first time,
literature was crowned. (Applause.) Voltaire, in spite of
his surroundings, in spite of almost universal tyranny and
oppression, was a believer in God and in what he was pleased
to call the religion of nature. He attacked the creed of his
time because it was dishonorable to his God. He thought of
the Deity as a father, as the fountain of justice, intelligence,
and mercy, and the creed of the Catholic Church made him a
monster of cruelty and stupidity. He attacked the Bible
with all the weapons at his command. He assailed its
geology, its astronomy, its idea of justice, its laws and cus
toms, its absurd and useless miracles, its foolish wonders, its
ignorance on all subjects, its insane prophecies, its cruel
threats, and its extravagant promises. At the same time he
praised the God of nature, the God who gives us rain and
light, and food and flowers, and health and happiness—
he who fills the world with youth and beauty. (Applause.)
LISBON EARTHQUAKE CHANGES VOLTAIRE.
In 1755 came the earthquake of Lisbon. This frightful
disaster became an immense interrogation. The optimist
was compelled to ask, “ What was my God doing? Why did
the Universal Father crush to shapelessness thousands of his
poor children, even at the moment when they were upon their
knees returning thanks to him ?” What could be done with
this horror P If earthquake there must be, why did it not
occur in some uninhabited desert, on some wide waste of
sea ? This frightful fact changed the theology of Voltaire.
He became convinced that this is not the best possible of all
worlds. He became convinced that evil is evil here now and
for ever. (Applause.)
Who can establish the existence of an infinite being ? It
is beyond the conception—the reason—the imagination of
�( 15 )
man—probably or possibly—where the zenith and nadir meet
this God can be found. (Applause.)
Voltaire, attacked on every side, fought with every weapon
that wit, logic, reason, scorn, contempt, laughter, pathos, and
indignation could sharpen, form, devise, or use. He often
apologised, and the apology was an insult. He often recanted,
and the recantation was a thousand times worse than the
thing recanted. He took it back by giving more. In the
name of eulogy he flayed his victim. In his praise there was
poison. He often advanced by retreating, and asserted by
retraction. He did not intend to give priests the satisfaction
of seeing him burn or suffer. Upon this very point of
recanting he wrote:
“ They say I must retract. Very willingly. I will declare
that Pascal is always right. That if St. Luke and St. Mark
contradict one another it is only anothei’ proof of the truth
of religion to those who know how to understand such things ;
and that another lovely proof of religion is that it is unintel
ligible. I will even avow that all priests are gentle and dis
interested; that Jesuits are honest people; that monks are
neither proud nor given to intrigue, and that their odor is
agreeable; that the Holy Inquisition is the triumph of
humanity and tolerance. In a word, I will say all that may
be desired of me, provided they leave me in repose, and wi’l
not prosecute a man who has done harm to none.”
He gave the best years of his wonderous life to succor
the oppressed, to shield the defenceless, to reverse infamous
decrees, to rescue the innocent, to reform the laws of France,
to do way with torture, to soften the hearts of priests,
to enlighten judges, to instruct kings, to civilise the people,
and to banish from the heart of man the love and lust
of war. (Applause.)
THE RELIGION OP HUMANITY.
Voltaire was not a saint.
He was educated by the
�( IB )
Jesuits. He was never troubled about the salvation of
his soul. All the theological disputes excited his laughter,
the creeds his pity, and the conduct of bigots his contempt.
He was much better than a saint. (Applause.) Most of
the Christians in his day kept their religion not for everyday
use but for disaster, as ships carry lifeboats to be used
only in the stress of storm. (Applause.)
Voltaire believed in the religion of humanity—of good
and generous deeds. For many centuries the Church had
painted virtue so ugly, sour, and cold, that vice was regarded
as beautiful. Voltaire taught the beauty of the useful,
the hatefulness and hideousness of superstition. He was
not the greatest of poets, or of dramatists, but he was the
greatest man in his time, the greatest friend of freedom,
and the deadliest foe of superstition.
(Applause.) He
wrote the best French plays—but they were not wonderful.
He wrote verses polished and perfect in their way. He
filled the air with painted moths—but not with Shakespeare
eagles.
You may think that I have said too much; that I have
placed this man too high. Let me tell you what Goethe,
the great German, said of this man: “ If you wish depth,
genius, imagination, taste, reason, sensibility, philosophy,
elevation, originality, nature, intellect, fancy, rectitude,
facility, flexibility, precision, art, abundance, variety, fertility,
warmth, magic, charm, grace, force, an eagle sweep of
vision, vast understanding, instruction rich, tone excellent,
urbanity, suavity, delicacy, correctness, purity, cleanliness,
eloquence, harmony, brilliancy, rapidity, gaiety, pathos,
sublimity, and universality, perfection indeed, behold
Voltaire.” (Applause.)
Even Carlyle, that old Scotch-terrier, with the growl
of a grizzly bear, who attacked shams, as I have sometimes
thought, because he hated rivals, was forced to admit that
�( 17 )
Voltaire gave the death-stab to modern superstition. It
was the hand of Voltaire that sowed the seeds of liberty
in the heart and brain of Franklin, of Jefferson, and of
Thomas Paine. (Applause.)
IN IGNORANT TOULOUSE.
Toulouse was a favored town. It was rich in relics.
The people were as ignorant as wooden images—(laughter)—
but they had in their possession the dried bones of seven
apostles—the bones of many of the infants slain by Herod—
part of a dress of the Virgin Mary, and lots of skulls and
skeletons of the infallible idiots known as saints. (Laughter
and applause.)
In this city the people celebrated every year with great
joy two holy events: The expulsion of the Huguenots and
the blessed massacre of Sb. Bartholomew. (Laughter.) The
citizens of Toulouse had been educated and civilised by
the Church. (Laughter.) A few Protestants, mild because
they were in the minority, lived among these jackals and
tigers. One of these Protestants was Jean Galas—a small
dealer in dry goods. For forty years he had been in this
business, and his character was without a stain. He was
honest, kind and agreeable. He had a wife and six children—
four sons and two daughters. One of his sons became a Catholic.
The eldest son, Marc Antoine, disliked his father’s business
and studied law. He could not be allowed to practise unless
he became a Catholic. He tried to get his license by conceal
ing that he was a Protestant. He was discovered—grew
morose. Finally he became discouraged and committed
suicide by hanging himself in his father’s store. The bigots
of Toulouse started the story that his parents had killed him
to prevent his becoming a Catholic. On this frightful charge
the father, mother, one son, one servant, and one guest at
their house were arrested. The dead son was considered a
B
�( 18 )
martyr, the Church taking possession of the body. This hap
pened in 1761. There was what was called a trial. There was
no evidence, not the slightest, except hearsay. All the facts
were in favor of the accused. The united strength of the
defendants could not have done the deed.
DOOMED TO DEATH UPON THE WHEEL.
Jean Calas was doomed to torture and to ^death upon the
wheel. This was on March 9, 1762, and the sentence was to
be carried out the next day. On the morning of the 10th the
father was to be taken to the toi’ture-room. The executioner
and his assistants were sworn on the cross to administer the
torture according to the judgment of the court. They bound
him by the wrists to an iron ring in the stone wall four feet
from the ground, and his feet to another ring in the floor.
Then they shortened the l’opes and chains until every joint
in his arms and legs were dislocated. Then he was ques
tioned. He declared that he was innocent. Then the ropes
were again shortened until life fluttered in the torn body;
but he remained firm. This was called the question ordinaire.
(Laughter.) Again the magistrates exhorted the victim to
confess, and again he refused, saying there was nothing to
confess. Then came the question extraordinaire. (Laughter.)
Into the mouth of the victim was placed a horn holding three
pints of water. In this way thirty pints of water were forced
into the body of the sufferer. The pain was beyond descrip
tion, and yet Jean Calas remained firm. He was then carried
to the scaffold in a tumbril. He was bound to a wooden cross
that lay on the scaffold. The executioner then took a bar of
iron, broke each arm and leg in two places, striking eleven
blows in all. He was then left to die if he could. He lived
for two hours, declaring his innocence to the last. He was
slow to die, and so the executioner strangled him. Then his
poor lacerated, bleeding and broken body was chained to a
�( 19 )
y
stake and burned. All this was a spectacle—a festival for
the savages of Toulouse. What would they have done if their
hearts had not been softened by the glad tidings of great joy,
peace on earth, goodwill to men ? (Laughter and applause.)
But this was not all. The property of the family was con
fiscated ; the son was released on condition that he became a
Catholic; the servant if she would enter a convent. The two
daughters were consigned to a convent, and the heart-broken
widow was allowed to wander where she would.
Voltaire heard of this case. In a moment his soul was on
fire. He took one of the sons under his roof. He wrote a
history of the case; he corresponded with Kings and Queens,
with chancellors and lawyers. If money was needed he
advanced it. For years he filled Europe with the echoes and
the groans of Jean Calas. He succeeded. The horrible judg
ment was annulled, the poor victim declared innocent and
thousands of dollars raised to support the mother and family.
(Applause.) This was the work of Voltaire.
Sirven, a Protestant, lived in Languedoc with his wife and
three daughters. The housekeeper of the Bishop wanted to
make one of the daughters a Catholic. The law allowed the
Bishop to take the child of Protestants from its parents for
the sake of its soul. This little girl was so taken and placed
in a convent. She ran away and came back to her parents.
Her poor little body was covered with marks of the convent
whip. “ Suffer little children to come unto me.” (Laughter
and applause.) The child was out of her mind. Suddenly
she disappeared, and a few days after her little body was
found in a well, three miles from home. The cry was raised
that her folks had murdered her to keep her from becoming
a Catholic. This happened only a little way from the
Christian city of Toulouse while Jean Calas was in prison.
The Sirvens knew that a trial would end in conviction. They
fled. In their absence they were convicted, theii’ property
�( 20 )
confiscated, the parents sentenced to die by the hangman,
the daughters to be under the gallows during the execution
of their mother, and then to be exiled. The family fled in
the midst of winter; the married daughter gave birth to a
child in the snows of the Alps; the mother died, and at last
the father, reaching Switzerland, found himself without
means of support. They went to Voltaire; he espoused their
cause; he took care of them, gave them the means to live,
and labored to annul the sentence that had been pronounced
against them for nine long and weary years. He appealed
to kings for money, to Catherine II. of Russia, and to
hundreds of others. He was successful. He said of this
case: The Sirvens were tried and condemned in two hours
in January, 1762; and now in January, 1772, after ten years
of effort, they have been restored to their rights. (Applause.)
This was the work of Voltaire. Why should the wor
shippers of God hate the lovers of men ? (Applause.)
THE ESPENASSE CASE.
Espenasse was a Protestant of good estate. In 1740 he
received into his house a Protestant clergyman, to whom he
gave supper and lodging. In a country where priests
repeated the parable of the “ Good Samaritan ” this was a
crime. (Laughter.) For this crime Espenasse was tried,
convicted, and sentenced to the galleys for life. When he
had been imprisoned for twenty-three years his case came
to the knowledge of Voltaire, and he was, through the
efforts of Voltaire, released and restored to his family,
(Applause.)
This was the work of Voltaire. There is not time to tell
of the case of General Lally, of the English General Byng,
of the niece of Corneille, of the Jesuit Adam, of the writers,
dramatists, actors, widows, and orphans for whose benefit he
gave his influence, his money, and his time.
But I will tell another case. In 1765, at the town of Abbe-
�( 21 )
ville, an old wooden cross on a bridge had been mutilated—
whittled with a knife—a terrible crime. (Laughter.) Sticks,
when crossing each other, were far more sacred than flesh
and blood. Two young men were suspected-—the Chevalier
de la Barre and d’Etallonde. D’Etallonde fled to Prussia and
enlisted as a common soldier.
La Barre remained and stood his trial. He was convicted
without the slightest evidence, and he and D’Etallonde were
both sentenced : First, to endure the torture, ordinary and
extraordinary; second, to have their tongues torn out by the
roots with pincers of iron; third, to have their right hands
cut off at the door of the church; and fourth, to be bound to
stakes by chains of iron and burned to death by a slow fire.
“ Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass
against ils.” (Laughter.) Remembering this, the judges
mitigated the sentence by providing that their heads should
be cut off before their bodies were given to the flames.
(Laughter.) The case was appealed to Paris; heard by a
court composed of twenty-five judges learned in law, and
the judgment was confirmed. The sentence was carried out
the 1st day of July, 1776.
WITH EVERY WEAPON OP GENIUS.
L
Voltaire had fought with every weapon that genius could
devise or use. He was the greatest of all caricaturists, and
he used this wonderful gift without mercy. Foi’ pure crystal
lised wit he had no equal. The art of flattery was carried by
him to the height of an exact science. He knew and practised
every subterfuge. He fought the army of hypocrisy and
pretence, the army of faith and falsehood. Voltaire was
annoyed by the meaner and baser spirits of his time, by the
cringers and crawlers, by the fawners and pretenders, by
those who wished to gain the favor of the priests, the
patronage of nobles. Sometimes he allowed himself to be
annoyed by these scorpions; sometimes he attacked them.
�( 22 )
And but for these attacks, long ago they would have been
forgotten. In the amber of his genius Voltaire preserved
these insects, these tarantulas, these scorpions. (Applause.)
It is fashionable to say that he was not profound. This
is because he was not stupid. In the presence of absurdity
he laughed, and was called irreverent. He thought God
would not damn even a priest forever. (Laughter.) This
was regarded as blasphemy. He endeavored to prevent
Christians from murdering each other, and did what he
could to civilise the disciples of Christ. (Laughter.) Had
he founded a sect, obtained control of some country, and
burned a few heretics at slow fires, he would have won
the admiration, respect, and love of the Christian world.
Had he only pretended to believe all the fables of antiquity,
had he mumbled Latin prayers, counted beads, crossed
himself, devoured now and then the flesh of God, and
carried faggots to the feet of Philosophy in the name of
Christ, he might have been in heaven this moment enjoying
a sight of the damned. (Laughter and applause.)
If he had only adopted the creed of his time—if he had
asserted that a God of infinite power and mercy had created
millions and billions of human beings to suffer eternal
pain, and all for the sake of his glorious justice—(laughter)—
that he had given his power of attorney to a cunning
and cruel Italian Pope, authorising him to save the soul
of his mistress and send honest wives to hell—if he had
given to the nostrils of this God the odor of burning
flesh—the incense of the faggot—if he had filled his ears
with the shrieks of the tortured—the music of the rack,
he would now be known as St. Voltaire. (Laughter and
applause.)
ALL RELIGIONS PRACTISE PERSECUTION.
Instead of doing these things he wilfully closed his eyes to
the light of the gospel, examined the Bible for himself,
�( 23 )
advocated intellectual liberty, struck from the brain the
fetters of an arrogant faith, assisted the weak, cried out
against the torture of man, appealed to reason, endeavored
to establish universal toleration, succored the indigent, and
defended the oppressed. (Applause.) He demonstrated that
the origin of all religions is the same, the same mysteries—
the same miracles—the same imposture—the same temples
and ceremonies—the same kind of founders, apostles and
dupes—the same promises and threats—the same pretence of
goodness and forgiveness and the practice of the same perse
cution and murder. He proved that religion made enemies
—philosophy, friends—and that above the rights of gods
were the rights of man. (Applause.) These were his crimes.
(Laughter.) Such a man God would not suffer to die in
peace. If allowed to meet death with a smile, others might
follow his example, until none would be left to light the holy
fires of the auto da fe. (Laughter.) It would not do for so
great, so successful an enemy of the Church to die without
leaving some shriek of fear, some shudder of remorse, some
ghastly prayer of shattered horror, uttered by lips covered
with blood and foam. For many centuries the theologians
have taught that an unbeliever—an infidel—one who spoke
or wrote against their creed, could not meet death with com
posure ; that in his last moment God would fill his conscience
with the serpents of remorse. For a thousand years the
clergy have manufactured the facts to fit this theory—this
infamous conception of the duty of man and the justice of
God. (Applause.) The theologians have insisted that crimes
against men were, and are, as nothing compared with crimes
against God. That, while kings and priestB did nothing
worse than to make their fellows wretched, that so long as
they only butchered and burnt the innocent and helpless,
God would maintain the strictest neutrality—(laughter)—but
when some honest man, some great and tender soul, expressed
�a doubt as to the truth of the scriptures, or prayed to the
wrong God, or to the right one by the wrong name, then the
real God leaped like a wounded tiger upon his victim, and
from his quiver-flesh tore his wretched soul. (Applause.)
CRUELTIES IN THE WORLD.
There is no recorded instance where the uplifted hand of
murder has been paralysed—no truthful account in all the
literature of the world of the innocent child being shielded
by God. Thousands of crimes are committed every day
men are at this moment lying in wait for their human prey
—wives are whipped and crushed, driven to insanity and
death—little children begging for mercy, lifting imploring,
tear-filled eyes to the brutal faces of fathers and mothers—
sweet girls are deceived, lured and outraged, but God has no
time to prevent these things—no time to defend the good and
protect the pure. He is too busy numbering hairs and
watching sparrows. (Laughter.) He listens for blasphemy;
looks for persons who laugh at priests; examines baptismal
registers; watches professors in college who begin to doubt
the geology of Moses and the astronomy of Joshua. (Laughter
and applause.) He does not particularly object to stealing
if you don’t swear. (Laughter.)
A great many persons have fallen dead in the act of taking
God’s name in vain, but millions of men, women and children
have been stolen from their homes and used as beasts of
burden, but no one engaged in this infamy has ever been
touched by the wrathful hand of God. All kinds of criminals,
except infidels, meet death with reasonable serenity. As a
rule, there is nothing in the death of a pirate to cast any
discredit on his profession. (Laughter.) The murderer upon
the scaffold, with a priest on either side, smilingly exhorts
the multitude to meet him in heaven. The man who has
succeeded in making his home a hell meets death without a
�( 25 )
quiver, provided he has never expressed any doubt as to the
divinity of Christ or the eternal “ procession ” of the Holy
Ghost. (Laughter and applause.)
KILLED E0R SPEAKING THE TRUTH.
Now and then a man of genius, of sense, of intellectual
honesty, has appeared. Such men have denounced the
superstitions of their day. They have pitied the multitude
To see priests devour the substance of the people—priests
who made begging one of the learned professions—filled
them with loathing and contempt. These men were honest
enough to tell their thoughts, brave enough to speak the
truth. Then they were denounced, tried, tortured, killed by
rack or flame. But some escaped the fury of the fiends who
loved their enemies and died naturally ,in their beds. It
would not do for the Church to admit that they died peace
fully. That would never do. That would show that religion
was not essential at the last moment. Superstition gets its
power from the terror of death. It would not do to have the
common people understand that a man could deny the Bible,
refuse to kiss the cross, contend that humanity was greater
than Christ, and then die as sweetly as Torquemada did
after pouring molten lead into the ears of an honest man—
(laughter)—or as calmly as Calvin after he had burned Servetus, or as peacefully as King David after advising, with his
last breath, one son to assassinate another. (Laughter and
applause.)
The Church has taken great pains to show that the last
moments of all infidels (that Christians did not succeed in
burning)—(laughter)—were infinitely wretched and despair
ing. It was alleged that words could not paint the horrors
that were endured by a dying infidel. Every good Christian
was expected to, and generally did, believe these accounts.
(Laughter.) They have been told and retold in every pulpit
�( 26 )
of the world. Protestant ministers have repeated the lies
invented by Catholic priests, and Catholic, by a kind of
theological comity, have sworn to the lies told by the Protes
tants. (Laughter and applause.) Upon this point they
have always stood together, and will as long as the same
falsehood can be used by both. Upon the death-bed subject
the clergy grow eloquent. When describing the shudderings
and shrieks of the dying unbeliever their eyes glitter with
delight. It is a festival. (Laughter.) They are no longer
men; they become hyenas; they dig open graves; they
devour the dead. (Laughter.) It is a banquet. Unsatisfied
still, they paint the terrors of hell. ¿They gaze at the souls
of the infidels writhing in the coils of the worm that never
dies. They see them in flames—in oceans of fire—in abysses
of despair. They shout with joy; they applaud.
“let
me die in peace.”
It is an auto da fe, presided over by God. But let us come
back to Voltaire—to the dying philosopher. He was an old
man of 84. He had been surrounded with the comforts, the
luxuries of life. He was a man of great wealth, the richest
writer that the world bad known. Among the literary men
of the earth he stood first. He was an intellectual monarch
—one who had built his own throne and woven the purple of
his own power. He was a man of genius. The Catholic God
had allowed him the appearance of success. (Laughter.) His
last years were filled with the intoxication of flattery—of
almost worship. He stood at the summit of his age. The
priests became anxious. (Laughter.) They began to fear
that God would forget, in a multiplicity of business, to make
a terrible example of Voltaire. (Laughter and applause.)
Towards the last of May, 1778, it was whispered in Paris that
Voltaire was dying. Upon the fences of expectation gathered
the unclean birds of superstition, impatiently waiting for
�( 27 )
their prey. Two days before his death, his nephew went to
seek the curé of St. Sulplice and the Abbé Gautier, and
brought thorn to his uncle’s sick chamber, who being informed
that they were there, said : “ Ah, well, give them my compli
ments and my thanks.” The abbé spoke some words to him,
exhorting him to patience. The curé of St. Sulplice then
came forward, having announced himself, and asked of
Voltaire, elevating his voice, if he acknowledged the divinity
of our Lord Jesus Christ. (Laughter.) The sick man pushed
one of his hands against the curé’s coif, shoving him back,
and cried, turning abruptly to the other side, “ Let me die in *
peace.” The curé seemingly considered his person soiled and
his coif dishonored by the touch of a philosopher. He made
the nurse give him a little brushing and went out with the
Abbé Gautier. He expired, says Wagniere, on May 30, 1778,
at about a quarter past eleven at night, with the most perfeet
tranquillity. A few moments before his last breath he took
the hand of Morand, his valet de chambre, who was watching
by him« pressed it, and said : “ Adieu, my dear Morand, I am
gone.” These were his last words. Like a peaceful river,
with green and shaded banks, he flowed without a murmur
into the waveless sea, where life is rest. (Applause.)
“ SHAMELESS LIES ” ABOUT HIS DEATH.
From this death, so simple and serere, so kind, so
philosophic and tender, so natural and peaceful ; from these
words so utterly destitute of cant or dramatic touch, all
the frightful pictures, all the despairing utterances have
been drawn and made. From these materials, and from
these alone, or rather, in spite of these facts, have been
constructed by priests and clergymen and their dupes,
all the shameless lies about the death of that great and
wonderful man. A man, compared with whom all of his
calumniators, dead and living, were, and are, but dust and
�( 28 )
vermin. (Applause.) Let us be honest. Did all the priests
of Rome increase the mental wealth of man as much as
BrunoP Did all the priests of France do as great a work
for the civilisation of the world as Voltaire or Diderot ? Did
all the ministers of Scotland add as much to the sum of
human knowledge as David Hume ? Have all the clergymen,
monks, friars, ministers, priests, bishops, cardinals, and
popes, from the day of Pentecost to the last election, done
as much for human liberty as Thomas Paine ? (Applause.)
What would the world be if infidels had never been P The
infidels have been the brave and thoughtful men; the flower
of the world; the pioneers and heralds of the blessed day
of liberty and love; the generous spirits of an unworthy
past; the seers and prophets of our race; the great chivalric
souls, proud victors on the battle-fields of thought, the
creditors of all the years to be. (Applause.)
VOLTAIRE’S SECRET BURIAL.
In those days the philosophers—that is to say, the thinkers
—were not buried in holy ground. It was feared that
their principles might contaminate the ashes of the just.
(Laughter.) And it was also feared that on the morning of
the Resurrection they might, in a moment of confusion, slip
into heaven. (Laughter.) Some were burned and their
ashes scattered, and the bodies of some were thrown naked to
beasts, and others were buried in unholy earth. Voltaire
knew the history of Adrienne De Oouvreur, a beautiful
actress denied burial. After all, we do feel an interest in
what is to become of our bodies. There is a modesty that
belongs to death. Upon this subject Voltaire was very
sensitive, and it was that he might be buried that he went
through the farce of confession, of absolution, and of the last
sacrament. The priests knew that he was not in earnest,
and Voltaire knew that they would not allow him to be
buried in any of the cemeteries of Paris. His death was kept
�( 29 )
a secret. The Abbé Mignot made arrangements for the
burial at Romilli-on-the-Seine, more than one hundred miles
from Paris. Sunday evening, on the last day of May, 177&,
the body of Voltaire, clad in a dressing-gown, clothed to
resemble an invalid, posed to simulate life, was placed in a
carriage ; at its side was a servant, whose business it was to
keep it in position. To this carriage were attached six
horses, so that people might think a great lord was going to
his estates. Another carriage followed, in which were a
grand-nephew and two cousins of Voltaire. All night they
travelled, and on the following day arrived at the court-yard
of the abbey. The necessary papers were shown, the mass
was performed in the presence of the body, and Voltaire
found burial. A few moments afterwards the Prior, who
« for charity had given a little earth,” received from his
bishop a menacing letter forbidding the burial of Voltaire.
It was too late. He could not then be removed, and he was
allowed to remain in peace until 1791.
LABOR AND THOUGHT BECAME FRIENDS.
Voltaire was dead. The foundations of State and throne
had been sapped. The people were becoming acquainted
with the real kings and with the actual priests. Unknown
men born in misery and want, men whose fathers and
mothers had been pavement for the rich, were rising towards
the light and their shadowy faces were emerging from
darkness. Labor and thought became friends. That
is, the gutter and the attic fraternised. The monsters
of the night and the angels of dawn—the first thinking of
revenge and the others dreaming of equality, liberty and
fraternity. (Applause.) For 400 years the Bastille had been
the outward symbol of oppression. Within its walls the
noblest had perished. It was a perpetual threat. It was the
last and often the first argument of king and priest. Its
�( 30 )
dungeons, damp and rayless, its massive towers, its secret
cells, its instruments of torture, denied the existence of God.
In 1789, on the 14th of July, the people, the multitude,
frenzied by suffering, stormed and captured the Bastille.
(Applause.) The battle-cry was “ Vive le Voltaire.” (Ap
plause.)
In 1791 permission was given to place in the Pantheon the
ashes of Voltaire. He had been buried 110 miles from Paris.
Buried by stealth, he was to be removed by a nation. A
funeral procession of a hundred miles; every village with its
flags and arches in his honor; all the people anxious to honor
the philosopher of France—the savior of Calas—the destroyer
of superstition! On reaching Paris the great procession
moved along the B>ue St. Antoine. Here it paused, and for
one night upon the ruins of the Bastille rested the body of
Voltaire—rested in triumph, in glory—rested on fallen wall
and broken arch, on crumbling stone still damp with tears,
on rusting chain, and bar, and useless bolt—above the
dungeons dark and deep, where light had faded from the
lives of men and hope had died in breaking hearts. (Ap
plause.) The conqueror resting upon the conquered. Throned
upon the Bastille, the fallen fortress of night, the body of
Voltaire, from whose brain had issued the dawn. (Applause.)
For a moment his ashes must have felt the Promethean fire,
and the old smile must have illumined once more the face of
the dead. (Applause.)
While the vast multitude were trembling with love and
awe, a priest was heard to cry : “ God shall be avenged 1”
voltaire’s grave violated.'
The grave of Voltaire was violated. The cry of the priest
“ God shall be avenged !” had borne its fruit. Priests, skulking
in the shadows, with faces sinister as night—ghouls—in the
name of the Gospel, desecrated the grave. They carried away
�( 31 )
the body of Voltaire. The tomb was empty. God was
avenged! The tomb is empty, but the world is filled with
Voltaire’s fame. Man has conquered!
What cardinal, what bishop, what priest raised his voice
for the rights of men ? What ecclesiastic, what nobleman,
took the side of the oppressed—of the peasant? Who
denounced the frightful criminal code—the torture of sus
pect ed persons ? What priest pleaded for the liberty of the
citizen? What bishop pitied the victims of the rack? Is
there the grave of a priest in France on which a lover of
liberty would now drop a flower or a tear ? Is there a tomb
holding the ashes of a saint from which emerges one ray of
light ? (Applause.) If there be another life, a day of judg
ment, no God can afford to torture in anothei’ world a man
who abolished torture in this. (Applause.) If God be the
keeper of an eternal penitentiary—(laughter)—he should not
imprison there those who broke the chains of slavery here.
(Applause.) He cannot afford to make eternal convicts of
Franklin, of Jefferson, of Paine, of Voltaire. (Applause.)
PERFECT EQUIPMENT FOR HIS WORK.
Voltaire was perfectly equipped for his work. A perfect
master of the French language, knowing all its moods,
tens es, and declinations—in fact and in feeling playing upon
it as skilfully as Paganini on his violin, finding expression
for every thought and fancy, writing on the most serious
subjects with the gaiety of a harlequin, plucking jests from
the mouth of death, graceful as the waving of willows,
dealing in double meanings that covered the asp with
flowers and flattery, master of satire and compliment,
mingling them often in the same line, always interested
himself, therefore interesting others, handling thoughts,
questions, subjects as a juggler does balls, keeping them in
the air with perfect ease, dressing old words in new meanings,
�( 32 )
charming, grotesque, pathetic, mingling mirth with tears,
wit and wisdom, and sometimes wickedness, logic and
laughter. (Applause.) With a woman’s instinct, knowing
the sensitive nerves—just where to touch—hating arrogance
of place, the stupidity of the solemn, snatching masks from
priest and king, knowing the springs of action and ambi
tion s ends, perfectly familiar with the great world, the inti
mate of kings and their favorites, sympathising with the
oppressed and imprisoned, with the unfortunate and poor,
hating tyranny, despising superstition, and loving liberty
with all his heart. Such was Voltaire writing “ CEdipus ” at
seventeen, “ Irene ” at eighty-three, and crowding between
these two tragedies the accomplishment of a thousand lives
(Long-continued applause.)
Printed and Published by G-. W. Foote, at 28 Stonecutter-street,
London, E.C.
�
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Oration on Voltaire
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Ingersoll, Robert Green [1833-1899]
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 32 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Lecture delivered before the Chicago Press Club on 8 October [189?]. Printed and published by G.W. Foote. No. 88d in Stein checklist. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Philosophy
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ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
, NXHONALSECUlMaötU^
COLONEL ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
LONDON:
FREETHOUGHT PUBLISHING COMPANY,
28, Stonecutter Street, E.C.
PRICE TWOPENCE.
�LONDON:
PRINTED BY ANNIE BESANT AND CHARLES BRADLAUGH
28, STONECUTTER STREET, E.C.
�6 0.73S
Kl 3.77
ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
The Universe is Governed by Law.
Great men seem to be part of the infinite, brothers of the
mountains and the seas. Humboldt was one of these. He
was one of those serene men, in some respects like our own
Franklin, whose names have all the lustre of a star. He was
one of the few great enough to rise above the superstition
and prejudice of his time, and to know that experience,
observation, and reason are the only basis of knowledge.
He became one of the greatest of men, in spite of having
been born rich and noble—in spite of position. I say in
spite of these things, because wealth and position are gene
rally the enemies of genius, and the destroyers of talent.
It is often said of this or that man, that he is a self-made
man—that he was born of the poorest and humblest of
parents, and that, with every obstacle to overcome, he became
great. This is a mistake. Poverty is generally an advan
tage. Most of the intellectual giants of the world have been
nursed at the sad and loving breast of poverty. Most of
those who have climbed highest on the shining ladder of
fame commenced at the lowest round. They were reared
in the straw-thatched cottages of Europe ; in the log-houses
of America; in the factories of the great cities ; in the
midst of toil; in the smoke and din of labour, and on the
verge of want. They were rocked by the feet of mothers
whose hands, at the same time, were busy with the needle
or the wheel.
It is hard for the rich to resist the thousand allurements
of pleasure, and so I say, that Humboldt, in spite of having
�4
ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
been born to wealth and high social position, became truly
and grandly great.
. In the antiquated and romantic castle of Tegel by the
side of the pine forest, on the shore of the charming lake
near the beautiful city of Berlin, the great Humboldt, one
hundred years ago, was born, and there he was educated
after the method suggested by Rousseau,—Campe, the
philologist and critic, and the intellectual Kunth being his
tutors. There he received the impressions that determined
his career; there the great idea that the Universe is governed
by law took possession of his mind, and there he dedicated
his life to the demonstration of this sublime truth.
He came to the conclusion that the source of man’s un
happiness is his ignorance of nature.
After having received the most thorough education at that
time possible, and having determined to what end he would
devote the labours of his life, he turned his attention to the
sciences of geology, mining, mineralogy, botany and distri
bution of plants, the distribution of animals, and the effect
of climate upon man. All grand physical phenomena were
investigated and explained. From his youth he had felt a
great desire for travel. He felt, as he says, a violent passion
for the sea, and longed to look upon Nature in her wildest
and most rugged forms. He longed to give a physical de
scription of the Universe—a grand picture of Nature; to
account for all phenomena ; to discover the laws governing
the world ; to do away with that splendid delusion called
special providence, and to establish the fact that the Universe
is governed by law.
To establish this truth was, and is, of infinite importance
to mankind. That fact is the death-knell of superstition ; it
gives liberty to every soul, annihilates fear, and ushers in the
age of reason.
The object of this illustrious man was to comprehend the
phenomena of physical objects in their general connection,
and to represent Nature as one great whole, moved and
animated by internal forces.
For this purpose he turned his attention to descriptive
botany, traversing distant lands and mountain ranges to
ascertain definitely the geographical distribution of plants.
He investigated the laws regulating the differences of
temperature and climate, and the changes of the atmo
sphere. He studied the formation of the earth’s crust,
explored the deepest mines, ascended the highest moun
�ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
5
tains, and wandered through the craters of extinct vol
canoes.
He became thoroughly acquainted with chemistry, with
astronomy, with terrestrial magnetism ; and as the investiga
tion of one subject leads to all others, for the reason that
there is a mutual dependence and a necessary connection
between all facts, so Humboldt became acquainted with all
the known sciences.
His fame does not depend so much upon his discoveries
(although he discovered enough to make hundreds of repu
tations), as upon his vast and splendid generalization.
He was to Science what Shakespeare was to the drama.
He found, so to speak, the world full of unconnected
facts—all portions of a vast system—parts of a great
machine. He discovered the connection which each bears
to all, put them together, and demonstrated beyond all con
tradiction that the earth is governed by law.
He knew that to discover the connection of phenomena
is the primary aim of all natural investigation. He was in
finitely practical.
Origin and destiny were questions with which he had
nothing to do.
His surroundings made him what he was.
In accordance with a law not fully comprehended he was
a production of his time.
Great men do not live alone; they are surrounded by the
great; they are the instruments used to accomplish the ten
dencies of their generation; they fulfil the prophecies of
their age.
Nearly all the scientific men of the eighteenth century
had the same idea entertained by Humboldt, but most of
them in a dim and confused way. There was, however, a
general belief among the intelligent that the world is
governed by law, and that there really exists a connection
between all facts, or that all facts are simply the different
aspects of a general fact, and that the task of science is to
discover this connection, to comprehend this general fact, or
to announce the laws of things.
Germany was full of thought, and her universities swarmed
with philosophers and grand thinkers in every department of
knowledge.
Humboldt was the friend and companion of the greatest
poets, historians, philologists, artists, statesmen, critics, and
logicians of his time.
�6
ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
. _ He was the companion of Schiller, who believed that man
would be regenerated through the influence of the Beautiful;
of Goethe, the grand patriarch of German literature; of
Weiland, who has been called the Voltaire of Germany; of
Herder, who wrote the outlines of a philosophical history of
man of Kotzebue, who lived in the world of romance; of
Schleiermacher, the pantheist; of Schlegel, who gave to his
countrymen the enchanted realm of Shakespeare; of the
sublime Kant, author of the first work published in Germany
on Pure Reason; of Fichte, the infinite idealist; of
Schopenhauer, the European Buddhist, who followed the
great Gautama to the painless and dreamless Nirwana, and
of hundreds of others, whose names are familiar to, and
honoured by, the scientific world.
The German mind had been grandly roused from the long
lethargy of the dark ages of ignorance, fear, and faith.
Guided by the holy light of reason, every department of
knowledge was investigated, enriched, and illustrated.
Humboldt breathed the atmosphere of investigation• old
ideas were abandoned; old creeds, hallowed by centuries,
were thrown aside ; thought became courageous; the athlete,
Reason, challenged to mortal combat the monsters of
superstition.
No wonder that, under these influences, Humboldt
formed the great purpose of presenting to the world a picture
of Nature, in order that men might, for the first time, behold
the face of their mother.
Europe became too small for his genius; he visited the
tropics in the New World, where, in the most circumscribed
limits, he could find the greatest number of plants, of
animals, and the greatest diversity of climate, that he might
ascertain the laws governing the production and distribution
or plants, animals, and men, and the effects of climate upon
them all.
He sailed along the gigantic Amazon; the
mysterious Oronoco; traversed the Pampas; climbed the
Andes until he stood upon the crags of Chimborazo, more
than eighteen thousand feet above the level of the sea, and
climbed on until blood flowed from his eyes and lips. For
nearly five years he pursued his investigations in the New
World, accompanied by the intrepid Bonpland. Nothing
escaped his attention. He was the best intellectual organ
of these new revelations of science. He was calm, reflective
and eloquent; filled with the sense of the beautiful and the
love of truth. His collections were immense, and valuable
�ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
7
beyond calculation to every science. He endured innume
rable hardships, braved countless dangers in unknown savage
lands, and exhausted his fortune for the advancement of
true learning.
Upon his return to Europe, he was hailed as toe second
'Columbus ; as the scientific discoverer of America ; as the
revealer of a New World; as the great demonstrator of the
sublime truth, that the Universe is governed by law.
I have seen a picture of the old man, sitting upon the
•mountain side, above him the eternal snow, below, the
smiling valley of the tropics filled with vine and palm, his
chin upon his breast, his eyes deep, thoughtful, and calm,
his forehead majestic—grander than the mountain upon
which he sat—-crowned with the snow of his whitened hair,
he looked the intellectual autocrat of this world.
Not satisfied with his discoveries in America, he crossed
the steppes of Asia, the wastes of Siberia, the great Ural
wange, adding to the knowledge of mankind at every step.
His energy acknowledged no obstacle, his life knew no
leisure ; every day was filled with labour and with thought..
He was one of the apostles of Science, and he served his
divine Master with a self-sacrificing zeal that knew no
abatement; with an ardour that constantly increased, and
with a devotion unwavering and constant as the polar
star.
In order that the people at large might have the benefit
of his numerous discoveries and his vast knowledge, he
delivered, at Berlin, a course of lectures, consisting of sixtyone free addresses upon the following subjects:
Five, upon the nature and limits of physical geography.
Three were devoted to a history of Science.
Two, to inducements to a study of natural science.
Sixteen, on the heavens.
Five, on the form, density, latent heat and magnetic power
of the earth, and the polar light.
Four were on the nature of the crust of the earth, on hot
springs, earthquakes and volcanoes.
Two, on mountains and the type of their formation.
Two, on the form of the earth’s surface, on the connection
of continent, and the elevation of soil over ravines.
Three, on the sea as a globular fluid surrounding the
earth.
Ten, on the atmosphere as an elastic fluid surrounding the
earth, and on the distribution of heat.
�ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
One, on the geographic distribution- of organized matter
in general.
Three, on the geography of plants.
Three, on the geography of animals, and
Two, on the races of men.
These lectures are what is known as the Cosmos, and
present a scientific picture of the world, of infinite diversity
and unity, of ceaseless motion in the eternal grasp of law.
These lectures contain the result of his investigation,,
observation and experience; they furnish the connection;
between phenomena; they disclose some of the changes,
through which the earth has passed in the countless ages;
the history of vegetation, animals, and men; the effects of
climate upon individuals and nations, the relation we sustain
to other worlds, and demonstrate that all phenomena, whether
insignificant or grand, exist in accordance with inexorable
law.
There are some truths, however, that we never should
forget. Superstition has always been the relentless enemy
of science; faith has been a hater of demonstration;
hypocrisy has been sincere only in its dread of truth, and all
religions are inconsistent with mental freedom.
Since the murder of Hypatia, in the fifth century, when
the polished blade of Greek philosophy was broken by the
club of ignorant Catholicism, until to-day, superstition has
detested every effort of reason.
It is almost impossible to conceive of the completeness of
the victory that the Church achieved over philosophy. For
ages science was utterly ignored; thought was a poor slave;
an ignorant priest was the master of the world; faith put out
the eyes of the soul; the reason was a trembling coward;
the imagination was set on fire of hell; every human feeling;
was sought to be suppressed ; love was considered infinitely
sinful, pleasure was the road to eternal fire, and God was
supposed to be happy only when his children were miserable.
The world was governed by an Almighty’s whim ; prayers
could change the order of things, halt the grand procession
of Nature; could produce rain, avert pestilence, famine, and
death in all its forms. There was no idea of the certain ;
all depended upon divine pleasure, or displeasure rather;
heaven was full of inconsistent malevolence, and earth of
ignorance. Everything was done to appease the divine
wrath; every public calamity was caused by the sins of the
people ; by a failure to pay tithes, or for having, even in.
�ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
9
secret, felt a disrespect for a priest. To the poor multitude,
the earth was a kind of enchanted forest, full of demons,
ready to devour, and theological serpents lurking with infinite
power to fascinate and torture the unhappy and impotent
soul. Life to them was a dim and mysterious labyrinth, in
which they wandered weary and lost, guided by priests as.
bewildered as themselves, without knowing that at every step
the Ariadne of reason offered them the long lost clue.
The very heavens were full of death ; the lightning was.
regarded as the glittering vengeance of God, and the earth
was thick with snares for the unwary feet of man. The soul
was supposed to be crowded with the wild beasts of desire;,
the heart to be totally corrupt, prompting only to crime;
virtues were regarded as only deadly sins in disguise; therewas a continual warfare being waged between the Deity and
the Devil, for the possession of every soul; the latter being;
generally considered victorious. The flood, the tornado, the
volcano, were all evidences of the displeasure of heaven and
the sinfulness of man. The blight that withered, the frost
that blackened, the earthquake that devoured, were the
messengers of the Creator.
The world was governed by fear.
Against all the evils of nature, there was known only the
defence of prayer, of fasting, of credulity, and devotion.
Man in his helplessness endeavoured to soften the heart of God.
The faces of the multitude were blanched with fear and wet
with tears; they were the prey of hypocrites, kings, andpriests.
My heart bleeds when I contemplate the sufferings endured
by the millions now dead; of those who lived when the
» .-world appeared to be insane; when the heavens were filled
with an infinite Horror, who snatched babes with dimpled
hands and rosy cheeks from the white breasts of mothers, and
dashed them into an abyss of eternal flame.
Slowly, beautifully, like the coming of the dawn, came the
grand truth that the Universe is governed by law; that
disease fastens itself upon the good and upon the bad; that
the tornado cannot be stopped by counting beads; that the
rushing lava pauses not for bended knees; the lightning for
clasped and uplifted hands ; nor the cruel waves of the sea
for prayer; that paying tithes causes, rather than prevents,
famine; that pleasure is not sin ; that happiness is the only
good; that demons and gods exist only in the imagination;
that faith is a lullaby sung to put the soul to sleep; that
devotion is a bride that fear offers to supposed power; that
�IO
ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
offering rewards in another world for obedience in this, is
simply buying a soul on credit; that knowledge consists in
ascertaining the laws of nature, and that wisdom is the science
of happiness. Slowly, grandly, beautifully, these truths are
dawning upon mankind.
From Copernicus we learn that this earth is only a grain
of sand on the infinite shore of the Universe; that every
where we are surrounded by shining worlds, vastly greater
than our own, all moving and existing in accordance with
law. True, the earth began to grow small, but man began
to grow great.
The moment the fact was established that other worlds
are governed by law, it was only natural to conclude that
our little world was also under its dominion.
The old
theological method of accounting for physical phenomena
by the pleasure and displeasure of the Deity was, by the
intellectual, abandoned. They found that disease, death,
life, thought, heat, cold, the seasons, the winds, the dreams
of man, the instinct of animals—in short, that all physical
and mental phenomena are governed by law, absolute, eternal
and inexorable.
Let it be understood, that by the term law is meant the
same invariable relations of succession and resemblance
predicated of all facts springing from like conditions. Law
is a fact—not a cause. It is a fact, that like conditions
produce like results; this fact is Law. When we say that the
Universe is governed by law, we mean that this fact, called
law, is incapable of change—that it has been, and forever
will be, the same inexorable, immutable Fact, inseparable
from all phenomena. Law, in this sense, was not enacted
or made. It eould not have been otherwise than as it is.
That which necessarily exists has no creator.
Only a few years ago this earth was considered the real
centre of the universe; all the stars were supposed to revolve
•around this insignificant atom. The German mind, more
than any other, has done away with this piece of egotism.
Purbach and Mulleras, in the fifteenth century, contributed
most to the advancement of astronomy in their day. To
the latter, the world is indebted for the introduction of
decimal fractions, which completed our arithmetical no
tation and formed the second of the three steps, by
which, in modern times, the science of numbers has been
so greatly improved; and yet both of these men believed
in the most childish absurdities, at least in enough of
�ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
11
them, to die without their orthodoxy having ever been
suspected.
Next came the great Copernicus, and he stands at the head
of the heroic thinkers of his time who had the courage and
the mental strength to break the chains of prejudice, custom,
and authority, and to establish truth on the basis of ex
perience, observation, and reason. He removed the earth,
so to speak, from the centre of the Universe, and ascribed
to it a two-fold motion, and demonstrated the true position
which it occupies in the solar system.
At his bidding the earth began to revolve, at the command
of his genius it commenced its grand flight ’mid the eternal
constellations round the sun.
For fifty years his discoveries were disregarded. All at
once, by the exertions of Galileo, they were kindled into so
grand a conflagration as to consume the philosophy of
Aristotle, to alarm the hierarchy of Rome, and to threaten
the existence of every opinion not founded upon experience,
observation, and reason.
The earth was no longer considered a Universe, governed
by the caprices of some revengeful deity, who had made the
stars out of what he had left after completing the world, and
had stuck them in the sky, simply to adorn the night.
I have said this much concerning astronomy because it
was the first splendid step forward ; the first sublime blow
that shattered the lance and shivered the shield of super
stition ; the first real help that man received from heaven,
because it was the first great lever placed beneath the altar
of a false religion ; the first revelation of the infinite to man ;
the first authoritative declaration that the Universe is
governed by law ; the first science that gave the lie direct
to the cosmogony of barbarism, and because it is the sublimest
victory that the reason has achieved.
In speaking of astronomy, I have confined myself to the
discoveries made since the revival of learning. Long ago,
on the banks of the Ganges, ages before Copernicus lived,
Aryabhatta taught that the earth is a sphere, and revolves on
its own axis. This, however, does not detract from the
glory of the great German. The discovery of the Hindoo
had been lost in the midnight of Europe—in the age of
faith, and Copernicus was as much a discoverer as though
Aryabhatta had never lived.
In this short address there is no time to speak of other
sciences, and to point out the particular evidence furnished
�12
ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
by each, to establish the dominion of law, nor to more than
mention the name of Descartes, the first who undertook to
give an explanation of the celestial motions, or who formed
the vast and philosophic conception of reducing all the
phenomena of the Universe to the same law; of Montaigne,
one of the heroes of common sense; of Galvani, whose
experiments gave the telegraph to the world ; of Voltaire,
who contributed more than any other of the sons of men to
the destruction of religious intolerance; of Auguste Comte,
whose genius erected to itself a monument that still touches
the stars; of Gutenburg, Watt, Stephenson, Arkwright, all
soldiers of science in the grand army of the dead kings.
The glory of science is, that it is freeing the soul—break
ing the mental manacles—getting the brain out of bondage—•
giving courage to thought—filling the world with mercy,
justice, and joy.
Science found agriculture ploughing with a stick—reaping
with a sickle—commerce at the mercy of the treacherous
waves and the inconstant winds—a world without books—
without schools—man denying the authority of reason,
employing his ingenuity in the manufacture of instruments
of torture, in building inquisitions and cathedrals. It found
the land filled wtth malicious monks—with persecuting
Protestants and the burners of men. It found a world full
of fear; ignorance upon its knees; credulity the greatest
virtue; women treated like beasts of burden; cruelty the
only means of reformation. It found the world at the
mercy of disease and famine; men trying to read their fates
in the stars, and to tell their fortunes by signs and wonders;
generals thinking to conquer their enemies by making the
sign of the cross, or by telling a rosary. It found all history
full of petty and ridiculous falsehood, and the Almighty was
supposed to spend most of his time turning sticks into
snakes, drowning boys for swimming on Sunday, and killing
little children for the purpose of converting their parents.
It found the earth filled with slaves and tyrants, the people
in all countries down-trodden, half naked, half starved,
without hope, and without reason in the world.
Such was the condition of man when the morning of
science dawned upon his brain, and before he had heard the
sublime declaration that the Universe is governed by law.
For the change that has taken place we are indebted solely
to science—the only lever capable of raising mankind.
Abject faith is barbarism ; reason is civilization. To obey
�ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
13
is slavish; to act from a sense of obligation perceived by the
reason is noble. Ignorance worships mystery; reason ex
plains it: the one grovels, the other soars.
No wonder that fable is the enemy of knowledge. A man
with a false diamond shuns the society of lapidaries, and it
is upon this principle that superstition abhors science.
In all ages the people have honoured those who dis
honoured them. They have worshipped their destroyers,
they have canonized the most gigantic liars and ouried the
great thieves in marble and gold. Under the loftiest monu
ment sleeps the dust of murder.
Imposture has always won a crown.
The world is beginning to change because the people are
beginning to think. To think is to advance. Everywhere
the great minds are investigating the creeds and superstitions
of men, the phenomena of nature, and the laws of things.
At the head of this great army of investigators stood
Humboldt—the serene leader of an intellectual host—-a king
by the suffrage of science and the divine right of Genius.
And to-day we are not honouring some butcher called a
soldier, some wily politician called a statesman, some robber
called a king, nor some malicious metaphysician called a
saint. We are honouring the grand Humboldt, whose vic
tories were all achieved in the arena of thought; who
destroyed prejudice, ignorance, and error—not men; who
shed light—not blood, and who contributed to the know
ledge, the wealth and the happiness of all mankind.
His life was pure, his aims lofty, his learning varied and
profound, and his achievements vast.
We honour him because he has ennobled our race, be
cause he has contributed as much as any man living or dead
to the real prosperity of the world. We honour him because
he honoured us; because he laboured for others ; because he
was the most learned man of the most learned nation; be
cause he left a legacy of glory to every human being. For
these reasons he is honoured throughout the world.
Millions are doing- homage to his genius at this moment,
and millions are pronouncing his name with reverence and
recounting what he accomplished.
We associate the name of Humboldt with oceans, palms;
the wide deserts ; the snow-tipped craters of the Andes ; with
primeval forests and European capitals; wildernesses
and universities; with savages and savans; with the
lonely rivers of unpeopled wastes; with peaks and
�14
ORATION ON HUMBOLDT.
pampas, and. steppes, and cliffs, and crags j with the progress
of the world; with every science known to man, and with
every star glittering in the immensity of space.
. Humboldt adopted none of the soul-shrinking creeds of
his day ; wasted none of his time in the stupiditieSj inanities,
and contradiction of theological metaphysics; he did not
endeavour to harmonize the astronomy and geology of a
barbarous people with the science of the nineteenth century.
Never, for one moment, did he abandon the sublime
standard of truth; he investigated, he studied, he thought,
he separated the gold from the dross in the crucible of his
grand brain. He was never found on his knees before the
altar of superstition. He stood erect by the grand tranquil
column of reason. He was an admirer, a lover, and adorer
of nature, and at the age of ninety, bowed by the weight of
nearly a century, covered with the insignia of honour, loved
by a nation, respected by a world, with kings for his servants,
he laid his weary head upon her bosom—upon the bosom of
the Universal mother—and with her loving arms around him,
sank, into that slumber called death.
History added another name to the starry scroll of the
immortals.
The world is his monument; upon the eternal granite of
her hills he inscribed his name, and there upon everlasting
stone his genius wrote this, the sublimest of truths :
“ The Universe is Governed by Law.”
�
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Victorian Blogging
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An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Oration on Humboldt
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Ingersoll, Robert Green [1833-1899]
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 14 p. ; 17 cm.
Notes: Friedrich Wilhelm Heinrich Alexander von Humboldt was a Prussian polymath, geographer, naturalist, explorer, and influential proponent of Romantic philosophy and science. Printed by Annie Besant and Charles Bradlaugh. Date of publication from Stein's checklist (Item 37f). Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Freethought Publishing Company
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[1877]
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N377
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Philosophy
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Alexander Von Humboldt
NSS
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Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz
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Kroeger, A. E.
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Place of publication: [Boston]
Collation: 36 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: Includes bibliography (p.1). From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From North American Review,108, no. 222 (January, 1869).
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[Ticknor and Fields]
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1869
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CT27
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Enlightenment
Philosophy
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Conway Tracts
Enlightenment
Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz
Philosophy
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THE
WESTMINSTER
AND
FOREIGN
QUARTERLY
REVIEW.
JANUARY 1, 1873.
Art. I.—Sophokles.
1. Sophokles, erlddrt wnF. W. Schneid ewin. Sechste Avflage,
besorgt von A..HKUGK., Berlin. 1871.
2. The Tragedies of Sophocles, with a Biographical Essay.
By E. H. Plumptre, M.A. London. 1867.
3. Die Religosen und Sittlichen Vorstellungen des Aeschylos
und Sopholdes. Von Gustav Dronke. Leipzig. 1861.
4. Sopholdes und seine Tragodien. Von 0. Ribbeck. Heft
83 in der Sammlung gemeinverstdndlicher wissenschaftlicher Vortrdge. Berlin. 1869.
ENGLISH scholarship has not done much for the better
J’j understanding of Sophokles. He is not a poet who has
taken close hold of the English mind. His works are studied of
course in the general university curriculum ; but he has not become
a poet often read and oftener quoted as have some of the classic
writers. Those who really find in him a source of intellectual
delight read his works in a German edition. But of what classical
writer may not this be said ? It is very seldom that an English
editor has the patience to make a complete presentation of a
classical author—to do for him what Professor Munro has done for
Lucretius—with that loving study and exhaustive research which
characterize the labours of the German editor. So far the case
of Sophokles is not single. But perhaps there is no instance of
an author of such renown as Sophokles, with so general a con
sensus of people willing to admit his claims, who has made so
little impression upon the majority of cultivated minds. The
[Vol. XCIX. No. CXCV.J—New Series, Vol. XLIII. No. I.
B
�2
Sophokles.
reason is that the majority of cultivated people never bring them
selves under his influence. The English scholar is for the
most part satisfied with a textual or critical knowledge: the
whole field of classical literature must be hurried through rather
than any part explored. And the result of this is scholarship
rather than knowledge.
Now with many authors this may be sufficient; it cannot be
so with all. Homer, for instance, will give up his. beauties in
broad and easily taken bands of continuous narrative. . Apart
from the necessities of philological studies, which are beside the
present question, Homer, like Chaucer, is easy reading. Those
that run may read the alto rilievo of the Iliad or Odyssey. But
before a group of statuary you must stand. And the difficulty
is that the intellectual life of the present day does not admit of
long standing. The progress of science and the march of new
ideas are continually urging on the student mind. And to almost
all the doubt must occasionally present itself, Is it worth while
to spend this time before these works of ancient art? . Now,
whatever the answer to this question may be, it is certain that
the. secret of Sophokles cannot be won without loving and
leisurely study. For in his works exists the highest form of one
species of art; and that an art which will yield its essence to no
hurried student. It is a significant circumstance that few English
translations of the works of Sophokles have been attempted.
The version of Mr. Plumptre is the fourth of its kind. Those
that have preceded it are of little importance. It is true that no
author suffers more from translation than Sophokles : but that
is the least element in the unpopularity of his dramas amongst
English readers. The reader unacquainted with the Greek
language may yet be fascinated by the “ tale of Troy divine
in the musical and monotonous lines of Pope, or the inadequate
interpretations of Cowper and Lord Derby : he may even, if.he
be a Keats, find his vision dazzled by the misty prospect which
he catches of the vast Homeric continent; but he is not at all
likely to be charmed with Sophokles. To understand Sophokles
one must place oneself in the intellectual position of ^n average
Athenian of the time of Perikles. Mr. Galton says : “ The
*
average ability of the Athenian race is, on the lowest possible
estimate, very nearly two grades higher than our own—that is,
about as much as our race is above that of the African negro?
The average English reader, therefore, whose knowledge of
Sophokles is derived from Mr. Plumptre’s very creditable version,
will probably lay down the book without any extraordinary
interest in the subject. He will miss the plaintive clink and
Hereditary Genius,” p. 3&2.
�Sophokles.
- 3
jingle of subjective sentimentality which he has been accustomed
to associate with poetry, and he will probably wonder at the
renown of the poet. But the earnest student of Sophokles will
find in the original enough to reward him. His mind will be
strengthened by the contemplation of perfect types of character,
bold, severe, and beautiful. He will pass .into a gallery of
statuary where he will see sights that can never leave his inner
eye. Serene faces, familiar, yet unusual in their lofty humanity,
will look down upon him •, voices, more divine than human,
though rising from the depths of the human heart, will speak to
him, and his ears will be filled with a holy and awful music.
The best guides to the higher knowledge of Sophokles are the
German works whose titles are given at the head of the present
*
paper. Schneidewin’s edition is known to students of Sophokles ;
so ought also to be the essay by G. Dronke, snatched from his
friends and from literature by an all too early death. Dr. Bib
beck’s paper, though short, is a concise estimate of the extant
dramas, and is written in a genial and scholarly style. The
present essay is an attempt to connect the works of Sophokles
with the periods of the poet’s life, and to point out the chief
dramatic characteristics of the several plays.
It was in the year 469 before our era, at the spring festival
of the greater Dionysia, that Athens saw the first trilogy of
Sophokles. The city was then full of new life ; it was the charmed
period when future greatness lay in bud, and not yet in blossom.
The terror of the Persian had been changed into an immortal
memory, and Athens was winning for herself the hegemony of
more than the Grecian race. This spring festival had drawn
many strangers to the city. The islands had not yet learned to
dread her power or doubt her justice, and sent their loyal visitors
to join in her rejoicing.
Two days of the festival had already passed, and a trilogy or
rather tetralogy had been presented each day. One was the
work of Aeschylus, for fourteen years the master of the Athenian
stage. Upon the third day a trilogy by a new poet was presented.
What thi^work really was is uncertain; it has, however, been
inferred from a passage in Pliny, that one drama was the Triptolemus. It was a subject that had never before been chosen for
the stage, but it was well adapted to win favour at Athens at the
present time. Already the city had conceived the design of
* No writer upon the life of Sophokles can forget the obligation which he
is under to Gotthold Ephraim Lessing—Mr. Plumptre most unaccountably
(p. xxii.) calls him Gottfried Lessing—whose splendid fragment of a ‘‘Life ot
Sophokles ” remains to show later writers what the great German critic might
have done in this direction.
B 2
�4
Sophokles.
uniting under a central power the scattered members of the Ionian
race, and the confederacy of Delos was in part a realization of
her desire. In the subject which he chose, Sophokles would
have an opportunity of idealizing the national aspiration.
Triptolemus was the youthful hero of Eleusis, the herald of
agriculture and peace, the friend and host of Demeter. He was
a traveller too, and where he lighted from his winged car, he
left a blessing of corn and wheat behind him. Thus Sophokles
was enabled to depict, as we know from Pliny he did depict, far
lands and foreign places, gladdened by the gifts that came from
Attica.
Whether he fully indicated such a mission for the new Attica
we cannot know; he was certainly too wise to miss the op
portunity altogether. It may well be that this power of repre
senting the national feeling, formed the distinctive characteristic of
the first trilogy of Sophokles; it is at least easier to believe this,
than that he surpassed the veteran JEschylus in technical ex
cellence. There was, however, a large section of the audience,
who preferred the JEschylean trilogy. Never, perhaps, in such
a cause, had party-feeling run so high. JEschylus was himself from
Eleusis; the new writer had won the suffrages of the elder poet’s
own townsmen. But the victory was not to be adjudged by
popular acclamation. The custom was that ten judges should be
elected by lot, one from each tribe. Why the ordinary mode of
decision was not retained, it is not easy to ascertain. At any
rate the presiding archon Aphepsion did not venture, in the
excited state of popular feeling, to follow the ordinary practice,
and this accident inaugurated a change in the method of electing
the tragic judges.
Kimon and his nine colleagues representing the Attic tribes
were at this moment the popular heroes. They had but newly
returned from their victorious contest with the Persians atEurymedon, and they had brought back from Skyros the bones of
Theseus to be laid in Attic soil. Moreover, they had been absent
during the preparation of the competing choruses, and, if any,
they were free from bias and prejudice Whatever their decision
might be, it would be accepted by the Athenians. With happy
tact, Aphepsion chose them as judges, and they were at once
sworn into the office. Their verdict was for Sophokles. Erom the
fact that henceforth only those who had seen service were allowed
to adjudge the tragic prizes, we may infer that the decision was
both memorable and satisfactory. Such at least seems to be the
sentiment with which Plutarch speaks of it : “ eOevto c’ dp
fj.v/]jur]v avrov Kai tt)v to>v rpaywcMv Kpiatv ovopacrrrjv ytvoplvriv.”
Whether it was the subject, the poetical handling, or the grace
and beauty of the principal actor, Sophokles himself, that turned
�Sophokles.
5
the scale in favour of the Triptoleinus, we miss the play with
regret. The result of the decision was that for many years
Sophokles became the favourite actor of the Athenian stage. There
is greater importance to be attached to this fact than at first sight
appears. It means not only that the successful dramatist was able,
to present his views cf art and ethics to the Athenian people ; but
that he was able to mould and perfect the form of presentation.
Nor must we forget the rival interests of the several tribes as an
element of success. The Choragus who had assisted in the pro
duction of a successful trilogy was rewarded even more than the
author. The actors were chosen for the same places in the
representations of the ensuing year, and we know that Sophokles
not only established a society of the best actors, but also wrote
his plays with special reference to their powers and capacities.
One success, therefore, was earnest of farther renown, and a
stepping-stone to it. The Choragus naturally granted to his
successful author more liberty than would be conceded to an
untried competitor, and it was this feeling of confidence in the
poet, which enabled Sophokles, as it had already enabled
.zEschylus, to achieve his ideal of dramatic art upon the stage.
But before we pass on to relate the gradual growth of the drama
in the hands of Sophokles, it will be well to speak of the young
poet in his personal relations to the Athenian people, who had
just crowned him with the ivy-chaplet.
If tradition is to be believed, he was not unknown to them. He
was not born of low or ignoble parents, for in this case the comic
stage would have rung with jesting allusions to his parentage.
His father, Sophillus, was undoubtedly a man of respectable rank,
a knight it may be. Plutarch speaks of Sophokles as a person
of good birth, and other writers attribute to him an excellent and
complete education. Probably with truth, for it is undoubted
that he possessed in a high degree those elegant personal accom
plishments which were deemed necessary accessories to an
Athenian gentleman. As the promising son of a well-known
citizen, he would be a youth who claimed attention ; and the
story of Athenaeus, which speaks of his surpassing beauty, is a'
record of the influence of his boyish grace upon his contem
poraries. It declares that he of all the Athenian youths, was
chosen to lead the choir of boys who danced round the trophies
in Salamis, after the defeat of the Persians. Aftertimes gladly
recalled the happy coincidence which linked the three great
names of Attic tragedy around the memorable victory of Salamis,
for Aeschylus fought in the battle, Sophokles led the paean, and
Euripides was born on the day of victory, within the fortunate
isle. The years which immediately followed the victory formed a
bright era in the history of the Athenians. They feared no more
�Sophokles.
6
for the barbarian invader, nor, by the prudence of Themistokles,
for the treachery of the selfish Spartans. At home there was room
in every sphere for the development of genius, and genius was
not absent. Under the hands of ./Eschylus the drama was
growing towards perfection, and the people built the great stone
theatre of Dionysus. A tradition says that ZEschylus was the
teacher of Sophokles in the dramatic art: it is most likely he
was his teacher only as he was the teacher of every Athenian
who had the right to hear his dramas. In this sense, each one
of his audience was his pupil, and not with regard to art alone.
It was his province to bring the minds of men from the dim
religious darkness of old theogonies into a fuller light, though a
light by no means so full as it was hereafter to be. Great
questions had been asked, and there was none to answer them ;
men’s minds were troubled with the inconsequence of virtue and
sorrow, and the polytheistic heaven of Homer was dark and
silent above them. The leading ideas of the tragedies of Adschylus
were the supremacy of Zeus, and the moral order of the Universe.
By chains, not always of gold, the world is bound about the
throne of Zeus. Vice leads to punishment in this generation,
and the next, and the third. Yet no voluntarily pure man can
come to ruin :
3’ avdyicaQ arep
(Action tiv ovk avoXfioQ
ekmv
carat.
H>vp.
550.
The contest of Destiny and Free-will is a mystery which finds
its solution only in this moral order. ’ wQpoavvir or moderation is
S
a conscious voluntary submission to the moral order. Any trans
gression of the line between Bight and Wrong is vfiptQ, and leads
to ruin. It is a disorder of the mind, a disease, a distemper,
without expiation and without cure. ZEschylus does not repre
sent the gods as leading man into the commission of guilt. In
the choice between good and evil, man is free. A good deed
must be, as an evil one is, dvdyaa^ drtp. No one is punished by
the Divine hand without fault of his own. But sin once com
mitted is followed by a judicial blindness which leads to other
and greater guilt. This dangerous downfall is accelerated by
means of a divine power known simply as “ Daimon,” or as
“ Alastor,” or sometimes “ Ate/’ whose influence may extend to a
whole race. This brings us to the subject of “family guilt,”
which is frequently a motive in the Greek dramas. The idea
that guilt was hereditary sprang from the notion that it was
inexpiable. Hence a house fell from one crime to another,
until the anger of the gods swept it away root and branch. It
is an extension of the primitive “ lex talionis murder brings
murder, rvppa TvppaTL rival, and guilt gives birth to guilt. And
�Sophokles.
7
what Ate or Alastor is to the individual, that Erinnys is to the
family, working it madness and blindness, and involving it
deeper and deeper in the slough of crime.
/3oct yap Xotyog ILpivvv
7rapa tGjv Trporspov (pQtpevwv drrjv
tTEpcw iTrayovaav £7r' dry.—Cho. 402.
Yet the individual is free. If he belongs to a doomed raise,
then it is true there is in him an hereditary tendency which
shall lead him to guilt and ruin, but the decision rests with him
self. He is not given over to Ate until he has himself been
guilty of sin (vj3ptc). In much of this ethical system 2Eschylus
has taken and arranged prevailing popular beliefs. By his
monotheism, which made Zeus supreme, he attained to the idea
of order in the universe. His conception of sin is one which
is not alien from some forms of modern thought, and his belief
in free-will and individual responsibility, exercised considerable
influence upon later philosophy.
Sophokles did not remain unaffected by the teaching of his
contemporary, though his nature was essentially different. His
works are to the works of Aeschylus, as the clear light succeeding
to a thunderstorm. He took the gain and added to it. We
shall see in what way.
Whatever had been the progress made by JEschylus, Sophokles
at once perceived that the mechanical and technical appliances
of the art, of which he now held supreme command, were by no
means perfect. It would be strange if they had been, while the
art itself was so young. The old monologue with the chorus as
interlocutor, gave place to the drama, when the earlier poet
introduced a second actor, and made dialogue possible. But
this, it is clear, left room for farther changes. Sophokles
availed himself of the opportunity. His first change was the
separation of the functions of author and actor. It is said that
he took this course for a personal reason, the weakness of his
own voice, which could not fill the vast space occupied by his
audience. But there was probably another reason also, the feeling
namely, that each character would more readily attain to its ade
quate excellence if separated from the other. He himself did
not take any leading character after the appearance of the
Triptolemus, but the care with which he trained his actors,
testifies to the importance which he attached to this branch of
the art. A more significant change was the introduction of a
third actor upon the stage. That this improvement was made
by Sophokles we have the testimony of Aristotle. It is possible
that even earlier, AEschylus may have used three actors, and it is
difficult to understand how some of the scenes of his earlier plays
�8
Sophokles.
could have been represented by two actors only, but the adoption
of this number as a permanent feature of each play, is due to
Sophokles. Besides these greater changes, no matter of detail
escaped him; we learn from the same source that he carefully
directed the arrangement of the scenery and the stage. The
palace of 2Eschylus, with doors central, right and left, gave place
to a more elaborate stage, and much art must have been required
in fitting the theatre for the scenery of the (Edipus at Kolonus.
Yet the greatest innovation was the mode which Sophokles
adopted in treating a subject itself. 2Eschylus wrote his dramas,
and treated the subject in the form of a trilogy. When Sophokles
abandoned this form of composition, and chose to develop his
subject in a single play, it is certain he risked much. But his
artistic sense could not err. What the poetical material lost in
breadth and depth, it gained in concentration and intensity. It
followed, that in the plays of Sophokles first was seen the real
spirit of Greek dramatic art, the perfect statuesque poise of form
and expression which we have learnt to look upon as the chief
characteristic of the Athenian drama.
We return to the year of the first victory of Sophokles, from
which these improvements have led us. It was a year marked
by an event of more importance for mankind than the supremacy
of Sophokles, the birth of Sokrates. Herodotus was then a boy
of sixteen years, Thukydides an infant of three, and Euripides a
child of twelve. Seven years later Perikles rose to the height
of his power, and Athens of her glory. This is the date of the
appearance of the Oresteian trilogy, a trilogy worthy of JEschylus
and of Athens, and the only one we possess. But it unquestion
ably exhibits marks of the influence of Sophokles. A third actor
appears in every play. Three years later fiEschylus died in Sicily,
and for the next fifteen years we know nothing of the personal
history of Sophokles. History has not much to say even about
the silent growth and development of the city under the govern
ing hands of Perikles, nor is it necessary that much should be
said when the memorials are imperishable. At the end of this
period, by some caprice of popular taste Euripides was allowed to
gain the first prize.
The next year Sophokles exhibited his Antigone.
It is almost as fatal to an author’s reputation to write too
much as it is to write too little. We learn that Sophokles had
written one-and-thirty dramas before he composed the Antigone;
yet if any of these lost dramas approached at all in majesty or
power the thirty-second, which remains to us, we may well
lament the irreparable theft of time. Perhaps they, as well as
the Antigone, aided in securing the election of Sophokles to a
general’s rank. The time at which it was exhibited has not
�Sophokles.
9
been fully illustrated by the luminous pen of Thukydides, but
some rays of historical light allow us to see the internal political
activity of the city. The establishment of a complete democracy
by Perikles and Ephialtes was not accomplished without much
resistance, and it was difficult to keep aloof from party strife.
The conservative or stationary faction, under the leadership of
Kimon, drew around them the wealthy Athenians, who saw
their oligarchical power passing away with the old order of
things. The centre of their union was the Council of the
Areopagus, and any change in that institution appeared to them
as sacrilege and profanity. But the victorious cause was with
their opponents. The Areopagites were stripped of their timehallowed privileges, which were certainly not in Accordance with
the spirit of a pure democracy. 2Eschylus had been a vigorous
partisan of the conservative party, and took occasion in his
Oresteian trilogy to inculcate popular respect for that court and
the other decaying institutions whose power Perikles and
Ephialtes sought to banish or curtail. And the artistic effect of
the poem is lessened by the zeal of the partisan. Muller says
with truth, that JEschylus seems almost to forget Orestes in the
establishment of the Areopagus and the religion of the Erinnys.
Sophokles never forgot that his first duty was to his art. And
so far is the
above the atmosphere of controversy
and dispute which blurred the Eumenides of ^Eschylus, that it
was actually claimed by both parties as a witness to their views,
and was received by both with un mixed applause. We cannot
wonder at it. No play of Sophokles seizes with such over
mastering power the human heart, no play is so full of noble
thought, and in no play is the lyric element so harmoniously
blended with the maich of events, accompanying it as with the
sound of serene and divine music.
The plot is as follows :—Eteokles and Polyneikes have fallen
at the gates of Thebes in contest: Eteokles fighting for the
Thebans, Polyneikes, with seven great princes, against them.
Both brothers perish, and Kreon is made king in the place of
Eteokles. At- once he issues a decree that Eteokles shall be
buried with due honours, and that the body of Polyneikes shall
be left unburied and exposed. When the drama opens, Antigone
has just heard of the proclamation of the decree. She therefore
suggests to her sister, Ismene, that they should bury the body of
their brother. Ismene shrinks from the attempt, and is met by
the full scorn of Antigone, who goes forth, daring “ a holy crime.”
Shortly the news is brought to Kreon that his authority has
been defied, and that rites of sepulture have been performed
upon the body. As yet the offender is unknown. But this is
soon revealed, and Antigone appears, led in by the guard. A
�10
Sophokles.
great scene follows, when Antigone appeals to > the divine
unwritten laws against human ordinances. Kreon pronounces
her doom ; she is to be buried in a living sepulchre—a bloodless
but horrible fate, not unknown of old. The action is, however,
delayed by the entrance of Hremon, Kreon’s son and Antigone’s
affianced husband, who pleads for her. Yet it is not to Kreon’s
paternal affection that he appeals, but to the principle which
the new king has set before himself—the safety and unanimity
of the state. There are already murmurs, indistinct but deep,
heard in the city against the severity of the king’s decree.
Kreon’s passion and blindness grow more intense as he listens to
his son, and before the king’s fiery words Hee mon is driven away,
crying that his father shall see his face no more. From the
depths of this-darkness the audience are lifted by the strains of
the Chorus, who sing, “ Love, ever victor in war and as their
music dies away, Antigone is led across the stage to her lingering
doom. Again the Chorus waken to music, but it is music in the
minor key, and can no longer lighten or delay the growing
terror. Teiresias, the blind but infallible prophet, appears, and
describes the imminence of the divine anger for Kreon’s crime.
His prophetic utterances terrify the king, who hurries to undo
the wrong he has committed. In vain. Upon reaching the tomb
of Antigone, he finds her hanging dead by her girdle to the
vaulted roof, and is in time only to receive the passionate curse
of his son, and to witness his self-inflicted death. When Kreon
reaches home, bearing the corpse of Haemon, he finds that
Rumour, swifter than his laden steps, has already told all to the
ears of his wife, and that she has slain herself in anguish and
despair. So all the fountains of feeling, young love and parental
affection, which can never be long pent up, have broken loose,
and are all the more terrible for the unholy obstructions which
they have swept away.
The character of the chief person, Antigone, stands forth
in just and magnificent proportions. All that is beautiful
in womanly nature—nay, rather in human nature—shine
forth from that supreme ideal, a mind that sees the right,
and a soul that dares to do it in the face of death. Never had
love and strength been so combined upon the Athenian stage,
and the Athenian spectators must have experienced the same
feeling in gazing upon that representation as pilgrims did when
they were ushered into the presence of the Olympian Zeus of
Phidias. We have lost the one? we can still be taught by the
other. The heart of man has not ceased to be shaken by the
contest which is waged between temporary expediency and selfish
interests on the one side, and on the other the unchanging
laws of higher duty, for these laws “ are not of to-day, nor of
�Sophokles.
11
yesterday, but they live always, and their footsteps are not
known.”
The secondary characters throw the figure of Antigone into
bolder relief. Ismene, who knows what is right, follows the way
which leads to personal security. The grandeur of Antigone dwarfs
even the natural nobility of her sister when she seeks to share the
death she has not earned. Kreon errs through insolence. He is
wanting in the vision which has made the path of Antigone clear ;
he has forgotten the rights of the gods, and his own way leads
to ruin. Only when this ruin is full in view does he perceive
that he has gone astray, and discover that there is something
higher than love to the state and to his country—loyalty to the
great unwritten laws. Nor does the character of Hsemon, noble as
it is, disturb the unity of the impression which we receive from
Antigone. She stands the central commanding figure of the
group. And as she thus stands alone, so in her the one promi
nent feature is her heroic allegiance to duty. Other traits there
are, but they serve to bring out this one characteristic. She is
no unwomanly person, portrayed in rough masculine lines. Her
language to Ismene, if it seems harsh, is forgotten when she says
to Kreon :
ou rot tnwEyOetv dXXd avp,^>iXAv tcpuv,
for we know that these words come from the depth of her nature.
Then, when the work which she has set herself has been accom
plished, when the expression of her natural feelings can no longer
mar or render equivocal her devotion to the dead, she breaks
into lamentations like those of the Hebrew daughter, which show
how tender and womanly alife is about to be sacrificed. Once only
before has she shown any indication of the mental struggle
through w’hich she has passed, and that is when strung by Kreon’s
unconcern she breathes forth the sighing complaint, “ 0 dearest
Hsemon, how thy sire dishonours thee !”* The delicacy with
which Sophokles has treated the ove of Hsemon and Antigone
secures still farther the predominant effect. It is hard to imagine
such restraint in modern art.
The Chorus, of whose surpassing melody mention has already
been made, had certain peculiarities in this play. It did not, like
most choruses, consist of persons of the same age and sex as the
principal actor, but of Theban elders. Nor did it at once take
part with Antigone. Even here she is left alone. But by its
submission to Kreon it serves to deepen the impression of the
* The MSS. gives this line (572) to Ismene. Schneidewin has rightly,
and for unanswerable reasons, assigned it to Antigone.
Dindorf and
Ribbeck agree with him.
�12
Sophokles.
monarch’s irresistible power : and by not participating at once in
the action, it is enabled to rise to a higher atmosphere of wisdom,
which culminates in the choric song,
7roXXa ra Seiva k.t.X.
So, too, in its last songs, the painful instances of suffering which
are recalled added to the darkness of Antigone’s fate.
The effect of this perfect drama upon the Athenians was great,
and as has been said, universal. Although Sophokles had hitherto
taken only that share in public life which was the duty of
every Athenian citizen, they now elected him as one of the
college of generals, at whose head was Perikles. It happened to
be the time of the war with Samos, which had revolted from
Athens, and the ten generals with sixty triremes sailed for that
island. Sophokles took sixteen of these ships and proceeded to
Chios and Lesbos, to procure a further contingent. At the former
island we hear of him through Athenreus, who records the opinion
of Ion, that he was not able nor energetic in political affairs, but
behaved as any other virtuous Athenian might have done.
(Ath. xiii. 81.) This assertion probably had its origin in the
playful self-depreciation with which Sophokles spoke of his own
strategic power ; and it is quite possible that Perikles treated his
poet-colleague with a good-humoured irony, which he accepted in
the same spirit. This view is borne out by the story which
Atnenseus tells of Sophokles : that, having snatched a kiss from
a fair face at Chios, he exclaimed amidst the laughter of the
company, “ Perikles says that I know how to compose poetry,
but have no strategic power; now, my friends, did not my
stratagem succeed ?” It is certain, however, that, whatever his
power as a general, he did not lose the confidence and affection
of his fellow citizens ; for, five years later, he was treasurer of the
common fund of the Greek Confederacy. Afterwards for nearly
thirty years we do not hear of his taking any part in public life.
But it was no time to him of intellectual inactivity. During this
period he wrote eighty-one plays, which is almost at the rate of a
trilogy a year. If we remember all that this includes—the com
position and the instruction of actors for so many and so fre
quently successfuldramas—we shall cease to wonder that Sophokles
did not seek to meddle with statesmanship. And once more we
shall regret that so little has come down to us of that abundant
intellectual wealth.
The commencement of the Peloponnesian war, and the
death of Perikles, turned one page of Athenian history ; but
Sophokles to the end of his long life continued to live in the
spirit of the Periklean age. Ten year after the appearance of the
Antigone he published the (Edipus Rex. The general outlines
of the story are easily told. Laius, King of Thebes, and J okasta
�Sophokles.
13
his wife, were told by the God at Delphi, that should they have
a son, Laius would be slain by his hand, and Jokasta would
become his wife. Therefore, when their son CEdipus was born,
they determined to destroy him, and gave him to a herdsman
that he might be cast out upon Mount Kithoeron. This herds
man, however, smitten with pity, gave the child to a comrade
shepherd, who carried him to Corinth, where the boy was adopted
as son by the king of that city. Many years afterwards, CEdipus
at Corinth heard the oracle which had been delivered concerning
him ; but he was still in ignorance as to his parentage. Think
ing, however, that he was the son of the king of Corinth, he left
Corinth lest the oracle should come true, and travelled towards
Thebes. Upon his way he met his real father, and a quarrel
having arisen, a contest ensued in which his father fell and all
those who accompanied him save one. (Edipus then arrived at
the kingless city of Thebes, which was ravaged by the murderous
Sphinx. He freed the city from the Sphinx and accepted the prof
fered throne, and with it the hand of the widowed queen, little
dreaming that she was his own mother. For years the city was
prosperous, and four children were born to him. Then a plague
fell upon the people. All this was before the action of the play
begins. An oracle now declares that the pestilence is sent because
Laius has been forgotten. His murderer must be ejected.
(Edipus pronounces a curse upon the unknown assassin, and
sends for Teiresias the blind seer, if peradventure he may be
able to declare the man. Teiresias, enlightened by his art,
scarce dares to tell what he knows, and is evilly treated by
CEdipus. Then Jokasta complicates the confusion. She openly
asserts her disbelief in oracles ; for her own son had been destined
by these lying witnesses to marry her; whereas he was slain, and
she was wedded to GEdipus. Yet out of this security
“ Surgit amari aliquid,”
Laius was slain at a “triple way
terrible words that
set sounding a sullen chord in the breast of (Edipus, for
long ago he slew a man upon a triple way. One witness there
was, and he is now summoned. Meanwhile a messenger
arrives to say that the king of Thebes, the reputed father of
(Edipus, is dead. This is a gleam of light upon the eyes of
CEdipus, for the oracle has been proved false.
The mes
senger has still farther comfort. CEdipus need not dread the
fulfilment of the oracle at all, since he is not the son of the king
and queen of Corinth, a fact dimly hinted before, but now for
the first time clearly told. Then whose son is he ? A new pas
sion seizes the king, and he is determined to unravel the mystery
of his birth. The messenger is able to aid him in this, for he
received the king as a foundling at the hands of a servant of
�14
Sophokles.
Laius. All is now ready for the catastrophe, which Jokasta, more
quickwitted than her son, at once foresees. The witness of his
murder of Laius, who at this moment comes up, is no other than
the herdsman who had given him as an infant to the Corinthians.
The electric circle is completed, the spark shatters the divine
edifice of royal prosperity and the hearts of the audience, and the
oracles of the gods are evidently true. Jokasta has already
ended her existence; and (Edipus. unable to endure the sight of
his own misery and that of his family, puts out his eyes.
There are several reasons why this drama should be assigned
to this period, notwithstanding the absence of authoritative data.
The vivid description of a pestilence was probably written by one
who had witnessed the virulence of the Athenian scourge. Some
commentators have believed the chorus tt poi
k.t.X. to have
reference to the mutilation of the Hermse. If this be true, the play
must necessarily be of later date than that supposed above. It
probably refers to the reckless spirit of licence w’hich exhibiteditself
in Athens as a reaction against the popular superstitions of the
earlier period, and which eventually led to the profanation. The
drama is in fact a protest against the disregard of religion, and a
magnificent exhibition of the vanity of human attempts to cross the
decrees of fate. In this respect it stands alone amongst the plays
of Sophokles. It depicts the contest of an honourable and noble
character with a foregone destiny. To add to the interest of the
picture, the man who is unable to solve the riddle of his own
history, is the one who alone was able to unravel the enigma
of human life proposed by the Sphinx, and it is only when the
eyes of his corporal vision are darkened for ever that the organs
of his spiritual sight are unclosed. At first his house is the only
one spared in the pestilence, and all eyes are directed to him as the
saviour of the state ; yet it is his house which is the cause of the
plague. Then his own blind eagerness to discover the regicide,
the curse which he unwittingly imprecates upon himself, 'the
gradual lifting of the curtain fold by fold till he breaks into the
exclamation,
lov, toil, ra navr av
<ra<p7j,
are terrible instances of the irony which Sophokles is accustomed
to ascribe to destiny, but nowhere so powerfully as in this play.
Surely but slowly the end approaches. Now the progress of
events is delayed by some joyous choric song like the imp tyii>
ptavriQ dpi, k.t.X. ; now there falls upon the play some beam of
hope which makes us believe that the gathering thunderstorm
will be dispersed or break up into sunny tears and the dewy
delight of averted calamity. But the vain hopes and the vanish
ing glory serve only as preludes to the complete darkness of the
catastrophe, which, at last, suddenly envelopes the w'hole heaven.
�Sophokles.
15
It is not only modern admiration which the play has won.
Aristotle has taken it as the model of a drama, and its effect
upon contemporary minds must have been great. It is equally
admirable as a whole and in single passages. The choruses are
generally like the atmosphere of the play, of a lurid and broken
colour, so that we know not whether light or darkness will
prevail. The earlier choruses approach in thought and expression
to the language of Milton, or of modern poetry. Thus the description of the rapid deaths in time of pestilence, so different as
it is from the picture given by Homer (II. 1) has that touch
about it which belonged later to Dante.
aXXor
av aXXp irpoffibote airep
kv7TTEpOV bpvcv,
Kpei&aoy apatpaKerov irupoQ Sp/ievoy
Q.KTCLV WpQQ ECTTTEpOU .&EOIK
“ And one soul after another might be discerned flitting like
strong-winged bird with greater force than invincible fire, to the
shore of the Western God.”
It recalls, too, the half-mediseval, wholly beautiful lines of Mr.
Rossetti in his poem of the “ Blessed Damozel.”
i
“ Heard hardly, some of her new friends
Amid their loving games
Spake evermore among themselves
Their virginal chaste names ;
And the souls mounting up to God,
Went big her like thinflames”
Another passage (lines 476 et seq.) is more Hebrew than
Greek in its description of the Cain-like homicide.
ipoird yap vir aypiciv
vXav, ava r ayrpa Kai
vrerpas are ravpos,
peXeo^ peXeip ~6ct ygripeviav,
ra. petropipaXa yaQ dirovoapiliiav
pavreia' rd 8’ dec
ZUvra irepcrrordrai.
"For sullenly turning his sullen step, he wanders moodily
under the wildwood, or amid caves and rocks, like a bull, and
avoids the divine voices that rise from the central oracle of the
land. But they live, and are whispered around him.”
Yet this incomparable poem won only the second prize; the
first was gained by the work of Philokles. Time, in preserving
this alone, has reversed the decision of the judges. The reason
of that decision may lie in the nature of the play itself. To the
Athenians, who after the taking of Miletus could not endure
�16
Sophokles.
the scenic shadow of their loss, the unsoftened representation of
their sufferings in the Theban plague, and the direct promulgation
of the doctrine of irresistible destiny may have seemed unwelcome
and ill-timed. And the conclusion of the play is less relieved
than that of any other. It is not broken up into those short
cries and natural lamentations, with which many tragedies
close, but solemnly and sadly to the beat of throbbing trochaics
the figures pass from the stage like the muffled pomp of a
funeral procession, and the curtain rises upon a silent- and awe
struck audience.
It is far otherwise with the (Edipus at Kolonus. Like the
Rhiloktetes, it has a plot which depends upon divine interven
tion, and one in which the sequence of the episodes is not
absolutely perfect in connexion, though each episode is perfect in
its own characteristic beauty. After the events depicted in
(Edipus Rex, the blind king with his daughters remained at
Thebes, until he and Antigone were thrust forth by Kreon. For
many long months they wandered through Greece, whilst Eteokles,
the younger son of CEdipus, drove out from Thebes Polyneikes
the elder, who betook himself to Argos and gathered an army to
make him king again. At last CEdipus and Antigone came to
the plain of Kolonus, near Athens. Here, beneath the shade of
an olive-grove, the aged king sits down to rest, and here an inward
confidence tells him that he is approaching the term of his suffer
ings. This olive-grove is sacred to the Furies, and it is sacrilege
for ordinary men to approach it. The news reaches Theseus that
stranger has set foot within the lioly precincts, and he hastens
to the place. Before his arrival Ismene comes in haste to tell
her father of the fratricidal war upon which her brothers have
entered, and that Kreon is hurrying to carry back CEdipus, since
an oracle has declared that his presence will bring victory on
either side. CEdipus pronounces a curse upon his son, and reveals
his intention of blessing Athens by remaining within her territory.
Theseus now arrives, and not ignorant of the responsibility he is
incurring, assures CEdipus of a courteous and secure hospitality.
CEdipus in return acquaints him with the benefits which his
presence will confer upon Athens, and the calamity which will
ensue to Thebes. Theseus accepts with confidence the divine
privilege which CEdipus offers, and once more assures him of his
protection. If ever a situation made a supreme demand upon
an Athenian chorus, it is the present. We have come to the
middle point between the beginning and the end of the action.
The Acropolis of Athens, though as yet unblessed by the works
of Phidias, rises within sight of the beholder. Kephissus draws
her silvery threads through the foreground, and the hero-prince
of Athens, in accepting the charge of CEdipus, unites the new and
�Sophokles.
17
the old, and links historic to heroic times. The music which
shall not mar the harmonious suspense of this situation must be
subtie indeed. But the music of Sophokles is never of a nega
tive kind. It increases and enhances the dramatic feeling.
Accordingly it is here that we find the greatest choric ode of the
Greek drama. The undying chords of the poem which follows
raise the mind of the hearer to a level with the exaltation of
CEdipus himself.
Pahttttov, Rve, raffle ^(ijpag.
“ Guest, thou art come to the noblest spot
Of all this chivalrous land.”
But this lofty tranquillity is broken by the entrance of Kreon,
who endeavours to persuade CEdipus to return to Thebes. Upon
his refusal, Kreon has recourse to violence, and carries off Anti
gone, Ismene having been previously secured. Theseus however
restores his daughters to the blind king. The next scene brings
upon the stage Polyneikes, who seeks reconciliation with his
father. This he does not succeed in obtaining, and he leaves
the stage begging for the kind offices of Antigone in his burial.
The play now draws to a close. The euthanasia of CEdipus is all
that remains. The hour of destiny has come, and the Passing
of CEdipus—no man knows where or whither—completes the
purpose of the gods.
A question so debated as the date of this play can scarcely be
Answered satisfactorily here. Critics both ancient and modern have
connected it with the latest period of the author’s life; but there
are portions of the drama which seem to belong to an earlier date,
and. to have reference to that period of reactionary licence which
was marked by the mutilation of the Hermse. By its subject it is
closely connected with the CEdipus Rex, and there is nothing im
probable in the supposition that even if it were first produced after
the author’s death, it was begun whilst the subject of CEdipus was
fresh in his mind. And if any parallelism is to be drawn
between Sophokles and the great German poet, this work may
well be compared with the “Faust,” from which the summa
manus was so long withheld. The allusions in the poem itself
do not fix it to any definite date. ' All that can be said with
certainty is that it is subsequent to the Antigone; for while
both plays that have CEdipus for their subject contain references
to the Antigone, that drama has not a single allusion to the
action of the other two. Whether, however, we are to credit it
with an earlier or later origin, we sh^ild be doing an injustice to
the spirit of Sophoklean poetry if we were to Suppose that
political allusions brought down the drama into a realistic atmo
sphere.’ It is idle to attempt to connect the Theban and Athenian
[Vol. XCIX. No. CXCV.J—New Series, Vol. XLIII. No. I.
C
�18
Sophokles.
struggle which the poet mentions, with any special date.
*
It is
more profitable to win the freedom of that ideal land in which
are brought together the blind old king and the hero of Athens.
In some respects the (Edipus at Kolonus differs from the
other dramas. There is in it a perplexing mixture of manner
which suggests both a return to the style of Aeschylus and a
concession to the growing influence of Euripides. The self
completion and perfection of outline, which marked the Antigone
and the (Edipus Rex are wanting here. The drama is the
fragment of a trilogy of Aeschylean breadth ; it is rhetorical and
lyric in the style of Euripides. The real Sophoklean charac
teristics are not, however, absent, sweetness and power of
expression, lofty and graceful sentiment, and a perfection of
rhythm and vivid delineation. But it is a series of linked
scenes rather than a drama proper. Of scenes that begin with
the peaceful olive grove, and end in the euthanasia of the
world-worn (Edipus. Nothing could be finer or more effective
than that touch of the pen of Sophokles which paints, not
indeed the death of (Edipus, but Theseus, who alone saw it,
with his face shaded by his hand, as though to shut out some
stupendous revelation. To this history of (Edipus Sophokles
has given the only satisfactory and worthy conclusion which
was possible. In his life he was a contradiction to the laws that
regulate human affairs ; he remained a contradiction in his
death. Others passed by the grove of the Eumenides with
bated breath and averted faces—he found there rest and a
conclusion of his toils. The grove trodden by Bacchus, nymphtraversed and nightingale-haunted, was to him, upon whom all
tempestuous airs had broken, a haven “ windless of all storms.”
And here the troubled life at length ceases, and peace is found
at last. In the choruses of this play the poet’s love of Athens
finds expression. Many poets had spoken with enthusiasm of
the “ violet-crowned city,” but never with such beauty and
exalted passion as does Sophokles in the ode, zviirirov,
k.t.X.
The legends connected with it are probably false, but they bear
witness to the opinion of the ancients concerning'it. Sophokles,
unlike his rivals in the dramatic art, remained true to his native
city. No offer of foreign patronage could tempt him to leave
Athens. Aeschylus died in Sicily, Euripides in Macedonia.
There were many princes who would gladly have welcomed
Sophokles to their courts—indeed, there were many who invited
him thither; but he remained unmoved by their offers, and
never left his city except to do her service and to further
* Schneidewin suggests the i7F7ro/xa^ta rts Bpax/ia ev Qpvpois, mentioned
Thukyd. ii. 22, as a possible occasion.
�Sophokles.
19
aer interests. The anonymous biographer says that he was
^adrivaioTaTOQ, (t most enamoured, of Athens.
And the city
repaid his affection. The same biographer says, “In a word,
such was the grace of his nature that he was beloved by all.
It is unfortunate—it is more than unfortunate—that of the
personal history of the poet we know so little. Few and far
between are the dates that we can assign to the events of his
life. The seventeenth year after the supposed date of the
(Edipus Rex saw the calamitous termination of the Sicilian
expedition. Amongst the names of the ten elderly men elected
Probuli to meet the emergency of the crisis, we find that ot
Sophokles. If this be indeed our poet, we have here another
instance of the confidence and love which the city felt towards
the tragedian, who was now eighty years old. The seventeen
years to which reference has been made are important in the
history of Greek literature. They include the birth of Plato, the
exhibition by Aristophanes of the Knights, the Clouds, and the
Peace, but they cannot definitely be connected with any play of
Sophokles. Possibly the Elektra falls within this period. It is
at any rate marked by the best characteristics of the poet. It
.dispenses with the breadth of treatment which a trilogy allows,
and concentrates the interest upon the action of a single play.
In the trilogy upon the same subject which AEschylus exhibited,
probably thirty years earlier, the death of Klytemnestra forms
an episode of the middle drama, and the ethical problem of
filial duty in antagonism to divinely-directed justice is sketched
only in outlines which leave much to be filled in.
Sophokles treated the subject as follows :—During the absence
of Agamemnon in the Trojan campaign, his wife Klytemnestra
formed an adulterous union with AEgisthus, and upon the return
of Agamemnon, slew her husband and wedded with AEgisthus.
Elektra, daughter of Agamemnon, fearing foul treatment for
her brother Orestes, then a child, sent him out of the country,
whilst she herself remained, together with her sister Chrysothenis,
at Argos, waiting for the manhood and return of Orestes to
claim his hereditary throne. When due time arrives, Orestes,
under the direction of Apollo, comes back to Argos unheralded
and unknown. He is accompanied by his faithful attendant the
Peedagogus, who brings to Klytemnestra an account of the death
of Orestes at the Pythean chariot contest. The play opens with
the arrival of Orestes and his attendant at Argos. Elektra comes
forth to bewail the death of her father and the delay of Orestes,
and is comforted by such consolation Us the chorus can offer her.
Next, Klytemnestra, who has been terrified by a dream, appears,
and
angry altercation takes place between her and Elektra.
When this is concluded, the Psedagogus enters and announces the
c 2
�20
Sophokles.
death of Orestes. The grief of Elektra occupies the attention of
the spectators until the entrance of the disguised Orestes and
Pylades his friend, bearing an urn which contains the pretended
ashes of Orestes. In the interview between Orestes and Elektra
which, follows, a recognition takes place, and nothing remains
to be done but to effect the revenge. Orestes therefore enters
the house and slays his mother, and ffEgisthus, upon his arrival,
shares the same fate.
The work of Sophokles is finer and fuller of artistic power
than the work of 2Eschylus. The character of Elektra is un
borrowed, and forms a contrast to that of the Aeschylean Elektra.
She, and not Orestes, is the centre of the action, and though
not the actual avenger, is really the prompter and promoter of
the deed. In the Choephorce we are perpetually reminded that
the death of Klytemnestra was the work of the gods; Elektra
falls into the background, a weak, suffering woman, whose
strongest trait is love for her brother, and he, a mere tool in the
hands of the deity, after numerous hesitations and delays in
accomplishing the divine purpose, becomes a victim of madness
and terror. The Sophoklean drama is more valuable than the
Aeschylean trilogy. In the Elektra we have, as in the Antigone,
a distinct and noble type of character set in full light and drawn
in clear lines of power. Elektra is the personification of justice
and fidelity, as Antigone is of love and strength. Like justice,
she never wavers from her purpose. When all hope of the
return of Orestes has ceased and his death seems certain, she
herself undertakes the work which should have been his, for
vengeance must be done, and the house of Agamemnon must
be freed from the accursed and abiding crime. And when
Orestes reveals himself as her brother, she does not leave the
central position of the group. One short burst of natural joy,
and she is ready to take any measures which may bring about
the punishment of the murderess. Nay, she stands on guard
while the deed is being done, and to the prayers of Klytemnestra
her answers are stern and inexorable as destiny. With subtle
words of double meaning she leads AEgisthus into the prepared
snare, and then forbids parley or delay—dXX’ wq rax^ra ktzivs,
she says—and the house of Athens is freed from its long and
intolerable servitude.
The character of Elektra, as we see it in its final manifestion, is
as terrible as it is grand. Klytemnestra endeavours to justify her
owm conduct, and to represent it as righteous; but Elektra strikes
the key-note in her long nightingale lament, when she says,
ooXoc r/i' 6 (ppaaac, tpoc o tcrtlvac.
Chrysothenis, weak and vacillating, ready to condone the past
�Sophokles.
21
and enjoy the present, serves as a foil to the stronger character
of her sister. The same may be said of the Chorus,, which
although sympathetic, does not rise to the same heights of
sublimity or lyric sweetness as in the other plays of Sophokles.
Dr. Ribbeck sees here a reason for believing the Elektra to be
an early work. Yet it is not the lyric element which we should
expect to see failing in a younger work, and the conception and
delineation of character in the Elektra is of the highest kind.
The balance of proportion between the brother and sister is
admirably kept. Orestes is not the instrument of the gods,
though under their protection, but of Elektra. By her side he
must not waver, he must proceed at once to vengeance.
That portion of the ethical question which yEschylus has
indicated in the Eumenides does not come into the drama of
Sophokles.
The description of the chariot race has always been regarded
with justice as a masterpiece of art, and there is scarcely any
thing more touching in literature than the scene which describes
the recognition of brother and sister, and the rapid change of
mood, which, in broken iambics, passes from hopeless sorrow into
Overpowering joy.
In the Elektra, Sophokles presents before us a character,
which, as it were, wrestles with destiny, and conquers ; in the
Ajax we have a character ennobled by its very defeat.
Ajax was the most distinguished of the Greek generals in the
Trojan war, next to Achilles, and upon the death of Achilles a
dispute arose for the arms of that hero. The claimants were
Ajax and Ulysses, and the arms were adjudged to the latter. Full
of anger at this decision, Ajax determined to slay both Ulysses
and the Atridse, who had acted as arbitrators; but as he was
going by night to accomplish his revenge, he was inspired with
madness by Athene, whose aid he had previously rejected. In
this madness he fell upon the flocks of cattle around the camp,
and slew some and carried others to his tent, thinking he had
captured in them his rival and his enemies. When day dawns
his right mind returns, and he is overwhelmed with the ignominy
of his position and resolves to put an end to his life. This he
accomplishes by falling upon his sword. The Atridee command
that his body should be left unburied, but Teucer resists
them, and he is honourably buried. This drama is placed
here, not because it certainly belongs to this period, but
because its date is undetermined and undeterminable. Schneidewin and others assign it to an earlier period, make it indeed
nearly contemporary with the Antigone, both on account
of its resemblance in lyric measures to the 2Eschylean dramas,
and on. account of the rarity with which a third actor is brought
�22
Sophokles.
forward. But the Antigone sufficiently shows that Sophokles
had passed this stage. Others see in the speeches which follow
the suicide of Ajax an approximation to the rhetorical style of
Euripides. Those who adopt a middle course, will place it rather
in the long undated period, when the literary activity of
Sophokles was at its height. It is a poem in which the national
feeling of Athens was likely to find especial gratification. Of all the
heroes celebrated in the Iliad, Ajax was the only one that Athens
could claim as connected with herself. Salamis had been in
close union with Athens from immemorial time, and one Athenian
tribe took its name from Ajax. Herodotus tells us (viii. 64), that
before the battle of Salamis, the Athenians prayed to all the
gods, and to Ajax and Telamon. This connexion gives rise to
the beautiful ode
<j) tcXeiva 'SiaXap.tQ k.t.X.
The drama opens with a scene which breathes the frenzy of fierce
hatred and lust for murder that mark Northern poetry rather
than Greek. Yet it serves to set a stamp upon the character of
Ajax, and to indicate his disposition, not without a warning note
of admonition. The degradation into which Ajax has fallen is a
punishment for the excess of that self-reliance which forms a
heroic character, the first sin which he commits is insolence
(w/3pic). When setting out to battle, he rejected the pious prayer
of his father, that he might wish to be victorious by the help of
the gods, and added the vaunt, “With a god’s help, even a
man of nought may win the victory; but I, I trust, without
God’s help shall be victorious.” And in the battle itself, when
Athene proffered aid, he bade her go elsewhere, for he would
none of it. Such is the disposition of the man who finds too late
that he is powerless against the gods. But against disgrace his
unyielding mind still contends. The real interest of the drama
lies in the moral conflict between heroic independence and the
necessity of submission to higher authority. The motives for
submission are forcibly brought out, the agony of disgrace, and
the strength of domestic affection. The turning point is reached
when Ajax says—“ I, once as strong as steel, have now been
softened by the words of this woman as steel is softened by the
bath, and I shrink from leaving amongst my enemies, her a
widow, and my son fatherless.” Yet from the shame there is
now but one escape, and from that he does not shrink—death.
But ere he goes to the baths of ocean and the sea-marge, where
he may appease the wrath of the goddess by his death, he freely
acknowledges his error. Honour and authorrty are worthy of
submission. Snowfooted winter yields to blooming spring, and
dark-tiaraed night gives place to bright-crowned day. Life is full
of change, so he too bends to authority, fears God and honours
�Sophokles.
23
the Atridse. Another scene reveals Ajax about to put an end
to the life he can no longer honourably cherish. His last prayer
is earnest and simple—That Teucer' may first raise his body,
and give it rites of sepulture; that Hermes may grant him
funeral escort; and that Helios may rein in his golden car, and
tell the sad news to his aged father and mother. Then follows
the farewell of the Greek to the bright sun, a long adieu to
Salamis and illustrious Athens, and all the plains and crystal
founts of Troy.
It is perhaps worth pointing out that this drama has severa
Shaksperian peculiarities. As in the works of our own drama
tist, overflowing sorrow finds relief in a play upon words.
aiai, r/c av ~or we0’ wi’ £7rwrvjuor
TOVjJ.OV
OVO/J-Cl TOIQ EpLOLQ KCLKOLQ j
The speech already referred to (line 646), which describes in the
form of a soliloquy a moral crisis, is in the manner of the English
writer, and the final monologue of Ajax recalls the meditation
of Hamlet.
Minuter resemblances might be noted. The cry of the sailors
in their search for their lost chief—ttovoq Trouw ttovov <pep&c—may
almost be translated by the “ Double, double toil and trouble
of the Witches in. Macbeth.
But a more characteristic peculiarity of the drama is the sea
air which blows through it, and the number of nautical allusions
which must have been grateful to a seafaring people. Sophokles
never forgets the mariners of Athens in his eulogies of the city.
In the great choric song of the (Edipus at Kolonus, the crowning
glory of the land is “ the well-used oar fitted to skilful hands,
that leaps through the sea in the train of the hundred-footed
Nereids,” and here from the first we are thrown into sailor
company. It is to the “ shipmates of Ajax, from over the sea/’
that Tecmessa turns in her trouble, and it is they who search
for their lost leader at the last, though Sophokles with poetic
propriety reserves the discovery of his body for Tecmessa herself.
And to the sea the thoughts of Ajax turn in his despair :
“ 0 ye paths of the watery reach,
O ye caves of the sea,
O ye groves of the Ocean beach,
Where my steps were wont to be.”
By the death of the hero atonement for all his sins is made,
and his body is honourably buried by' the sea he loved.
It is a real satisfaction to arrive at a period when we can
attach a date to a play of Sophokles. In B. C. 409 appeared the
Philoktetes. Before this time Athens had passed through
�24
Sophokles.
the conspiracy of the Four Hundred, and had seen the recall
of Alkibiades. In the measures of the oligarchical body we are
told Sophokles concurred, not because they were good, but
because they were expedient. “ ov yap vjv aXXa /BeXn'w/’ are
the words attributed to him. The anecdote, however, may
possibly refer to another Sophokles. It is possible also that
Sophokles had little sympathy with the later democracy, which
may have alienated amongst others the mind of the poet. But
his poetry retained the astonishing energy and freshness of his
younger days. The Philoktetes shows no sign of the, decay of in
tellectual power. It is worthy of the first prize which it received.
The subject was not a new one upon the Attic stage. kEschylus
and Euripides had handled it before, and other tragedians
had aided in making it familiar to an Athenian audience.
Sophokles, while adopting the well' known mythical outlines
as the groundwork, succeeded in lending the drama a new
and powerful motive. These outlines are to be found in
Homer. (II. 2. 716). Philoktetes, carrying the arrows of Her
cules, joined the expedition against Troy, but being wounded
in the foot by a serpent, he was left in the island of Lemnos.
In the tenth year of the war it was predicted by a Trojan
prophet that Troy could only be taken by the arrows of
Hercules, then in the possession of Philoktetes. Accordingly
Ulysses and Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, were sent to Lemnos
to bring Philoktetes with his arrows to Troy. The play opens
with the landing of these messengers upon the island of Lemnos.
Ulysses tutors Neoptolemus in deceit, and urges him to gain
possession of the arrows by falsehood. Neoptolemus obeys, and
having persuaded the suffering Philoktetes that he is about to
take him home is entrusted with the arrows. When Philoktetes
discovers the treachery that has been practised upon him, he
endeavours to commit suicide, but is prevented. Feelings of pity
and compassion now come upon Neoptolemus, and he restores
the arrows in spite of the angry remonstrances of Ulysses. The
mission has thus nearly failed of its object, when Hercules de
scends from heaven, and bids Philoktetes proceed to Troy, where
he shall win renown and be healed of his sore disease. The
interest of the play does not centre in the person whose name
it bears, but in the person of Neoptolemus. It is his character
that Sophokles has brought out from the massive block of
tradition in proportions of exceeding beauty. Between Philok
tetes hardened by suffering, and Ulysses wily and wise, the openhearted son of Achilles stands forth a contrast to both. This
contrast of character, together with the dramatic development of
natural nobility in the person of Neoptolemus, is the work of
Sophokles alone, and bears his stamp. The minor characters
�Sophokles.
25
are powerfully drawn. Philoktetes is immovable in his love to
his friends and in his hatred to his enemies. The extreme
agonies of physical suffering which wring from him cries and
groans, leave him still tears for the misfortunes of his friends
and imprecations for his foes. He is, in the words of Lessing,
a rock of a man,”* a hero still, though life has lost all that is
worth living for, except constancy and submission to the gods.
The Ulysses of this drama is differently portrayed from the
Ulysses of the Ajax, and the Ulysses of Homer. He is brought
forward in an ungracious part, and one more in accordance
with the role he takes in the plays of Euripides. He counsels
deceit and is willing to attain his end by means honourable or
dishonourable. We must not however forget that this end is
the well-being of the Greeks, and that the means are poetically
justified by his knowledge that neither persuasion nor violence
will avail to shake the firmness of Philoktetes. The psycholo
gical interest lies then in the struggle through which the mind
of Neoptolemus has to pass. On the one hand, with the bow of
Philoktetes he may win undying renown by the taking of Troy,
but he must desert and deceive his father’s friend, leaving him
doubly desolate and deprived of the means of supporting his
piteous existence. On the other hand he must bear the bitter
reproaches of Ulysses, the loss of the promised glory, and the
failure of the Achaean arms, but he will have respected the
rights of a suppliant and his plighted word. How will the
struggle end ? The sincerity of a noble nature prevails. Already
the treachery inspired by Ulysses has been successful; the bow
of Philoktetes is in his hand, but he can no longer endure the
part he has been compelled to play: he leaves the path of deceit
into which he has been misled, and assumes the character which
he has already shown to be his. The intervention of the “ deus
ex xnachina ” serves only to j ustify what has happened, it neither
diminishes the interest nor interferes with the action of the play.
The psychological question has been already answered.
The Trachinice is to be considered a later work than the
Philoktetes. Otherwise it is probable that Sophokles would
have used the connexion that lies in their subjects. For the bow
of Philoktetes was none other than that bequeathed him by
Hercules at his death. The Trachinice tells the story how
the death of Hercules was unwittingly brought about by his wife
Deianeira. Many years before the opening of the play, Hercules
had slain the Centaur Nessus by means of his unerring and
poisoned arrows. As he was dying, the Centaur bade Deianeira
take of the blood of his wound and the poison of the arrow, and
* “Laokoon,” ch. iv. p. 34.
�26
Sophokles.
preserve it, for it would prove an unfailing philtre to recover her
husband’s affection if he ever forsook her for another woman.
When the play opens, Hercules has been long absent, but is now
returning with captives, the reward of his victorious arms.
Amongst these captives, who arrive at Trachis before Hercules,
is the beautiful Iole, and Deianeira is not long in learning that
she it is who now possesses the affections of her husband. There
fore she imbues a garment with the philtre she had received
from Nessus, and sends it to Hercules, bidding him wear it whilst
transacting the sacred rites of Zeus. The venom of the mixture
does not fail in its efficacy. It seizes at once upon the body of
Hercules, who is consumed with intolerable burnings. In the
agony of death he orders himself to be borne home, but the news
flies before, and Deianeira ends her life with her own hand. Upon
his arrival, Hercules bids his son Hyllus erect a funeral pile for
him on Mount Oeta, and after his father’s death marry Iole.
The drama concludes with the promise of Hyllus to obey his
father.
The opinions as to the value of the drama have been
various. A. W. Schlegel deemed it of far inferior merit to that
of the other plays, and many modern readers have agreed with
him. Schneidewin, a critic of weightier authority, places it ex
ceedingly high amongst the works of ancient art. In looking at
it, however, we must regard it as a diptych rather than a single
picture. From this circumstance it suffers perhaps when compared
with the other works by the same author. Nevertheless each
part has its own merit. In the first part the figure of Deianeira
forms the centre; in the second, the half-divine half-savage cha
racter of Hercules exercises a strange imperious fascination upon
the spectator. Nothing can be more delicately and finely
represented than the amiable character of Deianeira, the faithful
and forgiving wife. It is in the true colour of Sophoklean irony
that the sympathy of a tender nature which leads her to express
pity for the captive woman, draws her most closely to Iole, who
is the cause of her misfortune. And it is the very strength of her
love for Hercules which brings about his ruin and her own. The
first part of the Trachinice may indeed be ranked with the best
dramatic exhibitions of character. Nor is it deficient in those
cross lights and special excellences in which the best abound. The
self-devotion and feminine dignity of Deianeira reaches its climax
when she implores Lichas to tell her the whole truth :—
ph 'ttvQegQu.i tovto p aXyovsiEV av‘
c’ EtSevat tI Seivov ; ov^l ^ciTEpas
teXelcetciq dv^p eiq HpaKXrjg EyypE c)/;;
kovttii) tlq avT(Sv ek y Epov Xoyov KOKOV
TJVEyKa.T' ovZ' ovelZoq.
to
to
�27
Sophokles.
This is in the very spirit of mediaeval devotion, and almost
in the words of the “ Nut-browne Mayde
“ Though in the wode I understode
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought
But that I will be your.
And she shall find me soft and kynde,
And courteys every hour.”
*
For vigorous word-painting, the passage which describes the
virulent corruption of the poisoned wool rotting away into nothing
ness, is unsurpassed. (Lines 695 et seq.)
The second portion of the diptych is less agreeable to modern
feeling, since the character of Hercules seems little fitted for the
tragic stage. By his semi-divinity he is above humanity, by his
semi-brutality he is below it. Hercules suffering is most likely
to gain our sympathy ; for the picture of excessive suffering is
redeemed from the peril of awaking horror or disgust by the
consistency and firmness of Hercules. He meets death with his
spiritual strength still unbroken, and his self-possession when he
recognises his real position changes the grief of the spectator into
admiration of his undaunted fortitude.
The marriage which he is represented as proposing between
Hyllus and Iole, however repugnant to modern, feeling, was too
firmly an article of popular belief rooted in popular tradition to
be neglected in the drama.
Nor does Herodotus (vi. 52) deem the tradition unworthy of
notice, since it was from Hyllus that he traced the descent of the
Dorian invaders of the Peloponnese.
The link which binds together the two portions of the drama
and preserves the unity of the action is the magic poison of the
Centaur. In the first part we have the motives which lead up
to its use; in the second we see its effects. The same protagonist
took the parts both of Deianeira and of Hercules.
The long and illustrious life of Sophokles was now drawing to
a close—a life more enviable, perhaps, than that of any man
who has lived so long. He had seen the growth of the Athenian
state ; he was spared the sight of her last declining days. He
was the contemporary of all the great men who had made Athens
glorious ; and he was the personal friend of many of them. Ten
years older than Euripides, he yet survived him, and lived to see
his own son Iophon wearing the ivy crown. One pleasing anec
dote is told of the last year of the poet’s life. When the news of
the death of Euripides in Macedonia reached Athens, Sophokles
was preparing a tragedy for exhibition. As a last tribute of
respect to the memory of his rival, he himself appeared in
mourning at the head of his chorus, and the choral company
�28
Sophokles.
were without the wreaths which they were accustomed to
wear. The wife of Sophokles was a native of Athens and was named
Nikostrate. By her he had one son, Iophon, already mentioned.
By Theoria of Sikyon he was the father of Ariston, whose son,
Sophokles, reproduced the (Edipus ad Kolonus two years after
the death of his grandfather. A story related by Cicero, and
often repeated, asserts that Iophon brought his father before the
Phratores on the ground of mental incapacity to manage his own
affairs. There is much improbability in the story and we may
well discredit any tradition of dissension in the family of
Sophokles. Hardly, if the story be true, could the comic writer
Phrynikus have written, as he did, a few months after the poet’s
death, a lament with the concluding words—
KaXwg
eteXeudjct’
inrop-EivaQ micov.
The immediate occasion of his death is unknown, and various
accounts are extant. One tradition asserts that it was joyous
excitement at again winning the tragic prize. Beit so. kuXwq
S’ EreXEurr/crEv. In the year B.C. 406, the year of the battle of
Arginusse, Athens lost her two great tragic writers, Sophokles
and Euripides.
Our consideration of the plays will be more than imperfect
unless we examine briefly the religious views with which they
are interpenetrated and coloured. What was the religious
position of the mind that conceived and brought them forth?
Art and religion have often been combined, but never more
intimately than in the dramas of Sophokles. rsyovs Ss koI
Oeo([>lXt)G o
wc
ovk. aXXoq,
says the anonymous
biographer: “ Sophokles was beloved of the gods as no other.”
And the attitude of the poet’s mind was one of reverent, almost
superstitious, adoration of the gods. ZEschylus, no less than
Sophokles, believed in the nothingness of human nature and the
omnipotence of Zeus. For man he marked out a narrow path
beyond which he could not go without offending those unsleeping
powers which punish the insolence of men to the third and fourth
generation of them that transgress. This narrow path he named
crw^poo-vvz/; Sophokles called it tvKpjtta, reverence.
In the Elektra the chorus says to Elektra (1093)
“ Thus have I found thee not in prosperous case
Advancing, but of all the highest laws
Wearing the crown by reverence (suth/SEta) of Zeus.”
And in the same play, commending her language, the chorus
says (464)
“ The maiden speaks with reverence.”
�Sopholdes.
29
In the chorus of the (Edipus Rex (863) the doctrine of
tvatflua is laid down at length. And in the praise which CEdipus
gives to Athens ((Ed. Koi. 1125) the highest is that she is the city
where Reverence dwells:—
E7TEI TO y EVffefjEC
povotQ irap vpiv -qvpov avOpuiruv Eya>.
How comes it then, if this be a chief article in the religion of
Sophokles, that so many of his characters are found speaking
against the gods ? The number of characters who so speak is
not very great. Tecmessa accuses Pallas of working the bane of
Ajax (Ag. 652). Philoktetes doubts the justice of the gods
(Phil. 447), and again (1035). Hyllus (Trach. 1266) speaks
Still more harshly of their unkindness, and reproaches (1272)
Zeus himself. But it is to be remembered that Sophokles him
self does not always speak by the mouth of his characters. Their
verisimilitude lends a force and warmth to the personification
which is absent from the poems of ZEschylus. It is quite in keep
ing with the Sophoklean stage that his dramatispersonce should
not be without a tinge of popular superstition. Instances may be
selected. Thus, Teucer is persuaded that the sword of Hector
was fabricated by the Erinnys ; Hercules calls the fatal robe
which takes away his life a web of the Erinnys ; Deianeira is
the victim of a popular superstition when she sets her hopes upon
a love-charm ; and the guardians of the corpse of Polyneikes are
instances of a similar delusion, when they believe that the unseen
burial was supernatural.
But Sophokles, as he bad received from the hands of ZEschylus
the drama already formed, so, too, he accepted from him a body
of religious doctrines already in advance of popular belief. Nor
was the progress which he inaugurated in this line of thought
less striking than his development of the dramatic art—as far
as the liberation of human thought is concerned it was more
important. ZEschylus, as we have seen, attributed the misfortunes
of mortals to a judicial blindness, the consequence of previous
guilt whereby a man falls into greater sin and supreme destruc
tion. His teaching is the teaching of Eliphaz the Temanite ;
* Remember, I pray thee, who ever perished being innocent ? or
when were the righteous cut off?” (Job iv. 7.) Sophokles dis
tinguished between the guilty blindness and involuntary crime.
With regard to the former he held the same position as did
ZEschylus. When a mortal willingly, and with full intent, com
mits a crime, the Deity punishes him with moral madness ; he
is delivered over to Alastor. Yet for all the actions committed
in this madness, he, and none other, is responsible. It is so with
Ajax. He deliberately rejects the aid of Athene, and falls into
a madness from which there is no escape. It is so with Kreon.
�Sophokles.
30
He designedly neglects the honour due to the gods below, and
pursues a course which is the result of madness. The chorus
recognise the chastisement of a divine hand when -ne.y speak
Kreon as—
ayfjp ettiirppov c/,a ytipoc
<■ idspiQ enrEiv, ovic aXXoTplav
li-ry aXX avrOQ anaorcov.
and he himse acknowledges it (1272),
paQibv cdXacoc. ev 3’ ejjm
Kapa
Oeoq tot apa tote piya fodpoc p
£7raicrEr.
But from this frenzy, involuntary guilt is separated by a wide
interval. As Ajax is a striking instance of the one condition, so
CEdipus is of the other. The contrast between the two is sharp
and complete. CEdipus is presented to us as a righteous prince,
wise above the common standard of humanity, for he alone could
solve the riddle of the Sphinx—as god-fearing, for he never doubts
the oracles of the gods. When he hears of the death of his sup
posed father, Polybus, there is mingled with his first cry of
wonder a note of distress for the credit of the oracle.
(pEu' (p£i>, ri cfjT ay w yvvat., <tkotto~it6 tiq
Trjv HvdopayTtv EGTiav ((Ed. R. 966.)
The sins which he committed were all involuntary, and he
repeatedly asserts it.
TTEirovdor
egti
ra y spya pov
paXXoy 7/ CECpaKOTa.
Yet upon him descend the heaviest misfortunes. What is the
conception which Sophokles designs to express by this ? There
is n'o answer in the CEdipus Rex ; it is found in the CEdipus at
Kolonus. It is this answer withheld that so closely unites the
former and the latter dramas. In the latter, CEdipus comes
before us under the guidance and protection of the gods. They
have used him for their purpose, a divine one, an unknown and
mysterious one, but a just one ; and now, having drunk the cup
of sorrow to the dregs, he is their sacred and especial care. He
himself says (287)
77/cw yap tpoc ev'teI'ji'iq te Kai (bepivv
OV'fjO’lV aOTOlQ TO~l(TC)E.
And therefore his passage from life is gentle and kindly. He
is not, for God takes him. As his life has been beyond all others
wretched though morally guiltless, so his death has beyond all
others a fuller promise of happiness.
If we gather up the teaching of Sophokles upon this point, we
find —That the gods have a great progressive plan of the
�Sophokles.
31
Universe, which they carry out in spite of, or sometimes by
means of individual suffering. That every man who seeks to do
right is, notwithstanding his misfortunes, under their protection,
and will finally be rewarded according to his merit. That volun
tary guilt tends to worse, and lastly to ruin. This advance from
the religious position of JUschylus is great, but it leads to results
no less important. It leads, firstly, to the possibility of making
a consciousness of right and justice an acting moral power. Thus
CEdipus sets before his daughters (Gild. K. 1613) as a recompense
for their laboursand sufferings on his behalf, the consciousness
that they had done their duty and won his love. Elektra and
Antigone are penetrated with this feeling. Elektra says (352)
“ Be it my only reward that 1 am conscious of doing my hard
duty?’ The sentiment of Antigone is the same (460) :
“ That I shall die I know without thy words,
And if before my time ’tis gain to me.”
This teaching of Sophokles is a herald of the truth declared
by Plato, that the moral consciousness of right in a man’s own
heart is the measure of his happiness.
Secondly, and here we must touch upon the mystic side of the
religion of Sophokles, it imbues his dramas with a lofty spiritual
ism. It stands in opposition to the religion of rite and profession.
It calls for the spirit and not the letter. CEdipus (CEd. K. 498)
declares that the sacrifice of one pure soul rightly offered, avails
more than ten thousand which are not so given. It adds a sig
nificance to the sincere unspoken prayer, for the god hears it
before it is said. Klytemnestra will not utter her prayer (El. 637)
for the god knows her desire, though she may not put it into
words. And the voice of the god speaks within the breast of
man to guide and direct him. This inward voice brought
CEdipus to the grove of the Eumenides, as he himself says (CEd.
K. 96) and led him—adtKrov riyprripo^—to his last restingplace.
°
And thirdly, it finds a place in the religion of Sophokles for
the doctrine of the immortality of the soul.
This doctrine was only dimly present to the popular mind ; it
was no active moral power. The motive to justice and righteous
ness lay in the fear of punishment in this life—of punishment at
the hands of the civil magistrate or the offended deity. True, in
Hades the unholy were unholy still, and suffered a shadowy
retribution for their crimes, but the real punishment was in this
life. Sophokles recognised a purer motive for human action, the
love of right for its own sake, and for the sake of the divine
approval. Antigone can look forward to a long and joyous
Existence with the dead (Ant. 73-76), for with them she will
*
�32
Sophokles.
dwell for ever. And so the highest duty is the duty of living
in accordance with the will of the gods, careless of praise or blame,
reward or punishment, from any but Their hands, and with eyes
directed to that other life, where wrongs are righted and where
j ustice is done.
ETTEl TtXeI(i)V XPOVOQ,
ov c?t p apEffKELV toIq Kara tojv oEvdai>E,
ekei yap asi KEi.trop.ai.
The monologue of Ajax sets this point of view rstill farther in
contrast with that of fiEschylus. 2Eschylus has exemplified the
terrors of conscience with appalling power in the persons of
Klytemnestra and Orestes, but the passion which he represents
is rather that of remorse than that of penitence. The fear of
punishment is the moving cause of terror. In the ethics of
Sophokles, conscience leads to a penitent recognition of personal
guilt and a desire of amendment—
ypsle ce irait; ov yvcvaopsaOa triotppovsiv;
is the cry of Ajax when he seeks to atone for his crimes by a
voluntary death. And the same moral revolution is exhibited
in the case of Kreon. (Ant. 1319.)
Thus in the hands of Sophokles, religion passed from a nega
tive to a positive phase. It was no longer sufficient as in the
time of AEschylus to live a quiet life with no overweening self
exaltation or insolent rivalry of the gods, but heart and hand
must be alike pure, and both devoted to the service of the gods.
Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, in his essay upon the “ Education
of Humanity,” has traced the process by which a single nation
rose stage by stage to fuller knowledge. The nation which he
selected was the Hebrew nation, but it is not the only one which
submitted to the divine education. In the works of Sophokles
we see the Greek mind passing to a higher stage. It is not a
final stage ; that can never be reached as long as humanity
endures, but it is one that could give strength and confidence to
minds that loved the truth. That it did so to the mind of
Sophokles himself we may learn from his works. The per
fection of restraint and repose which reigns like a summer
atmosphere in his compositions, is the result not only of a mastery
of diction and a supreme command of art. The knowledge of
the sorrows of humanity and a co-existing capacity of beholding
above alia ruling order, which recompenses and atones for all,
are the characteristics which give an immortal interest to the
dramas of Sophokles.
They reveal to us a man who was
indeed OeoQiXpq “ beloved of God.”
And however dimly his contemporaries may have understood
the humane theology which pervaded his works, they understood
�Sophokles.
33
time of his death the Lacedaemonians were threatening Athens
from Deceleia. The family burial-place of Sophokles lay eleven
stades from Athens, upon the road to Deceleia. When Lysander
the Spartan heard that Sophokles was dead, he granted a free
pass to the funeral procession, and the body of the great
tragedian was laid to rest under the protection of the Lacedae
monians. Nor were there wanting due tokens of respect at the
hands of his fellow-citizens. As a hero they honoured him with
a' yearly sacrifice. A siren was sculptured upon his tomb, to
indicate the entrancing sweetness of his strains, and Simmias the
pupil of Sokrates wrote his epitaph. Forty years after his
death, his bust was placed in the Athenian theatre, and the state
took in charge the text of his works.
And yet against the life of Sophokles there are those who
bring the charge of impurity and immorality. Such a charge
we can but dismiss with indignation. A few anecdotes retailed
*
by that prurient collector of slander, Atheneeus, form the body
of the charge. They are not worth the time that would be spent
in contradicting them. There is nothing in Plato, there is nothing
in Plutarch that can sully the pure lustre of the name of
Sophokles. Plutarch indeed relates (Perikles, viii.) that upon
one occasion Perikles bade Sophokles remember that a man
must not only keep his hands pure, but his eyes from beholding
evil. If there is in this anything more than a commonplace
application of a moral maxim, it is a testimony that at least the
hands of the poet were pure. Of his thoughts as mirrored in
his writings we can ourselves judge. Aristophanes amidst all
his baseless attacks upon his contemporaries, never brought this
charge against Sophokles; modern writers with less knowledge,
have had greater audacity. This, however, matters but little to
him or to us.
In looking back upon the life of Sophokles as a whole, perfect
and radiant, it is difficult to find in the range of literature another
like it. From his boyhood to his death, there seems to be
nothing to mar the beauty of his career. Germans find an
analogous instance in the life of Gothe, but the analogy does not
go far. Both Sophokles and Gothe lived long, and won that
favour from their countrymen which is generally given to the
illustrious dead alone. Each of them possessed the highest
culture of his time, and aided the diffusion of that culture. The
comparison cannot in reality go much farther. The life of Gothe
is open to us in its minutest details : we are compelled to be
satisfied with the merest outline of the life of Sophokles.
Gothe has dissected for us (not without vanity) his own
sentiments, emotions, and passions. Only behind the works of
Sophokles can we discern the calm and majestic figure of the
[Vol. XCIX. No. CXCV.]—New Series, Vol. XLIII. No. I.
D
�34
Sophokles.
Greek poet. Yet the dimmer personality is not the less
impressive. To something of the calm which belongs to the
works of Sophokles, Gotbe could, and did attain ; but it is the
same with a difference. Gothe by a sublime selfishness, and his
progress marked with the sorrows which he caused, rose into a
clear intellectual ether. Sophokles brought down the wisdom of
another sphere to brighten the ways of men. The one was a
child of earth who made a path for himself to the serene heights ;
the other was a son of Olympus, about whom the inextinguish
able glory of his birthplace shone for the delight and instruction
of the world.
P.S.—Two editions of Sophokles, at present only published in
part, will go some way towards familiarizing English students with
the spirit of Sophokles. The one is by Mr. Jebb, Public Orator of
Cambridge, the other is by Professor Campbell of St. Andrews.
As a portion only of each edition is before the public, it has
been deemed better to exclude them from comment in the body
of this paper, but this much may be said, that we can hope every
thing from the complete edition by Professor Campbell. His
essay on “ the Language of Sophokles ” is admirable and
exhaustive, and the notes and introductions to the plays already
published are full of refined and suggestive enthusiasm.
Mr. Jebb has set forth his views upon the genius of Sophokles
in a lecture recently delivered at Dublin, and since published in
Macmillan’s Magazine (Nov. 1872). This lecture is clear,
scholarly, and critical, but both the points selected and the views
expressed seem scarcely adequate to the subject. The four
manifestations of the genius of Sophokles 'which he chooses are :
First, the blending of a divine with a human characteristic in the
heroes of Sophokles. Secondly, the effort to reconcile progress
with tradition. Thirdly, dramatic irony ; and lastly, the por
trayal of character. The first of these manifestations is illustrated
by the cases of Ajax, of GEdipus, and of Herakles. Ajax, we are
told, is human by his natural anguish on his return to sanity; he is
divine by his remorse and the sense that dishonour must be effaced
by death. But surely his remorse and repentance are human
too. His mere cries of distress, apart from the higher feelings, are
ludicrous, and insufficient to link Ajax to human nature. Nor
does his nearness to Athene, as one who had spoken with her
face to face, suffice to give him a divine character. The heroes of
Euripides also speak with the gods face to face. The lecturer has
not here brought out a real manifestation of the genius of
Sophokles; he has united accidents and imagined them to be
the essence. The intense suffering of (Edipus the King, and the
marvellous death of GEdipus at Colonus are two conditions
�Sophokles.
35
through which the character of CEdipus passes, and are not
more especially characteristic than are the sufferings of Medea,
who is finally carried away by the dragon-chariot of the sun.
The genius of Sophokles is certainly not revealed in the union of
the superhuman and the commonplace; it is manifested by its
power of idealizing humanity. The superhuman element which
Sophokles introduces, forms no part of the essence of any
character, it belongs to the cycle of popular beliefs, which as we
have seen, he used for the purpose of verisimilitude.
Secondly.—The idea that Sophokles preserved the balance
between superstition and free thought, that he endeavoured to
graft progress upon tradition is misleading. In religious matters
we have seen that the advance which he made was both definite
and important; in politics he was the disciple, as he was the
colleague, of Perikles. If he shrank from the extreme measures
of a later democracy, it was because he clung to a system which
had raised Athens to her highest political efficiency, and because
he distrusted a variation which exaggerated and distorted the true
democratic principles. Moreover, he was justified by the results.
Thirdly.—The lecturer’s canon upon dramatic irony is only
partially true. “ The practical irony of drama depends on the
principle that the dramatic poet stands aloof from the world
which he has created.” In fact the question of dramatic irony
cannot be so summarily dealt with. The manner of Professor
Campbell in treating of this characteristic (pp. 112-118) is far
more diffident and satisfactory. Irony, as he says, is always
accompanied with the consciousness of superiority. But the
exhibition of this consciousness must be destructive of artistic
effect. It is better to refer the irony to fate than to ascribe it to
the author; it may, perhaps, be best not to use the word at all,
but to refer the effect which every one feels, to an artistic and
legitimate application of dramatic elements such as contrast and
pathos, which reach their highest power only when used by the
most skilful hands. .Mr. Jebb thinks that Sophokles delineates
broadly, and with a “ deliberate avoidance of fine shading,” the
characters of his primary persons, and seeks for the more delicate
touches of portraiture in the subordinate persons. The persons,
however, to whom he refers as illustrations must be spoken of as
secondary with caution. Thus Deianeira is of equal importance
with Hercules in the Trachinice; the same protagonist took
both characters. The real interest of the Philoldetes centres in
Neoptolemus. But perhaps the chief inadequacy of Mr. Jebb’s
view of Sophokles, a view which, as has been said before, is set
forth with the charm of a scholarly and balanced style, results from
his notion of the religion of Sophokles. In his opinion, Sophokles
is the highest type of a votary of Greek polytheism, and no more.
D2
�36
Parliamentary Eloquence.
He does not see in his hand that torch which was to be passed
on to Plato, and through him to other times. His religion had,
he says, shed upon it the greatest strength of intellectual light
which it could bear without fading. His art was indeed the
highest of its kind, and remained his own ; but the impulse which
he gave to a freer and more enlightened reverence may be traced
in the best of Greek literature, the works of Plato. It is
probable, therefore, that the edition by Professor Campbell will
be a truer guide to the appreciation of Sophokles, for the editor
has already acknowledged his obligation to Professor Jowett.
Art. II.—Parliamentary Eloquence.
1. A Book of Parliamentary Anecdote. Compiled from
Authentic Sources. By G. H. Jennings and W. S. John
stone.
Cassell, Petter, and Galpin : London, Paris, and
New York. 1872.
2. The Orator : a Treasury of English Eloquence, containing
Selections from the most Celebrated Speeches of the Past
and Present. Edited, with Short Explanatory Notes and
References, by a Barrister. London : S. 0. Beeton.
3. Select British Eloquence, embracing the best Speeches entire
of the most Eminent Orators of Great Britain for the last
Two Centuries : with Sketches of their Lives, an estimate
of their Genius, and Notes Critical and Explanatory.
By Chauncey A. Goodrich, D.D., Professor in Yale Col
lege, New Haven, Conn., U.S. London : Sampson Low
and Co.
4. Parliamentary Logic : to which are subjoined Two Speeches
delivered in the House of Commons of Ireland, and
other pieces. By the Right Hon. William Gerard
Hamilton. London. 1798.
5. Hansard. New Series.
ANY have been the writers on the theory of Government,
and the framers of model governments and paper constitu
tions. None of these, however, devised Parliamentary Govern
ment as it actually exists amongst us, or foresaw its rise. Yet to
all appearances it is the form of government which will
universally prevail. The English tongue bids fair to become
the speech of the greater part of the globe, and wherever an
English-speaking race is to be found, English parliamentary
M
�
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Sophokles
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Lester, Joseph Dunn [1841/2-1875]
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 36 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: From The Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Review, January 1, 1873. Includes bibliography (p.1). From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Author attribution: The Wellesley Index to Victorian Periodicals 1824-1900.
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LIFE
AND
MIND:
THEIR
UNITY AND MATERIALITY.
•
BY
EOBERT LEWINS, M.D. '
x
“ If it be possible to perfect mankind, the means of doing so will be found
in the Medical Sciences.”
Descartes.
“ For that which befalls men befalls beasts ; as the one dies so does the
other; they have all one breath; all go unto one place; all are of the dust, and
all turn to dust again.”
Ecclesiastes, 3rd Chap., Verses 18, 19.
GEO. P. BACON, STEAM PRINTING OFFICES.
1873.
��LIFE
AND
MIND:
THEIR UNITY AND MATERIALITY.
By Robert Lewins, M.D.
The design of this short contribution to the philosophy of
Modern Science is one, the execution of which I have felt for
many years past, ever since the collapse of the European
equilibrium signalized by the outbreak of the Erench revolu
tion of 1848, to be a great desideratum in the current distracted
state of public opinion, especially in Great Britain, as to
the claims upon our belief of Divine Revelation at the existing
standpoint of science.
*
My present purpose is to attempt,
in quite popular and intelligible language, divested of all
technicality which is not familiar to all fairly educated persons,
to ascertain the verdict of modern physiology and pathology
on the real nature of life. Upon this physical basis, disre
garding all metaphysical systems, from Plato to Comte, as so
many ignesfatui, which have only served during thousands of
years of misdirected activity, to perplex and mislead the
human mind, I propose to formulate, in a few sentences, a
consistent and rational theory of human existence, in which
everything super-natural and exceptional to familiar, every
day observation and experience, is removed from the domain
of sense and fact into that of fancy and fable.f
I have chiefly at heart to bring to bear, in a purely scientific
and judicial spirit, on the so-called inspiration and infallibility
of our own Bible, one single, well-established physiological
canon, the non-existence of a vital or spiritual principle as an
entity apart from the inherent energy of the material organism.
* Volumes could not better illustrate the irreconcilable antagonism between
Revelation and Science, than the statement of so thoughtful a scholar as the
Archbishop of Canterbury, in his sermon on the text “Jesus wept,” at Tam,
beth Church on Hospital Sunday, 15th June, 1873, respecting Death. His Grace
seriously advocated.the untenable hypothesis now so thoroughly refuted by
Paleontology and Biology, that “ Death was a frightful thing, the memento
of Sin, for Sin gave it birth,” evidently under the conviction that the myth
in the Hebrew Scriptures of the Creation and Fall of Adam is a matter of fact.
t No dcubt both the poetical and metaphysical faculties are most essential
and important elements in human nature, but the legitimate end of imagination and philosophical speculation is to lead us to the possession of positive
facts practically useful in vulgar life. All records of intellectual processes
that stop short of this result, are—except during the brief period of our
education—impediments of right conduct, and only serve to cheat and beonile
us of our time. Action, not contemplation, is the true vocation of Man,
�4
This one fact alone, I am fully satisfied in my own mind,
proves conclusively that all super-naturalism, alike “ sacred
and profane,” is explicable by quite familiar phenomena of
deranged cerebration and innervation, and that, as a corollary,
the pretended “ fundamental truths of Christianity ” are pal
pable fallacies, ill-analysed and mis-interpreted signs of disordered functions of the brain and cranial nerve-centres, of no
more authority or claim to especial sanctity than analogous
pretensions in the case of the Koran, or other extinct or extant
idolatry. Mahomet, indeed, from being subject to epilepsy,
must be considered by modern pathology as labouring, during
his whole public career, which was much more extended than
that of the Prophet of Nazareth, under actual organic brain
disease, and the wide-spread religion of Islam may therefore be
dismissed at once, as a purely medical question, from the serious
notice of all who are not Pathologists. The Grecian Oracles,
also reverenced by the most civilized nation of antiquity as
superhuman utterances of Divine Wisdom, were merely the
ravings of women temporarily insane from the inhalation of
gases which disturbed, by poisoning the blood, their cerebral
functions. Insanity and Idiocy, to this day, are still venerated
in the native lands of Jesus and Mahomet as the manifestation
of divine inspiration.
*
Christianity will thus be found, when
examinedby the light of the 19th, to be simply what the impar
tial Greeks and Romans described it in the 1st century—a
Syrian superstition. Syria, the “ Holy Land” of the Bible and
Koran (as if in sound philosophy any one place or thing can
be holier than another) seems in all ages—doubtless from
geological and meteorological peculiarities!—to have been
notorious for the mysticism of its inhabitants ; by which term
I mean such excess of the idealising over the reflective faculties
that sober reason and observation, the seeing things as they
are in the open day-light of fact and nature, become quite
disguised and obscured by the phantasmagoria of illusion.
This radical defect, which necessitates the intellect to revolve
perpetually in a vieious circle, fatal to all real progress, is
characteristic of the human mind throughout all the East,
* Epilepsy, doubtless from its striking and imposing physiological symp
toms, was in ancient times regarded as the “Holy Disease,” par excellence.
Hippocrates no doubt incurred the odium attached to “Impiety,” when he
taught that no disease was more or less holy than another—all being alike
the result of impaired bodily organs.
f The scenery round Jerusalem and through the wilderness of Judea to
wards the Jordan, is exceedingly weird and hideous, well fitted to be the
nursery of an ascetic creed, “ whose Kingdom is not of this World.”
�5
as every impartial traveller perceives on a very cursory ac
quaintance.
An Oriental must mystify and “ fable/’ not necessarily by
intention, but because, from the structural arrangement of his
intellectual organs, exaggeration, hyperbole, and the prefer
ence of fiction to fact, is his natural element. To him Lord
Bacon’s aphorism is peculiarly applicable, “ A mixture of
a lie doth ever add pleasure.” In the whole texture of his
mind he displays the impulsive, visionary imaginativeness and
incapacity for patient and sustained impersonal research of
women and children, swayed by every fluctuating breath of
sentiment and passion. To minds of this class plain truth ap
pears insipid, displeasing, and unsatisfactory,in direct contrast
with that disciplined virile European intellect, which, in com
paratively recent times, by strict adherence to the investiga
tion of what really exists, has so immeasurably extended, for the
benefit of mankind, the range of mental vision. In the signal
triumphs of civilization during the last two centuries the
Orient, and the traditional methods of the Orient, have no part
whatever.
To return from this digression to my more immediate pur
pose. The single and simple cardinal principle of modern
science, above italicised, to which I would direct atten
tion, and to which I shall confine myself on the present
occasion—as subversive of all spiritualism and mysticism
whatever—is a plant of English growth, and cannot pro
perly be considered older, in its definite shape, than the
publication of Newton’s “ Principles of Natural Philosophy,”
the year before the revolution of 1688, though in a vague, in
definite form its spirit was awake in Europe from the time of
the Reformation. Our Royal Society was established, as
stated in its charter, at the Restoration of Charles II., as a
protest against “ supernatural ” methods, the Puritan Revolt
being the last sincere and earnest abortive attempt to govern
mankind on Christian principles, or to take au serieux in
political life, the truth of the Jewish Dispensation. Modern
Physical and Mental Science, dating from the English Revo
lution—the era of Newton and Locke—may thus justly be
considered the real Anti-Christ.
This radical principle of true knowledge, which the
human mind has only reached after persevering for
thousands of years in false methods, is the confidence,
based on fixed scientific data, and not merely on conjec
ture, in the all-sufficiency of Matter to carry on its own
operations, and the consequent absurdity, uselessness, non
�6
necessity of any hypothesis which assumes, that from outside
the sphere of sensible, material phenomena, there intrudes
an immaterial, spiritual, or supernatural factor, to perform
functions, which Matter, by virtue of its own in-dwelling
energy, really performs for and by itself. I confidently sub
mit to the judgment of my readers the assertion that the
whole hypothesis of Immaterialism, of an over-ruling of matter
by “ Spirit” (in the transcendental, not etymological sense of
the word), the former the passive instrument, the latter the
active agent, received its death-blow on the fall of the Car
tesian, and establishment of the Newtonian, Philosophy.
Our great English astronomer, by his discovery of universal
gravitation, was the real founder, in Christian times, of scien
tific, common sense materialism, though, from prejudices of his
own education in the scholastic methods of his age, he himself
failed to carry out his own data, to their legitimate conclu
sions, in the domain of Biology. The tremendous revolution in
European thought, at the close of the 17th century, can even yet
be well appreciated by comparing the mystical idealism of
Milton’s “ Paradise Lost” with the common sense realism of
Pope’s “Essay on Man.” Erom the awe-struck manner in which
the intellectual representative of Puritanism hails Light as
too sacred even to be named, we recognise the fatal tendency
of that primeval mysticism which renders free thought, free
investigation, and real progress, an impossibility. There is no
room for doubt, from his cosmological and psychological stand
point, that had Milton been aware of the prismatic exjferiments and cosmical demonstrations of Newton, he would have
turned from them with abhorrence and proud contempt.
*
To
* Socrates, who has been considered by not a few orthodox • authorities to
have had a quasi Divine Mission, as a forerunner of Christ, protested against
the impudence and profanity of Anaxagoras, when he degraded the divine
Helios and Selene into a Sun and Moon of calculable motions and magni
tudes. Astronomy was pronounced by him to be among the “ Divine Mys
teries,” which it was impossible to understand and madness to investigate, as
the above-named physicist had presumptuously pretended to do. He held,
indeed, that the Gods did not intend that man should pry into cosmical
arrangements, that they managed such things so as to be beyond bis ken,
and therefore logically discarded General Physics, or the study of Nature al
together as impious madness. “ Moral Philosophy ” he considered alone fit
for Humanity. Natural Science he taught to be Celestial Arcana, that would
for ever remain inscrutable secrets to mankind. And, as far as we can see,
that remained the mediaeval standpoint only fully displaced, spite of the ad
mirable but incomplete labours of Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, Kepler, and
Galileo, by the discovery of Universal Gravitation. Both Bacon and Milton,
scholars at the high water mark of the knowledge of their respective epochs,
disbelieved the true system of the universe.—See Grote’s “ History of Greece,”
chap. Ixviii.
�us, at all events, a century and a half later, it seems perfectly
patent, whatever may have been the doubts and quibbles of
Newton, Locke, and their learned and unlearned contemporaries, that as soon as it became a demonstrated fact thatMatter
was active, not passive, and that its every particle was in
motion itself, and the cause of motion in every other particle
—the belief in an energising principle as a separate entity,
apart and distinct from Matter itself, became an untenable
fallacy. The whole fabric of Immaterialism, the idea of the
necessity of supernatural influence in inorganic matter, was
annihilated at once.
And the generalization cannot be restricted to “brute”
matter, but is equally applicable to the organic kingdom
of nature, to plants, animals, and man. Sensibility and
voluntary motion (animal life), just as in the case of the selfacting cosmos, is not the outcome of a vital or senso-motor
principle, spiritual or immaterial—animating, vivifying or
vitalising the material organization, but just as in the simpler,
though not less wonderful (for in an infinite scale there are
no absolute degrees) case of inanimate matter—animal vitality
or conscious existence, with all its marvellous and complicated
processes of body and mind, is merely the active expression of
the material machinery of the microcosm. In this microcosm
special anatomical structures or tissues manifest special func
tions, one of them being consciousness—egoistic and altruistic
— of which mentation or cerebration is only a mode. Thought
and Moral Feeling is thus only localised sensation, the special
life of the hemispheres of the brain, organs familiarly known
to be exceptionally developed in the human, as compared with
all other animals. Modern physiology, just as in the case of
modern physics, has been compelled entirely to discard the
Oriental, classical, mediaeval, metaphysical, ante-Newtonian
speculation that organic function has for its factor a spiritual
or immaterial entity or soul. The question of the anima
mundi and anima humana (using the term in the sense of
soul) is at bottom one and the same. The speculation, ex
plicable and excusable even so late as the prevalence of the
Cartesian system, while the erroneous idea of the inertness of
matter vitiated Philosophy, had no longer a locus standi after
its refutation by Newton. If matter acts by means of its own
vis insita, and depends on no extraneous “influx” or im
pulse, the whole problem of Immaterialism and Materialism
is solved in favour of the latter. No modern physiologist has
any difficulty in realising what seemed so insuperable a
stumbling block to the Ancients and Locke—that sensation
�8
and thought is due to matter (nerve substance). The whole
difficulty seems to us purely imaginary, depending on precon
ceived fancies as to the twofold existence of spirit and
matter in the universe, and the inferiority of the latter to
the former — ideas of no greater value than the old
prejudice of mathematicians as to the “ perfection” of the
circle, so mischievous in astronomical discovery—or the fanci
ful notion of peculiar sanctity attached to the numbers 3 and
7. We know nerves feel or sensate. We know equally well,
both from physiology and pathology, that a special portion of
the nervous system (the hemispheres of the brain) thinks. From
*
the medical or natural stand-point, the metaphysical notion
that man is a dual being, compounded of soul and body, is in
reality only the last lingering relic of the vicious, obsolete
School-Physiology—the parent of occult therapeutical prac
tice in the middle ages, and familiar in medical literature as
the system of Van Helmont, a Flemish physician, who died
about the time of Sir Isaac Newton’s birth. This system was
based on the fallacy of the essential passivity of matter,
and pre-supposed that in every organ of the body there is an
Archeus, a ruling spirit, an Eu-demon in health, a kako-demon
in disease—the active agent in function, whose sole raison
d'etre is the presumed incapacity of matter, “ living or dead,”
to exhibit, proprio motu, energy of any kind. This theory,
* “ That the hemispheres of the Brain are the seats of the intellectual
faculties—viz., Emotion, Passion, Volition, and at the same time essential
to Consciousness—may be considered proved by these established facts:—
(1.) In the Animal Kingdom a correspondence is observed between the
quantity of grey matter, the depth of the convolutions, and the sagacity of
the animal.
(2.) At birth the grey matter in those parts is very defective, the convolu
tions being only superficial fissures confined to the surface of the Brain; and
as the grey matter increases intelligence develops.
(3.) Vivisection shows that on slicing away the Brain the animal becomes
more dull and stupid in proportion to the quantity of grey matter removed.
(4.) Clinical experience points out that in cases where disease has been
found to commence at the circumference of the Brain (that is at the hemi
spherical convolutions) and proceeds towards the centre, the mental faculties
are affected first; whereas in those diseases which commence at the central
parts and proceed towards the circumference, the mental faculties are affected
last.”—See Dr. Aitkin’s “Science and Practice of Medicine.”
To my mind the whole question at issue between Spiritualism and
Materialism, is solved in favour of Hylozoism, by the fact stated in No. 3 of
the a bove quotation from Dr. Aitkin’s invaluable Text Book of Medicine.
Slicing the hemispherical ganglia of the Encephalon induces insensibility
and stupidity, which is equivalent to stating it impairs the mind and moral
feelings. No physical pain, no paralysis is the result, a fact dwelt on by early
vivisectors with astonishment; only a purely mental one, which surely de
monstrates that the organ injured is the primary seat of the mind—the “ Dome
of Thought, the Palace of the Soul.” We should certainly conclude that such
was the case from similar experimental results in any other organ.—R. L.
�9
identical with that of Divine and Demoniac possession in the
Bible, which is quite incompatible with rational, theoretical
and practical Physic, has long since fallen even into popular
contempt as regards every other organ or series of organs
in the body, except the Sensorium.
*
The radical antithesis between the old dual doctrine of
Body animated by Spirit and modern Physiology, may be well
illustrated by reference to the different views as to the
rationale of “ suspended animation” in the two systems. In
the one, where matter is held to be essentially inert—a vital
principle—an animating spirit—must be assumed, which in
syncope, asphyxia, &c., deserts its material tenement to
emigrate as an indestructible, veritable entity elsewhere. In
*
the other modern scientific one we have with complete reason,
and on sufficient grounds, abandoned this separation of soul
and body, this emigration, during periods of insensibility and
immobility, of the former to other spheres of activity. We now
know, as certainly as we know any other demonstrated fact of
science, to mention no other grounds for our certainty than
the mechanical means of treatment successfully employed for
the restoration of the apparently dead, that life resides in
tissue as an immanent energy, with its corollary, that suspen
sion of life is the consequence of the derangement, the arrest
of those material conditions (the ultimate link in the chain of
which is the contact of the oxygen of the atmosphere through
the arterial circulation with the tissues), exactly as takes
place in the case of a watch which ceases to “ go” from
derangement of its works.f
The bearing of this unity, and not duality of nature in man
on what are called the “ fundamental truths of Divine Revela
tion,” must be apparent at a glance. What has been mistaken
for supernatural interference resolves itself into Hypereesthesia or Anaesthesia, dependent on increased or diminished
nervous and cerebral action. It is quite unnecessary, from
this physiological vantage ground, to allude seriously to the
portents, miracles, prophecies, &c., claimed by mystagogues,
successful or unsuccessful, which sanction their pretensions, as
exceptionally privileged beings, to dictate authoritatively to
their fellow creatures the behests of Heaven, from Moses to
* Error dies hard. In a modified form this old fallacy again reared its
head, during the chloroform controversy in 1848.—See Dfemoir of Sir James Y.
Simpson, by Professor Puns, P.D. Edinburgh: Edmonston and Douglas, 1873.
f The discredit into which Exorcism has fallen shows, that even in the un
scientific mind, material force has been substituted for “ vagrant spirit,”
now “in” now “ out of the body,” as the active agent in vitality.
�10
Pius IX., and the author of the Book of Mormon. All such
must be uncompromisingly negatived by science in the 19th
century as impostures—conscious or unconscious—the pro
mulgator of an untruth not being, of course, less an im
postor from being his own first dupe, even though he be
the victim of circumstances beyond his own direct control.
It were an impertinence in the present state of physiology
and physics, to argue in refutation of the incredible assertion
that human beings can arrest the motions of sun and moon,
change water into wine, lay the winds and waves by a word,
cure old standing or congenital organic disease or deformity
instantaneously by a touch, by the invocation of any name
under Heaven, or in any other way alter or suspend the re
gular order of the universe by means corresponding with the
idea of a miracle in theology. When we eliminate from matter
the vital principle we nullify entirely the venerable hypothesis
of Divine or diabolic inspiration and possession, and give
scientific sanction to the Sadducean doctrine that all reported
visions of angels and spirits, good or evil, are spectral appear
ances—-symptoms of disturbed bodily function of organs with
in the skull, “ coinages of the brain, bodiless creations,” like
the apparition in Hamlet and apparitions everywhere else.
Such assumed supernatural visitations as the “ descent of
the Holy Ghost” at Pentecost, and the conversion of Paul, to
whom, and not directly to Jesus Christ or any of his immediate companions and disciples, Protestantism is chiefly
indebted for its Evangelical doctrines, on his journey to
Damascus—phenomena lying at the very root of the alleged
Divine origin of Christianity—belong to the very alphabet of
medical science, and may be confidently diagnosed as not pre
ternatural occurrences at all, but merely symptoms of over
excitement—the result either of Anaemia or Hyperaemia—of the
nervous centres in the head. “ The sound from Heaven as of
a rushing, mighty wind, the cloven tongues of fire,” are symp
toms familiar to every clinical tyro of morbid action in the en
cephalic sensory ganglia connected with the auditory and
optic nerves, and are, indeed, only exaggerations of that
“ singing in the ears” and “ floating of motes” before the
eyes, which every one who reads this must have himself ex
perienced from the most trifling derangement, centric or
eccentric, of the circulation of the blood within the brain, or
from over-tension of the brain, eye, or ear nerve-tissue itself.
The exaltation of the faculty of speech—a parallel case to
which is well known as the Irvingite epidemic of “ Unknown
tongues”—is also the external sign of excited function at the
�origin in the brain of another cranial nerve, the lingual or
motor nerve of the tongue. The mental tumult, panic, and
metamorphosis of ideas, feelings, and character, are also quite
ordinary symptoms consequent on the participation of the
cerebral hemispheres—seat of the moral feelings, ideas, and
character—in the excited condition of the adjacent sensory
ganglia. Identical symptoms, affecting both the organs of
sense and the mental and moral faculties, are now quite
familiar to us as exhibited by fanatics in “ camp meetings,”
a,nd religious revivals, not uncommon since Whitfield and
Wesley’s time, in Great Britain, North America, and Protes
tant Ireland. All such occurrences, whether they happened
1800 years ago in Palestine, or yesterday at our own doors,
have no connection whatever with supra-mundane agency,
but are simply the usual, constantly recurring, every-day
indications of abnormal states of the sensorium.
The conversion of Paul falls under the same category, and
resolves itself into an apoplectiform attack of the nature of
sun-stroke with temporary amaurosis—a very common sequel
to protracted cerebral tension and excitement, the probable
proximate cause of the paroxysm, the active symptoms of
which only lasted three days, though, as often happens in
illness of this character, it revolutionized the whole future
life of the sufferer, being exposure to the noon-day blaze of an
Eastern sun. Such instances of mistaken diagnosis merit as
little notice, other than professional, from contemporary
medicine, as do the tales of witchcraft in former ages, or the
shameful spiritualistic delusion of to-day. All such supposed
evidences of supernatural power are merely indications of
natural bodily infirmity.
*
* The conversion of Colonel Gardiner, a well known cavalry officer, killed
at the battle of Preston Pans, described by Dr. Doddridge, is another instance
of the same kind, identical in its leading features with that of Paul. It was
attended by similar ocular and acoustic hallucinations, and instantaneous
life-long change of character and conduct, clearly traceable to recent con
cussion of the brain from an accident—a fall from his horse. It may also be
mentioned that two famous mystagogues who have recently aspired to found
new religions, Swedenborg and Comte, were in like manner the subjects of
Brain affection. The case of the former has been most exhaustively treated by
Dr. Maudsley in the “ Journal of Mental Science,” in a series of articles, which
I have vainly attempted to induce him to make more accessible to the general
public than they can be in the pages of a professional journal. The medical
history of Swedenborg is, wiutatis mutandis, that of all successful
“ Madmen who have made men mad
By their contagion; Conquerors and Kings,
Pounders of Sects and Systems.”
Comte’s natural history is still a desideratum. Ordinary biographies of the
founder of the “ Religion of Humanity,” with all its extravagances and anach
ronisms, lacking physiological and pathological elucidation, are worthless
and misleading.
�12
As a necessary part of my argument, however, lam anxious
to bring to bear upon the doctrine of a personal immortality—
a doctrine which still seems to flourish amid the present
wreck (at least on the Continents of Europe and America,
and to a greater extent even in Great Britain than easy
going people and their supporters, either from sentiment or
interest), of time-honoured creeds are willing to allow—the
above fact of the unity, and not duality of nature in man.
This belief, from the premises that there is in the human
being, just as in inorganic and the lower animal creation, no
such thing as a soul at all, must be dismissed to the limbo
of other exploded superstitions. No doubt every mind capable
of abstract thought has within itself, as the reflex, minister
and interpreter of nature, which is in itself endless and
eternal, the sense or feeling of immortality, of endlessness in
time and space. Without that feeling we should be, indeed,
strangers and aliens on this planet, itself only an atom in
the infinite abyss of Immensity. Time and space are, in
deed, not natural verities at all, but merely artificial, braincreated segments and analyses of eternity and immensity.
Nature herself ignores all such limitations. Her only realities
and syntheses are eternity as regards time, and immensity as
regards space. All that has been said or sung, in prescientific ages, of God or Gods, may be predicated in this our
age of the material universe, beyond which it is impossible for
the human mind to range. Higher than himself no man can
think. And this idea, this sensation of endless duration in
time and extension in space—a sensation never absent
for weal or woe in minds capable of high abstract power
—but in the average mind only paroxysmally present—forced,
too often horribly, on the attention in moments of exalted
feeling, pain, terror, suspense, actual or anticipated tor
ture, sleeplessness, dreams, nightmare, or under the
action of certain narcotics, as opium, haschiz, and al
cohol, has been confounded by precipitate theorists with
the literal idea of resurrection from the dead, and a
future eternal life of happiness or misery, apart from our
present bodies, or with those bodies in a “ glorified” form. '
*
* I need surely waste no words, at the present day, in pointing out the fatal
fallacies and inconsistencies contained in the apology for this theory, in the
15th chap. 1st Corinthians, and elsewhere in the New Testament. No doubt
it is a beautiful dream, looked at from the elect point of view, as there
represented; but the truth is more beautiful still. Fruition is better than
expectation, performance than promise, actual experience than faith or
hope.
�13
The apparently different ideas of ante-natal existence which.
I forms part of most Oriental creeds, and is known to Occi
dental scholars a.s the Pythagorean doctrine of the Me
tempsychosis, and the modern Christian one of a post-mortem
individual immortality, are really one and the same chimerical
notion. Both are relegated, by sober, scientific analysis, from
the domain of the actual into th it of the ideal. Both are
alike the ill-analysed, empirical conception, the cerebral
function, untrained by scientific discipline, frames to itself of
the infinite, the eternal—in the one case as applied to the
past, in the other to the future. An actual, veritable im
mortality is perfectly superfluous, seeing we have already, in
our present state of being, an ideal one in the sense of it.
“ Heirs of immortality’’ we certainly are, but not in the
theological sense of the phrase. Only in so far as during
every pulse beat between the cradle and the grave our minds
have an instinctive sense, more or less definite, of endless
duration and extension. Man, then, as a sentient being, is
launched into eternity, not when he dies, for at death he
returns to the same condition of nothingness, as far as
consciousness is concerned, as was the case prior to his
embryonic existence, but when the first stirrings of life,
including the life of the brain or ideation, begin. Healthy
sensation, or perfect life in every organ, including the cerebral
hemispheres, is thus our only heaven, morbid sensation, vary
ing as it does from ennui or general malaise to mental and
corporeal agony and anguish, our only hell. Earth is paradise,
if the healthy operation of every anatomical structure could be
preserved ; perpetual sunshine of body and mind is the blessed
result— a beatitude implied in the physiological aphorism, “ the
normal exercise of every organic function is pleasurable.”
Wherever, therefore, malaise of body or mind is present, its
cause must be sought for in deranged bodily function, and in
no “ higher ” or more recondite region. All that is fabled
by poets, saints, martyrs, founders of sects and systems',
under the term Saturnian or Golden Age, Kingdom of
Heaven, Paradise, &c., is comprehended in that supreme
bien aise which results from the equilibrium of the bodily
functions. That state, and that alone, in which, as in
healthy infancy, no portion of the nervous system, indicating
loss of general balance of the organism, obtrudes itself
on our attention, is the true palingenesia, whether of
mythology, philosophy, or Christianity. To attain and
preserve that state of normal and material well being—
�14
discarding all more transcendental aspirations as a mis
chievous and vainglorious Utopia and fool’.s paradise, •
ought all our efforts to be exclusively directed. It will be
found, on experience, to have nothing in common with the
“ Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die ” principle of
the degenerate Epicurean, but to require for its attainment
and preservation Herculean labours, taxing to their utmost
legitimate limits, the vaunted intellectual and moral capacity
of our race.
The following twelve theses—partly taken from the German
—summarise the chief points contended for in this paper:—
1st. The genuine disciple of Nature and Life, which are one and in
divisible, takes nothing on trust, but only believes what is known
with positive certainty—that is, on data which can be universally
verified.
2nd. Doubt is not, as Fiction pretends, the herald of dismay and
despair, but the necessary preliminary of all order and progress ; as
without it there cannot be any inquiry, clear insight, or settled
convictions whatever.
3rd. Natural Science is bound in conscience to divulge all her
results, however much they may conflict with contemporary prejudices,
in order to satisfy the human mind and leave it free for the further
pursuit and enjoyment of truth. Mental Reservation and Prevarica
tion, as habitually practised by contemporary English thinkers and
savans, is disloyalty to humanity | and reason; dangerous alike to their
*
country, and to the cause of civilization throughout the world.
4th. Natural Philosophy in recent times has rendered trite the
axiom, that everything in the universe proceeds by unalterable law.
5th. The sum total of Natural Law constitutes the system of the
world (axiomatic truths of logic and mathematics).
6th. The world is from eternity to eternity. Nothing is ever
created, nothing lost. Beginning or ending there is alike none. Only
the form and condition of things is perishable. Everything that exists
dates from eternity.
7th. The Universeis boundless in space and time. The divisibility
* England, as represented by her influential and cultured classes, from her
pre-eminent adherence to the obsolete cause of traditional Supernaturalism,
and consequent inaccessibility to the new order of ideas resulting from the
light thrown on Nature and Human Nature by Science—presents in the 19th
century a striking analogy to the brandy of Spain during the struggles of
the Reformation. Lord Shaftesbury’s inhuman dictum at Exeter Hall, on the
30th June, as chairman of the meeting, convened by the Church Association,
to protest against the confessional in the English Church: “ Perish all things
so that Christ be magnified,” is identical in spirit with that of the Grand
InquisitiZffe'in “Don Carlos:” “The voice of Nature avails not over Faith.”
Truly, as Milton says: “ Presbyter is only Priest writ large.” Absit omen.
�15
of matter is infinite. The Universe can have no limits, eternity in
time and immensity in space being correlative.
Sth. As the logical inference from the above, millions and millions
of millennia are before ns, in which new worlds and systems of worlds
shall flourish and decay ; at their lapse the Universe can be no nearer
its dissolution than at the present or any former period.
9th. Cosmical space is not a vacuum. Our atmosphere has no
limits. The first living being had its germ in eternity, which is equi
valent to negativing Creation altogether. The present human being
is only a link in an endless series—the goal of a past—the startingpoint of a future developmental form in the Animal Kingdom,
10th. The so-called “ Personal God ” is merely an idol of the
human brain—a pseudo-organism of pre-scientific man endowed with
man’s attributes and passions, a remnant of Fetichism. Jehovah,
Jove, or the “ Lord and Father” of the New Testament, are alike
anthropomorphic inventions. Absolute Atheism is, however, no pos
tulate of Science, which does not venture to impugn the evidence of
Cosmical Design, or the existence of an unknown, inconceivable, in
telligent First Cause, of whose Eternal Mind, the Eternal Universe
may be a hypostasis. Some such belief is indeed a necessity during the
earlier stages of our life, while, even in the soundest intellect, imagmation is dominant over judgment.
11th. The further development of our race in intellect and moral
feeling depends chiefly on education—the disuse of a priori, in
tuitive methods, and the systematic practice of rational habits of
thought based on actual experience. At bottom this is equivalent to
saying, superior enlightenment depends on proper exercise, in every
possible direction, of the cerebral hemispheres.
12th. No satisfactory progress in virtue or happiness can he hoped
for till the present supernatural theory of existence is overthrown,
and the docile study of the great Book of Nature and Life, with its
invariable sequences of cause and effect, supersedes the arbitrary, anarchic authority of falsely called “ Divine Revelation.”
��
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Life and mind: their unity and materiality
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Lewins, Robert
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Place of publication: Lewes
Collation: 15 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Extensive footnotes.
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Geo. P. Bacon, printers
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1873
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Materialism
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171.4
LVE
—......
=
The
Pleasures of Life
BY
THE RIGHT HON.
SIR JOHN LUBBOCK, BART., M.P.
F.R.S., D.C.L., LL.D.
Volition
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
1899
Price Sixpence
�9omp.
‘ Give me Health and a Day, and
I will make the Pomp of Emperors Ridiculous.’—Emerson.
“ As an illustration of the BENEFICIAL EFFECTS
of Eno’s ‘ Fruit Salt,’ I give you particulars of the case
of one of my friends. His whole life was clouded by the
want of vigorous health, and SLUGGISH LIVER and
its concomitant BILIOUS HEADACHES so affected
him, that he was obliged to live upon only a few articles
of diet, and to be most sparing in their use.
This did
nothing in effecting a cure, although persevered in for
some twenty-five years, and also consulting very eminent
members of the faculty.
By the use of your simple
‘Fruit Salt,’ however, he now ENJOYS VIGOROUS
HEALTH, has NEVER had HEADACHE or CONSTI
PATION since he commenced it, and can partake of his
food in such a hearty manner as to afford great satisfac
tion to himself and friends. There are others to whom
your remedy has been SO BENEFICIAL in various kinds
of complaints that I think you may very well extend its
use pro bono publico. I find that it makes a VERY
REFRESHING and INVIGORATING drink.—I remain,
dear Sir, yours faithfully, Veritas.” {From the late Rev.
J. TV. Neil, Holy Trinity Church, North Shields.}
Experience!
‘ Vie Gather the Honey of Wisdom
From Thorns, not from Flowers.’—Lytton.
HOW TO AVOID
The INJURIOUS EFFECTS OF STIMULANTS.
THE PRESENT SYSTEM OF LIVING—
partaking of too rich foods, as pastry, saccharine and fatty
substances, alcoholic drinks, and an insufficient amount of
exercise—FREQUENTLY DERANGES THE LIVER.
I would ADVISE all BILIOUS PEOPLE, unless they are careful to keep the liver acting
freely, to exercise great care in the use of alcoholic drinks; avoid sugar, and always dilute
largely with water.
EXPERIENCE SHOWS that porter, mild ales, port wine, dark
sherries, sweet champagne, liqueurs and brandies, are ALL very APT to DISAGREE;
while light white wines, and gin or old whisky largely diluted with pure mineral water, will
be found the least objectionable. ENO’S ‘ FRUIT SALT ’ is PECULIARLY ADAPTED
for any CONSTITUTIONAL WEAKNESS of the LIVER; it possesses the power of
reparation when digestion has been disturbed or lost, and PLACES the INVALID on the
RIGHT TRACK to HEALTH. A WORLD of WOES is avoided by those who KEEP
and USE ENO’S ‘FRUIT SALT.’
Therefore NO FAMILY SHOULD EVER BE
WITHOUT IT.
THE VALUE OF ENO’S ‘FRUIT SALT’ CANNOT BE TOLD.
Its Success in Europe, Asia, Africa, America, and Australia proves it.
The effect of ENO’S ‘ FRUIT SALT ’ upon any DISORDERED, SLEEPLESS,
and FEVERISH condition of the system is SIMPLY MARVELLOUS. It is, in fact,
NATURE’S OWN REMEDY, and AN UNSURPASSED ONE.
CAUTION.—See Capsule marked ENO'S 1 FRUIT SALT.' Without it you have a WORTHLESS IMITATION.
Prepared only by J. C. ENO, Ltd., at the1 FRUIT SALT ’ WORKS, London, by J. C. ENO’S Patent.
�1
If you want to preserve your hair and prevent baldness
YOU MUST USE
ROWLANDS’ MACASSAR OIL
some kind of grease ; cold water ruins the hair, and most hair restorers dry up
and wither it. All doctors will tell you that:
is the most perfect restorer, preserver, and strengthener of the hair you can use,
and being specially refined and purified, does not have the greasy effect of pomades
o’- other oils. It prevents baldness and eradicates scurf, and is also sold in a GOLDEN COLOUR
for fair and grey hair. Bottles, 3s. 6d., 7s., and 10s. 6d. Sold by Stores and Chemists.
NATIONAL PROVIDENT.
— INSTITUTION. FOR MUTUAL LIFE ASSURANCE.
PROFITS.—The whole are divided amongst the Assured; already divided, £5,400,000.
At the division in 1897 there were nearly 1000 Policies, in respect of which not only were the Premiums
entirely extinguished, but Cash Bonuses were also paid, whilst in the case of many Policies the original sums
assured are now more than doubled by the Bonus Additions.
ENDOWMENT-ASSURANCE POLICIES ARE ISSUED, COMBINING LIFE ASSURANCE AT MINIMUM COST,
WITH PROVISION FOR OLD AGE. The practical effect of these Policies in the National Provident Institution
48
is that the Member’s life is assured until he reaches the age agreed upon, and on his reaching that age the whole of
the Premiums paid are returned to him, and a considerable sum in addition, representing a by no means insignificant
rate of interest on his payments.
Applications for Agencies invited.
Gracechurch 8t., London, E.C.
Arthur smither, Actuary and secretary.
BOOKS OF
^Liberal IReligion.
PHILIP GREEN, 5 Essex Street,
Strand, W.C., will forward, post free,
on application, a NEW CATALOGUE of
BOOKS of LIBERAL RELIGION and
^THEOLOGY, containing Works by Dr.
>hartineau, Stopford A. Brooke, R. A.
Armstrong, J. Estlin Carpenter, Dr.
Brooke Herford, J. W. Chadwick, M. J.
Savage, and other English and American
Unitarian and Liberal Religious Teachers.
NO
HOUSEHOLD
BE
Philip Green, 5 Essex St., Strand, W.C.
WITHOUT
SHOULD
IT.
THE CHEAP EDITIONS OF
MRS. HENRY WOOD’S NOVELS.
Crown 8vo. in green cloth, 2s. each, or in red cloth, gilt lettered, 2s. 6d. each.
SALE OVER TWO MILLION AND A HALF COPIES.
Trevlyn Hold. 65th Thousand.
Court Netherleigh. 46 th Thousand.
East Lynne. 480th Thousand.
The Channings. 180th Thousand.
Mrs. Halliburton’s Troubles.
150th Thousand.
v."’he Shadow of Ashlydyat.
100th Thousand.
Lord Oakbum’s Daughters.
105th Thousand.
Verner’s Pride. 85th Thousand.
Roland Yorke. 130th Thousand.
| Johnny Ludlow. First Series.
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St. Martin’s Eve. 76th Thousand.
George Canterbury’s Will.
The Red Court Farm.
70th Thousand.
Within the Maze. 112th Thousand.
Elster’s Folly. 60th Thousand.
Lady Adelaide. 60th Thousand.
Oswald Cray. 60th Thousand.
Johnny Ludlow. Second Series.
35tli Thousand.
Anne Hereford. 55th Thousand.
Dene Hollow. 60th Thousand.
Edina. 40th Thousand.
A Life’s Secret. 60th Thousand.
The House of Halliwell.
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The Story of Charles Strange.
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Ashley. 15th Thousand.
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18th Thousand,
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Johnny Ludlow. Fifth Series.
Johnny Ludlow. Sixth Series.
Pomeroy Abbey. 48th Thousand.
MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd., LONDON.
70th Thousand.
��PREFACE
Those who have the pleasure of attending the opening meetings of schools and
colleges, and of giving away prizes and certificates, are generally expected at
the same time to offer such words of counsel and encouragement as the ex
perience of the world might enable them to give to those who are entering life.
Having been myself when young rather prone to suffer from low spirits,
I have at several of these gatherings taken the opportunity of dwelling on
the privileges and blessings we enjoy, and I reprint here the substance of
some of these addresses (omitting what was special to the circumstances of
each case, and freely making any alterations and additions which have since
occurred to me), hoping that the thoughts and quotations in which I have
myself found most comfort may perhaps be of use to others also.
- It is hardly necessary to say that I have not by any means referred to
all the sources of happiness open to us, some indeed of the greatest pleasures
and blessings being altogether omitted.
In reading over the proofs I feel that some sentences may appear too
dogmatic, but I hope that allowance will be made for the circumstances under
which they were delivered.
High Elms,
Down, Kent, January 1887.
�PREFACE
TO THE TWENTIETH EDITION
A lecture which I delivered three years ago at the Working Men’s College, and
which forms the fourth chapter of this book, has given rise to a good deal of
discussion. The Pall Mall Gazette took up the subject and issued a circular to many
of those best qualified to express an opinion. This elicited many interesting replies,
and some other lists of books were drawn up. When my book was translated, a
similar discussion took place in Germany. The result has been very gratifying, and
after carefully considering the suggestions which have been made, I see no reason
for any material change in the first list. I had not presumed to form a list of my
own, nor did I profess to give my own favourites. My attempt was to give those
most generally recommended by previous writers on the subject. In the various
criticisms on my list, while large additions, amounting to several hundred works in
all, have been proposed, very few omissions have been suggested. As regards those
v orks with reference to which some doubts have been expressed—namely, the few
Oriental books, Wake’s Apostolic Fathers, etc.—I may observe that I drew up the
list, not as that of the hundred best books, but, which is very different, of those
which have been most frequently recommended as best worth reading.
For instance as regards the Shelving and the Analects of Confucius°I must-humbly
confess that I do not greatly admire either ; but I recommended them because they
are held in the most profound veneration by the Chinese race, containing 400,000,000
of our fellow-men. I may add that both works are quite short.
The Ramayana and Maha Bliarata (as epitomised by Wheeler) and St. Hilaire’s
Bouddha are not only very interesting in themselves, but very important in reference
to our great oriental Empire.
The authentic writings of the Apostolic Fathers are very short, being indeed
comprised in one small volume, and as the only works (which have come down to
us) of those who lived with and knew the Apostles, they are certainly well worth
reading.
I have been surprised at the great divergence of opinion which has been expressed.
Nine lists of some length have been published. These lists contain some three
hundred works not mentioned by me (without, however, any corresponding omissions),
and yet there is not one single book which occurs in every list, or even in half of
them, and only about half a dozen which appear in more than one of the nine.
If these authorities, or even a majority of them, had concurred in their recom
mendations, I would have availed myself of them ; but as they differ so greatly I
will allow my list to remain almost as I first proposed it. I have, however, added
Kalidasa’s Safomfato or The Lost Ring, and Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell, omitting, in
consequence, Lucretius and Miss Austen : Lucretius because though his work is most
remarkable, it is perhaps too difficult and therefore less generally suitable than most
of the others in the list; and Miss Austen because English novelists were somewhat
over-represented.
High Elms,
Down, Kent, August 1890.
�CONTENTS
PART I
CHAP.
*
PAGE
I. The Duty
of
II. The Happiness
III. A Song
of
of
V. The Blessing
VI.The
.
.
Friends
.
Value of Time
VII. The Pleasures
VIII. The Pleasures
IX.Science
.
.
Books
of
1
...
Duty ......
of
Books
IV. The Choice
.
Happiness
of
of
.
.
.13
.
.
.
17
.
.
.
.
.22
.
.
.
.
.25
-
.
28
Travel
.
.
.
.
.
Home
.
.
.
.
.32
........
X. Education
7
.
.
.
.
.
36
.42
�‘ All places that the eye of Heaven visits
Are to the wise man ports and happy havens.”
Shakespeare.
“ Some murmur, when their sky is clear
And wholly bright to view,
If one small speck of dark appear
In their great heaven of blue.
And some with thankful love are fill’d
If but one streak of light,
One ray of God’s good mercy gild
The darkness of their night.
‘ ‘ In palaces are hearts that ask,
In discontent and pride,
Why life is such a dreary task,
And all good things denied.
And hearts in poorest huts admire
How love has in their aid
(Love that not ever seems to tire)
Such rich provision made.”
Trench.
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART I
CHAPTER I
THE DUTY OF HAPPINESS1
“ If a man is unhappy, this must be his own
fault; for God made all men to be happy.”—
Epictetus.
Life is a great gift, and as we reach
years of discretion, we most of us natur
ally ask ourselves what should be the
main object of our existence. Even those
who do not accept “the greatest good
of the greatest number” as an absolute
rule, will yet admit that we should all
endeavour to contribute as far as we may
to the happiness of others. There are
many, however, who seem to doubt
whether it is right that we should try to
be happy ourselves. Our own happiness
ought not, of course, to be our main
object, nor indeed will it ever be secured
if selfishly sought. We may have many
pleasures in life, but must not let them
have rule over us, or they will soon hand
us over to sorrow; and “ into jvhat
dangerous and miserable servitude doth
he fall who suffereth pleasures and
sorrows (two unfaithful and cruel com
manders) to possess him successively 1” 2
I cannot, however, but think that the
world would be better and brighter if our
teachers would dwell on the Duty of
Happiness as well as on the Happiness of
Duty; for we ought to be as cheerful as
we can, if only because to be happy our
selves, is a most effectual contribution to
the happiness of others.
1 The substance of this was delivered at the
Harris Institute, Preston.
2 Seneca.
B
Every one must have felt that a cheer
ful friend is like a sunny day, shedding
brightness on all around ; and most of
us can, as we choose, make of this world
either a palace or a prison.
There is no doubt some selfish satisfac
tion in yielding to melancholy, and fancy
ing that we are victims of fate ; in brood
ing over grievances, especially if more or
less imaginary. To be bright and cheer
ful often requires an effort; there is a
certain art in keeping ourselves happy :
and in this respect, as in others, we re
quire to watch over and manage ourselves,
almost as if we were somebody else.
Sorrow and joy, indeed, are strangely
interwoven. Too often
“We look before and after,
And pine for wliat is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught ;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest
thought. ”1
As a nation we are prone to melancholy.
It has been said of our countrymen that
they take even their pleasures sadly.
But this, if it be true at all, will, I hope,
prove a transitory characteristic. “ Merry
England ” was the old saying ; let us hope
it may become true again. We must look
to the East for real melancholy. What
can be sadder than the lines with which
Omar Khayyam opens his quatrains : 2
“ We sojourn here for one short day or two,
And all the gain we get is grief and woe ;
And then, leaving life’s problems all unsolved
And harassed by regrets, we have to go ; ”
1 Shelley.
2 I quote from Whinfield’s translation.
IE
�2
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART I
or the Devas’ song to Prince Siddartha, inherit ; the glories and beauties of the
in Edwin Arnold’s beautiful version :
Universe, which is our own if we choose
to have it so ; the extent to which we can
‘ ‘ We are the voices of tlie wandering wind,
Which moan for rest, and rest can never find. make ourselves what we wish to be ; or
Lo ! as the wind is, so is mortal life—
the power we possess of securing peace, of
A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife. ”
triumphing over pain and sorrow.
If this indeed be true, if mortal life
Dante pointed to the neglect of oppor
be so sad and full of suffering, no wonder tunities as a serious fault:
that Nirvana—the cessation of sorrow—
“Man can do violence
should be welcomed even at the sacrifice
To himself and his own blessings, and for this
of consciousness.
He, in the second round, must aye deplore,
With unavailing penitence, his crime.
But ought we not to place before our
Whoe’er deprives himself of life and light
selves a very different ideal—a healthier,
In reckless lavishment his talent wastes,
manlier, and nobler hope ?
And sorrows then when he should dwell in joy.”
Life is not to live merely, but to live
Ruskin has expressed this with special
well. There are some “ who live without
any design at all, and only pass in the allusion to the marvellous beauty of this
world like straws on a river : they do not glorious world, too often taken as a matter
go ; they are carried,”1—-but as Homer of course, and remembered, if at all, al
makes Ulysses say, “ How dull it is to most without gratitude. “ Holy men,” he
pause, to make an end, to rest un complains, “in the recommending of the
burnished ; not to shine in use — as love of God to us, refer but seldom to those
things in which it is most abundantly and
though to breathe were life ! ”
Goethe tells us that at thirty he resolved immediately shown; though they insist
“ to work out life no longer by halves, much on His giving of bread, and raiment,
and health (which He gives to all inferior
but in all its beauty and totality.”
creatures): they require us not to thank
“Im Ganzen, Guten, Schonen
Him for that glory of His works which
Resolut zu leben.”
He has permitted us alone to perceive :
Life indeed must be measured by
they tell us often to meditate in the closet,
thought and action, not by time. It
but they send us not, like Isaac, into the
certainly may be, and ought to be, bright,
fields at even : they dwell on the duty of
interesting, and happy ; for, according to
self-denial, but they exhibit not the duty
the Italian proverb, “ if all cannot live on
of delight: ” and yet, as he justly says
the Piazza, every one may feel the sun.”
elsewhere, “ each of us, as we travel the
If we do our best; if we do not mag
way of life, has the choice, according to
nify trifling troubles ; if we look resolutely,
our working, of turning all the voices of
I do not say at the bright side of things,
Nature into one song of rejoicing ; or of
but at things as they really are ; if we
withering and quenching her sympathy
avail ourselves of the manifold blessings
into a fearful withdrawn silence of con
which surround us ; we cannot but feel
demnation,—into a crying out of her
that life is indeed a glorious inheritance.
stones and a shaking of her dust against
“ More servants wait on man
us.”
Than he’ll take notice of. In every path
Must we not all admit, with Sir Henry
lie treads down that which doth befriend
Taylor, that “the retrospect of life swarms
him
When sickness makes him pale and wan. with lost opportunities ” ? “ Whoever en
Oh mighty Love ! Man is one world, and hath joys not life,” says Sir T. Browne, “ I
Another to attend him.” 2
count him but an apparition, though he
Few of us, however, realise the wonder wears about him the visible affections of
ful privilege of living, or the blessings we flesh.”
St. Bernard, indeed, goes so far as to
1 Seneca.
2 Herbert.
�CHAP. I
THE DUTY OF HAPPINESS
3
and that “ rather than follow a multitude
to do evil,” one should “ stand like Pom
pey’s pillar, conspicuous by oneself, and
single in integrity.” 1 But to many this
isolation would be itself most painful, for
the heart is “ no island cut off from other
lands, but a continent that joins to them.”2
If we separate ourselves so much from
the interests of those around us that we
do not sympathise with them in their
sufferings, we shut ourselves out from
sharing their happiness, and lose far more
than we gain. If we avoid sympathy
and wrap ourselves round in a cold chain
armour of selfishness, we exclude ourselves
from many of the greatest and purest joys
of life. To render ourselves insensible to
pain we must forfeit also the possibility
of happiness.
Moreover, much of what we call evil
is really good in disguise, and we should
not “ quarrel rashly with adversities not
yet understood, nor overlook the mercies
often bound up in them.” 3 Pleasure and
pain are, as Plutarch says, the nails which
fasten body and soul together. Pain is
a signal of danger, a very necessity of
existence. But for it, but for the warnings
which our feelings give us, the very bless
ings by ■which we are surrounded would
soon and inevitably prove fatal. Many
of those who have not studied the question
are under the impression that the more
deeply-seated portions of the body must
be most sensitive. The very reverse is
the case. The skin is a continuous and
ever-watchful sentinel, always on guard
to give us notice of any approaching
danger ; while the flesh and inner organs,
where pain would be without purpose,
“ Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
are, so long as they are in health, com
These demand not that the things without paratively without sensation.
them
“We talk,” says Helps, “of the origin
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.
of evil ; . . . but what is evil ? We mostly
Bounded by themselves, and unobservant
speak of sufferings and trials as good, per
In what state God’s other works may be,
haps, in their result ; but we hardly
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see.”
admit that they may be good in them
selves. Yet they are knowledge—how
It is true that
else to be acquired, unless by making
“ A man is his own star ;
maintain that “nothing can work me
damage except myself; the harm that I
sustain I carry about with me, and never
am a real sufferer but by my own fault.”
Some Heathen moralists also have
taught very much the same lesson. “ The
gods,” says Marcus Aurelius, “ have put all
the means in man’s power to enable him
not to fall into real evils. Now that
which does not make a man worse, how
can it make his life worse ? ”
Epictetus takes the same line : “ If a
man is unhappy, remember that his un
happiness is his own fault; for God has
made all men to be happy.” “ I am,” he
elsewhere says, “ always content with that
which happens ; for I think that what
God chooses is better than what I choose.”
And again : “ Seek not that things should
happen as you wish ; but wish the things
which happen to be as they are, and you
will have a tranquil flow of life. ... If
you wish for anything which belongs to
another, you lose that which is your own.”
Few, however, if any, can I think go
as far as St. Bernard. We cannot but
suffer from pain, sickness, and anxiety;
from the loss, the unkindness, the faults,
even the coldness of those we love. How
many a day has been damped and dark
ened by an angry word !
Hegel is said to have calmly finished
his Phaenomenologie des Geistes at Jena, on
the 14th October 1806, not knowing any
thing whatever of the battle that was
raging round him.
Matthew Arnold has suggested that we
might take a lesson from the heavenly
bodies.
Our acts our angels are
For good or ill,”
1 Sir T. Browne.
2 Bacon.
3 Sir T. Browne.
�4
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
men. as gods, enabling them to understand
without experience. All that men go
through may be absolutely the best for
them—no such thing as evil, at least in
our customary meaning of the word.”
Indeed, “ the vale best discovereth the
hill,” 1 and “ pour sentir les grands biens,
il faut qu’il connoisse les petits maux.” 2
But even if we do not seem to get all
that we should wish, many will feel, as
in Leigh Hunt’s beautiful translation of
Filicaja’s sonnet, that —
“ So Providence for us, high, infinite,
Makes our necessities its watchful task,
Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants,
And e’en if it denies what seems our right,
Either denies because ’twould have us ask,
Or seems but to deny, and in denying grants.”
Those on the other hand who do not
accept the idea of continual interferences,
will rejoice in the belief that on the whole
the laws of the Universe work out for
the general happiness.
And if it does come—
“ Grief should be
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate,
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free :
Strong to consume small troubles; to commend
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts last
ing to the end.” 3
If, however, we cannot hope that life
will be all happiness, we may at least
secure a heavy balance on the right side ;
and even events which look like mis
fortune, if boldly faced, may often be
turned to good. Oftentimes, says Seneca,
“calamity turns to our advantage; and
great ruins make way for greater glories.”
Helmholtz dates his start in science to
an attack of illness. This led to his
acquisition of a microscope, which he was
enabled to purchase, owing to his having
spent his autumn vacation of 1841 in the
hospital, prostrated by typhoid fever ;
being a pupil, he was nursed without
expense, and on his recovery he found
himself in possession of the savings of
his small resources.
“ Savonarola,” says Castelar, “ would,
1 Bacon.
2 Rousseau.
3 Aubrey de Vere.
PART I
under different circumstances, undoubtedly
have been a good husband, a tender
father; a man unknown to history,
utterly powerless to print upon the sands
of time and upon the human soul the
deep trace which he has left : but mis
fortune came to visit him, to crush his
heart, and to impart that marked melan
choly which characterises a soul in grief;
and the grief that circled his brows with
a crown of thorns was also that which
wreathed them with the splendour of
immortality.
His hopes were centred
in the woman he loved, his life was set
upon the possession of her, and when her
family finally rejected him, partly on
account of his profession, and partly on
account of his person, he believed that it
was death that had come upon him, when
in truth it was immortality.”
It is, however, impossible to deny the
existence of ewl, and the reason for it
has long exercised the human intellect.
The Savage solves it by the supposition of
evil Spirits. Even the Greeks attributed
the misfortunes of men in great measure
to the antipathies and jealousies of gods
and goddesses.
Others have imagined
two Celestial Beings, opposite and an
tagonistic—the one friendly, the other
hostile, to men.
Freedom of action, however, seems to
involve the existence of evil. If any
power of selection be left us, much must
depend on the choice we make. In the
very nature of things, two and two cannot
make five. Epictetus imagines Jupiter
addressing man as follows : “ If it had
been possible to make your body and
your property free from liability to injury,
I would have done so. As this could not
be, I have given you a small portion of
myself.”
This divine gift it is for us to use
wisely. It is, in fact, our most valuable
treasure. “ The soul is a much better
thing than all the others which you
possess. Can you then show me in what
way you have taken care of it ? For it
is not likely that you, who are so wise a
man, inconsiderately and carelessly allow
�THE DUTY OF HAPPINESS
CHAP. I
the most valuable thing that you possess
to be neglected and to perish.” 1
Moreover, even if evil cannot be alto
gether avoided, it is no doubt true that
not only whether the life we lead be good
and useful, or evil and useless, but also
whether it be happy or unhappy, is very
much in our own power, and depends
greatly on ourselves. “ Time alone re
lieves the foolish from sorrow, but reason
the wise,”2 and no one was ever yet
made utterly miserable excepting by him
self. We are, if not the masters, at any
rate almost the creators of ourselves.
With most of us it is not so much great
sorrows, disease, or death, but rather the
little “daily dyings” which cloud over
the sunshine of life.
Many of our
troubles are insignificant in themselves,
and might easily be avoided L
How happy home might generally be
made but for foolish quarrels, or mis
understandings, as they are well named !
It is our own fault if we are querulous or
ill-humoured ; nor need we, though this
is less easy, allow ourselves to be made
unhappy by the querulousness or illhumours of others.
Much of what we suffer we have
brought on ourselves, if not by actual
fault, at least by ignorance or thought
lessness. Too often we think only of the
happiness of the moment, and sacrifice
that of the life. Troubles comparatively
seldom come to us, it is we who go to
them. Many of us fritter our life away.
La Bruyere says that “ most men spend
much of their lives in making the rest
miserable • ” or, as Goethe puts it:
“ Careworn man has, in all ages,
Sown vanity to reap despair.”
Not only do we suffer much in the
anticipation of evil, as “ Noah lived many
years under the affliction of a flood, and
Jerusalem was taken unto Jeremy before
it was besieged,” but we often distress
ourselves greatly in the apprehension of
misfortunes which after all never happen
at all. We should do our best and wait
1 Epictetus.
2 Ibid.
5
calmly the result. We often hear of
people breaking down from overwork,
but in nine cases out of ten they are
really suffering from worry or anxiety.
“Nos maux moraux,” says Rousseau,
“ sont tous dans 1’opinion, hors un seul,
qui est le crime ; et celui-la depend de
nous : nos maux physiques nous detruisent, ou se detruisent. Le temps, ou la
mort, sont nos remedes.”
“ Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heaven.” 1
This, however, applies to the grown up.
With children of course it is different.
It is customary, but I think it is a mistake,
to speak of happy childhood. Children
are often over-anxious and acutely sensi
tive. Man ought to be man and master
of his fate ; but children are at the mercy
of those around them. Mr. Rarey, the
great horse-tamer, has told us that he has
known an angry word raise the pulse of
a horse ten beats in a minute. Think
then how it must affect a child !
It is small blame to the young if they
are over-anxious ; but it is a danger to be
striven against. “ The terrors of the storm
are chiefly felt in the parlour or the
cabin.” 2
To save ourselves from imaginary, or
at any rate problematical, evils, we often
incur real suffering. “The man,” said
Epicurus, “who is not content with little
is content with nothing.” How often do
we “ labour for that which satisfieth not.”
More than we use is more than we need,
and only a burden to the bearer.3 We
most of us give ourselves an immense
amount of useless trouble ; encumber our
selves, as it were, on the journey of life
with a dead weight of unnecessary bag
gage ; and as “a man maketh his train
longer, he makes his wings shorter.” 4 In
that delightful fairy tale, Alice through
the Looking-Glass, the “ White Knight ” is
described as having loaded himself on
starting for a journey with a variety of
odds and ends, including a mousetrap, lest
1 Shakespeare.
3 Seneca.
2 Emerson.
4 Bacon.
�6
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART I
he should be troubled by mice at night,
“ How is it possible,” he says, “ that a
and a bee-hive in case he came across a Inan who has nothing, who is naked,
swarm of bees.
houseless, without a hearth, squalid, with
Hearne, in his Journey to the Mouth of out a slave, without a city, can pass a life
the Coppermine River, tells us that a few that flows easily ? See, God has sent you
days after starting on his expedition he a man to show you that it is possible.
met a party of Indians, who annexed a Look at me, who am without a city,
great deal of his property, and all Hearne without a house, without possessions,
says is, “ The weight of our baggage being without a slave ; I sleep on the ground ;
so much lightened, our next day’s journey I have no wife, no children, no prsetorium,
was much pleasanter.” I ought, however, but only the earth and heavens, and one
to add that the Indians broke up the poor cloak. And what do I want ? Am
philosophical instruments, which,no doubt, I not without sorrow ? Am I not with
were rather an encumbrance.
out fear ? Am I not free ? When did
When troubles do come, Marcus Aur any of you see me failing in the object of
elius wisely tells us to “ remember on my desire ? or ever falling into that which
every occasion which leads thee to vex I would avoid ? Did I ever blame God
ation to apply this principle, that this is or man ? Did I ever accuse any man ?
not a misfortune, but that to bear it nobly Did any of you ever see me with a
is good fortune.” Our own anger indeed sorrowful countenance ? And how do I
does us more harm than the thing which meet with those whom you are afraid of
makes us angry; and we suffer much and admire ? Do not I treat them like
more from the anger and vexation which slaves ? Who, when he sees me, does not
we allow acts to rouse in us, than we do think that he sees his king and master ? ”
from the acts themselves at which we are
Think how much we have to be
angry and vexed. How much most people, thankful for. Few of us appreciate the
for instance, allow themselves to be dis number of our everyday blessings; we
tracted and disturbed by quarrels and look on them as trifles, and yet “ trifles
family disputes. Yet in nine cases out make perfection, and perfection is no
of ten one ought not to suffer from being trifle,” as Michael Angelo said. We for
found fault with. If the condemnation is get them because they are always with
just, it should be welcome as a warning ; us ; and yet for each of us, as Mr. Pater
if it is undeserved, why should we allow well observes, “ these simple gifts, and
it to distress us 1
others equally trivial, bread and wine,
Moreover, if misfortunes happen we do fruit and milk, might regain that poetic
but make them worse by grieving over and, as it were, moral significance which
them.
surely belongs to all the means of our
“ I must die,” says Epictetus. “ But daily life, could we but break through the
must I then die sorrowing ? I must be veil of our familiarity with things by no
put in chains. Must I then also lament? means vulgar in themselves.”
I must go into exile. Can I be prevented
“Let not,” says Isaak Walton, “the
from going with cheerfulness and con blessings we receive daily from God make
tentment ? But I will put you in prison. us not to value or not praise Him because
Man, what are you saying ? You may they be common; let us not forget to
put my body in prison, but my mind not praise Him for the innocent mirth and
even Zeus himself can overpower.”
pleasure we have met with since we met
If, indeed, we cannot be happy, the together. What would a blind man give
fault is generally in ourselves. Socrates to see the pleasant rivers and meadows
lived under the Thirty Tyrants. Epic and flowers and fountains ; and this and
tetus was a poor slave, and yet how much many other like blessings we enjoy daily.”
we owe him !
Contentment, we have been told by
�CHAP. I
THE HAPPINESS OF DUTY
Epicurus, consists not in great wealth, but
in few wants. In this fortunate country,
however, we may have many wants, and
yet, if they are only reasonable, we may
gratify them all.
Nature indeed provides without stint
the main requisites of human happiness.
“.To watch the corn grow, or the blossoms
set; to draw hard breath over plough
share or spade ; to read, to think, to love,
to pray,” these, says Ruskin, “ are the
things that make men happy.”
“ I have fallen into the hands of
thieves,” says Jeremy Taylor ; “ what
then ? They have left me the sun and
moon, fire and water, a loving wife and
many friends to pity me, and some to
relieve me, and I can still discourse ; and,
unless I list, they have not taken away
my merry countenance and my cheerful
spirit and a good conscience. . . . And
he that hath so many causes of joy, and
so great, is very much in love with
sorrow and peevishness who loses all
these pleasures, and chooses to sit down
on his little handful of thorns.”
“ When a man has such things to think
on, and sees the sun, the moon, and stars,
and enjoys earth and sea, he is not
solitary or even helpless.” 1
“ Paradise indeed might,” as Luther
said, “apply to the whole world.” What
more is there we could ask for ourselves ?
“Every sort of beauty,” says Mr. Greg,2
“has been lavished on our allotted home ;
beauties to enrapture every sense, beauties
to satisfy every taste • forms the noblest
and the loveliest, colours the most
gorgeous and the most delicate, odours
the sweetest and subtlest, harmonies the
most soothing and the most stirring : the
sunny glories of the day; the pale
Elysian grace of moonlight; the lake, the
mountain, the primeval forest, and the
boundless ocean; ‘ silent pinnacles of
aged snow ’ in one hemisphere, the
marvels of tropical luxuriance in another ;
the serenity of sunsets; the sublimity of
storms ; everything is bestowed in bound
less profusion on the scene of our exist1 Epictetus,
? The Enigmas of Life.
7
ence ; we can conceive or desire nothing
more exquisite or perfect than what is
round us every hour; and our percep
tions are so framed as to be consciously
alive to all. The provision made for our
sensuous enjoyment is in overflowing
abundance ; so is that for the other
elements of our complex nature. Who
that has revelled in the opening ecstasies
of a young Imagination, or the rich
marvels of the world of Thought, does not
confess that the Intelligence has been
dowered at least with as profuse a benefi
cence as the Senses ? Who that has truly
tasted and fathomed human Love in its
dawning and crowning joys has not
thanked God for a felicity which indeed
‘passeth understanding.’ If we had set
our fancy to picture a Creator occupied
solely in devising delight for children
whom he loved, we could not conceive
one single element of bliss which is not
here.”
CHAPTER II
THE HAPPINESS OF DUTY1
“I am always content with that which
happens ; for I think that what God chooses is
better than what I choose.”
Epictetus.
“ 0 God, All conquering ! this lower earth
Would be for men the blest abode of mirth
If they were strong in Thee
As other things of this world well are seen ;
Oh then, far other than they yet have been,
How happy would men be.”
King Alfred’s ed. of Boethius’s
Consolations of Philosophy.
We ought not to picture Duty to our
selves, or to others, as a stern taskmistress.
She is rather a kind and sympathetic
mother, ever ready to shelter us from the
cares and anxieties of this world, and to
guide us in the paths of peace.
To shut oneself up from mankind i°,
in most cases, to lead a dull, as well as a
selfish life. Our duty is to make ourselves
useful, and thus life may be made most
1 The substance of this was delivered at the
Harris Institute, Preston.
�8
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART I
interesting, while yet comparatively free if we have done our best to make others
from anxiety.
happy; to promote “ peace on earth and
But how can we fill our lives with life, goodwill amongst men.” Nothing, again,
energy, and interest, and yet keep care can do more to release us from the cares
outside ?
of this world, which consume so much of
Many great men have made shipwreck our time, and embitter so much of our
in the attempt. “ Anthony sought for life. When we have done our best, we
happiness in love ; Brutus in glory; Cfesar should wait the result in peace ; content,
in dominion : the first found disgrace, the as Epictetus says, “with that which
second disgust, the last ingratitude, and happens, for what God chooses is better
each destruction.” 1 Riches, again, often than what I choose.”
bring danger, trouble, and temptation ■
At any rate, if we have not effected all
they require care to keep, though they we wished, we shall have influenced our
may give much happiness if wisely spent. selves. It may be true that one cannot
How then is this great object to be do much. “You are not Hercules, and
secured ? What, says Marcus Aurelius, you are not able to purge away the wicked
“ What is that which is able to conduct ness of others ; nor yet are you Theseus,
a man ? One thing and only one—philo able to drive away the evil things of
sophy. But this consists in keeping the Attica. But you may clear away your
daemon 2 within a man free from violence own. From yourself, from your own
and unharmed, superior to pains and thoughts, cast away, instead of Procrustes
pleasures, doing nothing without a pur and Sciron,1 sadness, fear, desire, envy,
pose, yet not falsely and with hypocrisy, malevolence, avarice, effeminacy, intem
not feeling the need of another man’s perance. But it is not possible to eject
doing or not doing anything ; and besides, these things otherwise than by looking to
accepting all that happens, and all that God only, by fixing your affections on
is allotted, as coming from thence, where- Him only, by being consecrated by His
ever it is, from whence he himself came ; commands.” 2
and, finally, waiting for death with a
Duty does not imply restraint. People ’
cheerful mind, as being nothing else than sometimes think how delightful it would
a dissolution of the elements of which be to be quite free. But a fish, as Ruskin
every living being is compounded.” I con says, is freer than a man, and as for a fly,
fess I do not feel the force of these last few it is “a black incarnation of freedom.”
words, which indeed scarcely seem requisite A life of so-called pleasure and self-indul
for his argument. The thought of death, gence is not a life of real happiness or
however, certainly influences the conduct true freedom. Far from it, if we once
of life less than might have been expected. begin to give way to ourselves, we fall
Bacon truly points out that “there is under a most intolerable tyranny. Other
no passion in the mind of man so weak, temptations are in some respects like that
but it mates and masters the fear of of drink. At first, perhaps, it seems
death. . . . Revenge triumphs over death, delightful, but there is bitterness at the
love slights it, honour aspireth to it, grief bottom of the cup. Men drink to satisfy
flieth to it.”
the desire created by previous indulgence.
So it is in other things. Repetition soon
“Think not I dread to see my spirit fly
Through the dark gates of fell mortality;
becomes a craving, not a pleasure. Re
Death has no terrors when the life is true ;
sistance grows more and more painful;
’Tis living ill that makes us fear to die.” 3
yielding, which at first, perhaps, afforded
We need certainly have no such fear some slight and temporary gratification,
1 Colton, Lacon, or Many Things in Few soon ceases to give pleasure, and even if
JFotyZs.
2 J.e. spirit.
I
3 Omar Khayyam.
1 Two robbers destroyed by Theseus.
2 Epictetus.
�CHAP. II
THE HAPPINESS OF DUTY
9
for a time it procures relief, ere long have of the Universe must in some measure
damp personal ambition. What it is to be
becomes odious itself.
To resist is difficult, to give way is pain king, sheikh, tetrarch, or emperor over a
ful ; until at length the wretched victim ‘ bit of a bit ’ of this little earth ? ” “ All
to himself can only purchase, or thinks rising to great place,” says Bacon, “ is by
he can only purchase, temporary relief from a winding stair; ” and “ princes are like
intolerable craving and depression, at the heavenly bodies, which have much vener
expense of even greater suffering in the ation, but no rest.”
Plato in the Republic mentions an old
future.
On the other hand, self-control, how myth that after death every soul has to
ever difficult at first, becomes step by step choose a lot in life for the existence in the
easier and more delightful. We possess next world ; and he tells us that the wise
mysteriously a sort of dual nature, and Ulysses searched for a considerable time
there are few truer triumphs, or more for the lot of a private man. He had
delightful sensations, than to obtain some difficulty in finding it, as it was lying
neglected in a corner, but when he had
thorough command of oneself.
How much pleasanter it is to ride a secured it he was delighted ; the recollec
spirited horse, even perhaps though requir tion of all he had gone through on earth
ing some strength and skill, than to creep having disenchanted him of ambition.
along upon a jaded hack. In the one
Moreover, there is a great deal of
case you feel under you the free, re drudgery in the lives of courts. Cere
sponsive spring of a living and willing monials may be important, but they take
force ; in the other you have to spur a up much time and are terribly tedious.
dull and lifeless slave.
A man then is his own best kingdom.
To rule oneself is in reality the greatest “ He that ruleth his spirit,” says
triumph. “ He who is his own monarch,” Solomon, “ is better than he that taketh
says Sir T. Browne, “ contentedly sways a city.” But self-control, this truest and
the sceptre of himself, not envying the greatest monarchy, rarely comes by in
glory to crowned heads and Elohim of the heritance. Every one of us must conquer
earth ; ” for those are really highest who himself; and we may do so, if we take
are nearest to heaven, and those are low conscience for our guide and general.
est who are farthest from it.
No one really fails who does his best.
True greatness has little, if anything, Seneca observes that “no one saith the
to do with rank or power. “ Eurystheus three hundred Fabii were defeated, but
being what he was,” says Epictetus, “ was that they were slain,” and if you have
not really king of Argos nor of Mycenee, done your best, you will, in the words of
for he could not even rule himself ; while an old Norse ballad, have gained
Hercules purged lawlessness and intro
“ Success in thyself, which is best of all.”
duced justice, though he was both naked
and alone.”
Being myself engaged in business, I was
We are told that Cineas the philosopher rather startled to find it laid down by no
once asked Pyrrhus what he would do less an authority than Aristotle (almost as
when he had conquered Italy. “ I will if it were a self-evident proposition) that
conquer Sicily.” “And after Sicily?” commerce “ is incompatible with that
“ Then Africa.” “ And after you have dignified life which it is to be wished that
conquered the world ? ” “I will take my our citizens should lead, and totally ad
ease and be merry.” “ Then,” asked verse to that generous elevation of mind
Cineas, “ why can you not take your ease with which it is our ambition to inspire
and be merry now ? ”
them.” I know not how far that may
Moreover, as Sir Arthur Helps has really have been the spirit and tendency
wisely pointed out, “ the enlarged view we of commerce among the ancient Greeks;
�IO
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
but if so, I do not wonder that it was not
more successful.
I may, indeed, quote Aristotle against
himself, for he has elsewhere told us that
“business should be chosen for the sake
of leisure ; and things necessary and useful
for the sake of the beautiful in conduct.”
It is not true that the ordinary duties
of life in a country like ours—agriculture,
manufactures, and commerce,—the pur
suits to which the vast majority are and
must be devoted—are incompatible with
the dignity or nobility of life. Whether
a life is noble or ignoble depends, not on
the calling which is adopted, but on the
spirit in which it is followed. The
humblest life may be noble, while that of
the most powerful monarch or the greatest
genius may be contemptible. Commerce,
indeed, is not only compatible, but I
would almost go further and say that it
will be most successful, if carried on in
happy union with noble aims and generous
aspirations. What Ruskin says of art is,
with due modification, true of life gener
ally. It does not matter whether a man
“ paint the petal of a rose or the chasms
of a precipice, so that love and admiration
attend on him as he labours, and wait for
ever on his work. It does not matter
whether he toil for months on a few
inches of his canvas, or cover a palace
front with colour in a day ; so only that
it be with a solemn purpose, that he have
filled his heart with patience, or urged his
hand to haste.’’
It is true that in a subsequent volume
he refers to this passage, and adds, “ But
though all is good for study, and all is
beautiful, some is better than the rest for
the help and pleasure of others ; and this
it is our duty always to choose if we have
opportunity,” adding, however, “ being
quite happy with what is within our
reach if we have not.”
We read of and admire the heroes of
old, but every one of us has to fight his
ow’n Marathon and ThermopyIse ; every
one meets the Sphinx sitting by the road
he has to pass ; to each of us, as to
Hercules, is offered the choice of Vice or
PART I
Virtue; we may, like Paris, give the apple
of life to Venus, or Juno, or Minerva.
There are many who seem to think that
we have fallen on an age in the world
when life is especially difficult and anxious,
when there is less leisure than of yore,
and the struggle for existence is keener
than ever.
On the other hand, we must remember
how much we have gained in security?
It may be an age of hard work, but -when
this is not carried to an extreme, it is by
no means an evil. If we have less leisure,
one reason is because life is so full of
interest. Cheerfulness is the daughter of
employment, and on the whole I believe
there never was a time when modest
merit and patient industry were more
sure of reward.
We must not, indeed, be discouraged if
success be slow in coming, nor puffed up
if it comes quickly. We often complain
of the nature of things when the fault is
all in ourselves. Seneca, in one of his
letters, mentions that his wife’s maid,
Harpaste, had nearly lost her eyesight,
but “ she knoweth not she is blind, she
saith the house is dark. This that seemeth
ridiculous unto us in her, happeneth unto
us all. No man understandeth that he is
covetous, or avaricious. He saith, I am
not ambitious, but no man can otherwise
live in Rome ; I am not sumptuous, but
the city requireth great expense.”
Newman, in perhaps the most beautiful
of his hymns, “ Lead, kindly light,” says :
“ Keep thou my feet, I do not ask to see
The distant scene ; one step enough for me. ”
But we must be sure that we are really
following some trustworthy guide, and not
out of mere laziness allowing ourselves to
drift. We have a guide within us which
will generally lead us straight enough.
Religion, no doubt, is full of difficulties,
but if we are often puzzled what to think,
we need seldom be in doubt what to do.
“ To say well is good, but to do well is better ;
Do well is the spirit, and say well the letter ;
If do well and say well were fitted in one frame,
All were won, all were done, and. got were all
the gain.”
�THE HAPPINESS OF DUTY
CHAP. II
il
Cleanthes, who appears to have well every fourth. But if you have inter
merited the statue erected to him at mitted thirty days, make a sacrifice to
God. For the habit at first begins to be
Assos, says :
weakened, and then is completely de
“ Lead me, 0 Zeus, and thou, 0 Destiny,
stroyed. When you can say, ‘ I have not
The way that I am bid by you to go :
To follow I am ready. If I choose not,
been vexed to-day, nor the .day before, nor
I make myself a wretch ;—and still must yet on any succeeding day during two or
follow.”
three months ; but I took care when some
If we are ever in doubt what to do, it exciting things happened,’ be assured that
is a good rule to ask ourselves what we you are in a good way.” 1
Emerson closes his Conduct of Life
shall wish on the morrow that we had
with a striking allegory.
The young
done.
Moreover, the result in the long run Mortal enters the Hall of the Firmament.
will depend not so much on some single The Gods are sitting there, and he is
resolution, or on our action in a special alone with them. They pour on him
case, but rather on the preparation of gifts and blessings, and beckon him to
daily life. Battles are often won before their thrones. But between him and
they are fought. To control our passions them suddenly appear snow-storms of
we must govern our habits, and keep illusions. He imagines himself in a vast
watch over ourselves in the small details crowd, whose behests he fancies he must
obey. The mad crowd drives hither and
of everyday life.
The importance of small things has thither, and sways this way and that.
been pointed out by philosophers over What is he that he should resist ? He
and over again from jEsop downwards. lets himself be«carried about. How can
“ Great without small makes a bad wall,” he think or act for himself? But the
says a quaint Greek proverb, which seems clouds lift, and there are the Gods still
to go back to cyclopean times. In an old sitting on their thrones ; they alone with
Hindoo story Ammi says to his son, him alone.
“ The great man,” he elsewhere says,
“ Bring me a fruit of that tree and break
it open. What is there ? ” The son said, “is he who in the midst of the crowd
“ Some small seeds.” “ Break one of keeps with perfect sweetness the serenity
them and what do you see ? ” “ Nothing, of solitude.”
We may all, indeed, if we will, secure
my lord.”
“ My child,” said Ammi,
“where you see nothing there dwells a peace of mind for ourselves.
“ Men seek retreats,” says Marcus Au
mighty tree.” It may almost be questioned
whether anything can be truly called relius, “ houses in the country, sea-shores,
and mountains ; and thou too art wont
small.
to desire such things very much. But
“ There is no great and no small
this is altogether a mark of the most
To the soul that maketh all ;
common sort of men ; for it is in thv
And where it cometh all things are,
And it cometh everywhere.” 1
power whenever thou shalt choose, to
We should therefore watch ourselves in retire into thyself. For nowhere either
small things. If “ you wish not to be of with more quiet or more freedom from
an angry temper, do not feed the habit: trouble does a man retire, than into his
throw nothing on it which will increase own soul, particularly when he has within
it: at first keep quiet, and count the days him such thoughts that by looking into
on which you have not been angry. I them he is immediately in perfect tran
used to be in a passion every day ; now quillity.”
Happy indeed is he who has such a
every second day ; then every third ; then
sanctuary in his own soul. “He who is
1 Emerson.
1 Epictetus.
�12
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
virtuous is wise ; and he who is wise is
good ; and he who is good is happy.” 1
But we cannot expect to be happy if
we do not lead pure and useful lives. To
be good company for ourselves we must
store our minds well ; fill them with pure
and peaceful thoughts ; with pleasant
memories of the past, and reasonable
hopes for the future. We must, as far
as may be, protect ourselves from selfreproach, from care, and from anxiety. We
shall make our lives pure and peaceful,
by resisting evil, by placing restraint upon
our appetites, and perhaps even more by
strengthening and developing our tend
encies to good. We must be careful, then,
on what we allow our minds to dwell.
The soul is dyed by its thoughts; we
cannot keep our minds pure if we allow
them to be sullied by detailed accounts
of crime and sin. Peace of mind, as
Ruskin beautifully observes, “ must come
in its own time, as the waters settle
themselves into clearness as well as quiet
ness ; you can no more filter your mind
into purity than you can compress it into
calmness ; you must keep it pure if you
would have it pure, and throw no stones
into it if you would have it quiet.”
The penalty of injustice, said Socrates,
is not death or stripes, but the fatal neces
sity of becoming more and more unjust.
Few men have led a wiser or more
virtuous life than Socrates himself, of
whom Xenophon gives us the following
description :—“ To me, being such as I
have described him, so pious that he did
nothing without the sanction of the gods;
so just, that he wronged no man even in
the most trifling affair, but was of service
in the most important matters to those
who enjoyed his society ; so temperate
that he never preferred pleasure to virtue;
so wise, that he never erred in distinguish
ing better from worse ; needing no counsel
from others, but being sufficient in himself
to discriminate between them ; so able to
explain and settle such questions by argu
ment ; and so capable of discerning the
character of others, of confuting those
1 King Alfred’s Boethius.
PART I
who were in error, and of exhorting them
to virtue and honour, he seemed to be
such as the best and happiest of men
would be. But if any one disapproves
of my opinion let him compare the con
duct of others with that of Socrates, and
determine accordingly.”
Marcus Aurelius again has drawn for us
a most instructive lesson in his character
of Antoninus:—“Remember his constancy
in every act which was conformable to
reason, his evenness in all things, his
piety, the serenity of his countenance,
his sweetness, his disregard of empty
fame, and his efforts to understand things ;
how he would never let anything pass
without having first most carefully ex
amined it and clearly understood it ; how
he bore with those who blamed him
unjustly without blaming them in return;
how he did nothing in a hurry; how he
listened not to calumnies, and how exact
an examiner of manners and actions he
was ; not given to reproach people, nor
timid, nor suspicious, nor a sophist; with
how little he was satisfied, such as lodging,
bed, dress, food, servants ; how laborious
and patient ; how sparing he was in his
diet; his firmness and uniformity in his
friendships ; how he tolerated freedom of
speech in those who opposed his opinions;
the pleasure that he had when any man
showed him anything better ; and how
pious he was without superstition. Imi
tate all this that thou mayest have as
good a conscience, when thy last hour
comes, as he had.”
Such peace of mind is indeed an in
estimable boon, a rich reward of duty
fulfilled. Well then does Epictetus ask,
“Is there no reward? Do you seek a
reward greater than that of doing what
is good and just ? At Olympia you wish
for nothing more, but it seems to you
enough to be crowned at the games.
Does it then seem to you so small and
worthless a thing to be good and happy?”
In Bernard of Morlaix’s beautiful
lines —
“ Pax erit ilia fidelibus, ilia beata
Irrevocabilis, Invariabilis, Intemerata.
�A SONG OF BOOKS
CHAP. Ill .
13
Pax sine crimine, pax sine turbine, pax sine himself to-be a zealous follower of truth,
rixa,
of happiness, of wisdom, of science, or
Meta Laboribus, inque tumultibus anchora
even of the faith, must of necessity make
fixa ;
Pax erit omnibus unica. Sed quibus ? Im- himself a lover of books.” But if the
maculatis
debt were great then, how much more
Pectore niitibus, ordine stantibus, ore sacratis.” now.
What greater reward can we have than
this ; than the “peace which passeth all
understanding,” which “ cannot be gotten
for gold, neither shall silver be weighed
for the price thereof.” 1
CHAPTER III
A SONG OF BOOKS2
“ Oil for a booke and a sliadie nooke,
Eyther in doore or out;
With the grene leaves whispering overhead
Or the streete cryes all about.
Where I maie reade all at my ease,
Both of the newe and old ;
For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke,
Is better to me than golde.”
Old English Song.
Of all the privileges we enjoy in this
nineteenth century there is none, perhaps,
for which we ought to be more thankful
than for the easier access to books.
The debt we owe to books -was well
expressed by Richard de Bury, Bishop of
Durham, author of Philobiblon, written
as long ago as 1344, published in 1473,
and the earliest English treatise on the
delights of literature :—“ These,” he says,
“ are the masters who instruct us without
rods and ferules, without hard words and
anger, without clothes or money. If you
approach them, they are not asleep; if
investigating you interrogate them, they
conceal nothing ; if you mistake them,
they never grumble ; if you are ignorant,
they cannot laugh at you. The library,
therefore, of wisdom is more precious
than all riches, and nothing that can be
wished for is worthy to be compared with
it. Whosoever therefore acknowledges
1 Job.
2 Delivered at the Working Men’s College.
This feeling that books are real friends
is constantly present to all who love read
ing. “ I have friends,” said Petrarch,
“ whose society is extremely agreeable to
me ; they are of all ages, and of every
country. They have distinguished them
selves both in the cabinet and in the
field, and obtained high honours for their
knowledge of the sciences. It is easy to
gain access to them, for they are always
at my service, and I admit them to my
company, and dismiss them from it,
whenever I please. They are never
troublesome, but immediately answer every
question I ask them. Some relate to me
the events of past ages, while others
reveal to me the secrets of Nature. Some
teach me how to live, and others how to
die. Some, by their vivacity, drive away
my cares and exhilarate my spirits ; while
others give fortitude to my mind, and
teach me the important lesson how to
restrain my desires, and to depend wholly
on myself. They open to me, in short,
the various avenues of all the arts and
sciences, and upon their information I
may safely rely in all emergencies. In
return for all their services, they only ask
me to accommodate them with a con
venient chamber in some corner of my
humble habitation, where they may
repose in peace; for these friends are
more delighted by the tranquillity of
retirement than with the tumults of
society.”
“ He that loveth a book,” says Isaac
Barrow, “ will never want a faithful
friend, a wholesome counsellor, a cheer
ful companion, an effectual comforter.
By study, by reading, by thinking, one
may innocently divert and pleasantly
entertain himself, as in all weathers, so
in all fortunes.”
Southey took a rather more melancholy
view :
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
“My days among the dead are pass’d,
Around me I_beliold,
Where’er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.”
Imagine, in the words of Aikin, “ that
we had it in our power to call up the
shades of the greatest and wisest men
that ever existed, and oblige them to con
verse with us on the most interesting
topics—what an inestimable privilege
should we think it !—how superior to all
common enjoyments! But in a wellfurnished library we, in fact, possess this
power. We can question Xenophon and
Csesar on their campaigns, make Demos
thenes and Cicero plead before us, join in
the audiences of Socrates and Plato, and
receive demonstrations from Euclid and
Newton. In books we have the choicest
thoughts of the ablest men in their best
dress.”
“Books,” says Jeremy Collier, “are a
guide in youth and an entertainment for
age. They support us under solitude,
and keep us from being a burthen to
ourselves. They help us to forget the
crossness of men and things ; compose
our cares and our passions ; and lay our
disappointments asleep. When we are
weary of the living, we may repair to
the dead, who have nothing of peevish
ness, pride, or design in their conversa
tion.”
Sir John Herschel tells an amusing
anecdote illustrating the pleasure derived
from a book, not assuredly of the first
order. In a certain village the black
smith having got hold of Richardson’s
novel, Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, used
to sit on his anvil in the long summer
evenings and read it aloud to a large and
attentive audience. It is by no means a
short book, but they fairly listened to it
alL At length, when the happy turn of
fortune arrived, which brings the hero
and heroine together, and sets them living
long and happily together according to
the most approved rules, the congregation
were so delighted as to raise a great shout,
PART I
and procuring the church keys, actually
set the parish bells a-ringing.
“The lover of reading,” says Leigh
Hunt, “will derive agreeable terror from
Sir Bertram and the Haunted Chamber;
will assent with delighted reason to every
sentence in Mrs. Barbauld’s Essay; will
feel himself wandering into solitudes with
Gray; shake honest hands with Sir Roger
de Coverley; be ready to embrace Parson
Adams, and to chuck Pounce out of the
window instead of the hat ; will travel
with Marco Polo and Mungo Parle; stay
at home with Thomson; retire with
Cowley; be industrious with Hutton;
sympathising with Gay and Mrs. Inch
bald; laughing with (and at) Buncle;
melancholy, and forlorn, and self-restored
with the shipwrecked mariner of De Foe.”
Carlyle has wisely said that a collection
of books is a real university.
The importance of books has been
appreciated in many quarters where we
might least expect it. Among the hardy
Norsemen runes were supposed to be
endowed with miraculous power. There
is an Arabic proverb, that “a wise man’s
day is worth a fool’s life,” and another—
though it reflects, perhaps, rather the
spirit of the Califs than of the Sultans,—
that “ the ink of science is more precious
than the blood of the martyrs.”
Confucius is said to have described
himself as a man who “ in his eager pur
suit of knowledge forgot his food, who
in the joy of its attainment forgot his
sorrows, and did not even perceive that
old age was coming on.”
Yet, if this could be said by the Arabs
and the Chinese, what language can be
strong enough to express the gratitude we
ought to feel for the advantages we enjoy !
We do not appreciate, I think, our good
fortune in belonging to the nineteenth
century. Sometimes, indeed, one may
even be inclined to wish that one had not
lived quite so soon, and to long for a
glimpse of the books, even the school
books, of one hundred years hence. A
hundred years ago not only were books
extremely expensive and cumbrous, but
�CHAP .III
A SONG OF BOOKS
many of the most delightful were still
uncreated—such as the works of Scott,
Thackeray, Dickens, Shelley, and Byron,
not to mention living authors. How
much more interesting science has become
especially, if I were to mention only one
name, through the genius of Darwin!
Renan has characterised this as a most
amusing century; I should rather have
described it as most interesting : present
ing us as it does with an endless vista of
absorbing problems ; with infinite oppor
tunities ; with more interest and less
danger than surrounded our less fortunate
ancestors.
Cicero described a room without books,
as a body without a soul. But it is by no
means necessary to be a philosopher to
love reading.
Reading, indeed, is by no means neces
sarily study. Far from it. “ I put,” says
Mr. Frederic Harrison, in his excellent
article on the “ Choice of Books,” “ I
put the poetic and emotional side of
literature as the most needed for daily
use.”
In the prologue to the Legende of Goode
Women, Chaucer says :
“ And as for me, though that I konne but lyte,
On bokes for to rede I me delyte,
And to him give I feyth and ful credence,
And in myn herte have him in reverence,
So hertely, that tlier is game noon,
That fro my bokes maketh me to goon,
But yt be seidome on the holy day,
Save, certynly, when that the monthe of May
Is comen, and that I here the foules synge,
And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge,
Farwel my boke and my devocion.”
But I doubt whether, if he had enjoyed
our advantages, he could have been so
certain of tearing himself away, even in
the month of May.
Macaulay, who had all that wealth and
fame, rank and talents could give, yet, we
are told, derived his greatest happiness
from books. Sir G. Trevelyan, in his
charming biography, says that—“of the
feelings which Macaulay entertained to
wards the great minds of bygone ages it is
not for any one except himself to speak.
He has told us how his debt to them was
IS
incalculable; how they guided him to
truth; how they filled his mind with
noble and graceful images ; how they stood
by him in all vicissitudes—comforters in
sorrow, nurses in sickness, companions in
solitude, the old friends who are never
seen with new faces ; who are the same in
wealth and in poverty, in glory and in
obscurity. Great as were the honours and
possessions which Macaulay acquired by his
pen, all who knew him were well aware
that the titles and rewards which he gained
by his own works were as nothing in the
balance compared with the pleasure he
derived from the works of others.”
There was no society in London so agree
able that Macaulay would have preferred
it at breakfast or at dinner “ to the com
pany of Sterne or Fielding, Horace Wal
pole or Boswell.” The love of reading
which Gibbon declared he would not ex
change for all the treasures of India was,
in fact, with Macaulay “ a main element of
happiness in one of the happiest lives that
it has ever fallen to the lot of the bio
grapher to record.”
“History,” says Fuller, “maketh a
young man to be old without either
wrinkles or gray hair, privileging him
with the experience of age without either
the infirmities or the inconveniences
thereof.”
So delightful indeed are books that we
must be careful not to forget other duties
for them; in cultivating the mind we
must not neglect the body.
To the lover of literature or science,
exercise often presents itself as an irksome
duty, and many a one has felt like “ the
fair pupil of Ascham (Lady Jane Grey),
who, while the horns were sounding and
dogs in full cry, sat in the lonely oriel,
with eyes riveted to that immortal page
which tells how meekly and bravely
(Socrates) the first martyr of intellectual
liberty took the cup from his weeping
jailer.” 1
Still, as the late Lord Derby justly ob
served,2 those who do not find time for
1 Macaulay.
2 Address, Liverpool College, 1873.
�i6
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
exercise will have to find time for ill
ness.
Books, again, are now so cheap as to be
within the reach of almost every one.
This was not always so. It is quite a
recent blessing. Mr. Ireland, to whose
charming little Book Lover's Enchiridion,
in common with every lover of reading, I
am greatly indebted, tells us that when
a boy he was so delighted with White’s
Natural History of Selborne, that in order
to possess a copy of his own he actually
copied out the whole work.
Mary Lamb gives a pathetic description
of a studious boy lingering at a bookstall :
“ I saw a boy with eager eye
Open a book upon a stall,
And read, as he’d devour it all;
Which, when the*stall man did espy,
Soon to the boy I heard him call,
‘ You, sir, you never buy a book,
Therefore in one you shall not look.’
The boy passed slowly on, and with a sigh
He wished he never had been taught to read,
Then of the old churl’s books he should have
had no need.”
Such snatches of literature have, indeed,
a special and peculiar charm. This is, I
believe, partly due to the very fact of
their being brief. Many readers miss
much of the pleasure of reading by forceing themselves to dwell too long con
tinuously on one subject. In a long
railway journey, for instance, many persons
take only a single book. The consequence
is that, unless it is a story, after half an
hour or an hour they are quite tired of it.
Whereas, if they had two, or still better
three books, on different subjects, and one
of them of an amusing character, they
would probably find that, by changing as
soon as they felt at all weary, they would
come back again and again to each with
renewed zest, and hour after hour would
pass pleasantly away. Every one, of
course, must judge for himself, but such
at least is my experience.
I quite agree, therefore, with Lord
Iddesleigh as to the charm of desultory
reading, but the wider the field the more
important that we should benefit by the
very best books in each class. Not that we
PART I
need confine ourselves to them, but that
we should commence with them, and they
will certainly lead us on to others. There
are of course some books which we must
read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.
But these are exceptions. As regards by
far the larger number, it is probably
better to read them quickly, dwelling only
on the best and most important passages.
In this way, no doubt, we shall lose much,
but we gain more by ranging over a wider
field. We may, in fact, I think, apply to
reading Lord Brougham’s wise dictum as
regards education, and say that it is well
to read everything of something, and
something of everything. In this way
only we can ascertain the bent of our
own tastes, for it is a general, though not
of course an invariable, rule, that we
profit little by books which we do not enjoy.
Every one, however, may suit himself.
The variety is endless.
Not only does a library contain “in
finite riches in a little room,” 1 but we
may sit at home and yet be in all quarters
of the earth. We may travel round the
world with Captain Cook or Darwin,
with Kingsley or Ruskin, who will show
us much more perhaps than ever we
should see for ourselves.
The world
itself has no limits for us ; Humboldt
and Herschel will carry us far away to
the mysterious nebulas, beyond the sun
and even the stars : time has no more
bounds than space; history stretches out
behind us, and geology will carry us back
for millions of years before the creation
of man, even to the origin of the material
Universe itself. Nor are we limited to
one plane of thought.
Aristotle and
Plato will transport us into a sphere none
the less delightful because we cannot
appreciate it without some training.
Comfort and consolation, peace and
happiness, may indeed be found in his
library by any one “ who shall bring the
golden key that unlocks its silent door.” 2
A library is true fairyland, a very palace
of delight, a haven of repose from the
storms and troubles of the world. Rich
1 Marlowe.
2 Matthews.
�THE CHOICE OF BOOKS
CHAP. IV
and poor can enjoy it alike, for here, at
least, wealth gives no advantage. We
may make a library, if we do but rightly
use it, a true paradise on earth, a garden
of Eden without its one drawback ; for
all is open to us, including, and especially,
the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, for
which we are told that our first mother
sacrificed all the Pleasures of Paradise.
Here we may read the most important
histories, the most exciting volumes of
travels and adventures, the most interest
ing stories, the most beautiful poems ; we
may meet the most eminent statesmen,
poets, and philosophers, benefit by the
ideas of the greatest thinkers, and enjoy
the grandest creations of human genius.
CHAPTER IV
THE CHOICE OF BOOKS 1
“ All round the room my silent servants wait—
My friends in every season, bright and dim,
Angels and Seraphim
Come down and murmur to me, sweet and low,
And spirits of the skies all come and go
Early and Late.”
Proctor.
And yet too often they wait in vain.
One reason for this is, I think, that people
are overwhelmed by the crowd of books
offered to them.
In old days books were rare and dear.
Now on the contrary, it may be said with
greater truth than ever that
“Words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions,
think.”2
Our ancestors had great difficulty in pro
curing books. Ours now is what to select.
We must be careful what we read, and
not, like the sailors of Ulysses, take bags
of wind for sacks of treasure—not only
lest we should even now fall into the
error of the Greeks, and suppose that
1 Delivered at the London Working Men’s
College.
2 Byron.
c
17
language and definitions can be instru
ments of investigation as well as of
thought, but lest, as too often happens,
we should waste time over trash. There
are many books to which one may apply,
in the sarcastic sense, the ambiguous
remark which Lord Beaconsfield made to
an unfortunate author, “ I will lose no
time in reading your book.”
There are, indeed, books and books ;
and there are books which, as Lamb said,
are not books at all. It is wonderful
how much innocent happiness we thought
lessly throw away. An Eastern proverb
says that calamities sent by heaven may
be avoided, but from those we bring on
ourselves there is no escape.
Many, I believe, are deterred from
attempting what are called stiff books for
fear they should not understand them ;
but there are few* who need complain of
the narrowness of their minds, if only
they would do their best with them.
In reading, however, it is most im
portant to select subjects in which one is
interested. I remember years ago con
sulting Mr. Darwin as to the selection of
a course of study. He asked me what
interested me most, and advised me to
choose that subject. This, indeed, applies
to the work of life generally.
I am sometimes disposed to think that
the great readers of the next generation
will be, not our lawyers and doctors,
shopkeepers and manufacturers, but the
labourers and mechanics. Does not this
seem natural1? The former work mainly
with their head ; when their daily duties
are over, the brain is often exhausted, and
of their leisure time much must be de
voted to air and exercise. The labourer
and mechanic, on the contrary, besides
working often for much shorter hours,
have in their work-time taken sufficient
bodily exercise, and could therefore give
any leisure they might have to reading
and study. They have not done so as
yet, it is true ; but this has been for
obvious reasons. Now, however, in the
first place, they receive an excellent edu
cation in elementary schools, and in the
�i8
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
second have more easy access to the best
books.
Ruskin has observed that he is not sur
prised at what men suffer, but he often
wonders at what they lose. We suffer
much, no doubt, from the faults of others,
but we lose much more by our own
ignorance.
“ If,” says Sir John Herschel, “ I were
to pray for a taste which should stand
me in stead under every variety of cir
cumstances, and be a source of happiness
and cheerfulness to me through life, and
a shield against its ills, however things
might go amiss and the world frown upon
me, it would be a taste for reading. I
speak of it of course only as a worldly
advantage, and not in the slightest degree
as superseding or derogating from the
higher office and surer and stronger
panoply of religious principles—but as
a taste, an instrument, and a mode of
pleasurable gratification.
Give a man
this taste, and the means of gratifying it,
and you can hardly fail of making a
happy man, unless, indeed, you put into
his hands a most perverse selection of
books.”
It is one thing to own a library ; it
is quite another to use it wisely. I
have often been astonished how little care
people devote to the selection of ■what
they read. Books, we know, are almost
innumerable ; our hours for reading are,
alas ! very few. And yet many people
read almost by hazard. They will take
any book they chance to find in a room
at a friend’s house ; they will buy a novel
at a railway-stall if it has an attractive
title ; indeed, I believe in some cases even
the binding affects their choice.
The
selection is, no doubt, far from easy. I
have often wished some one would re
commend a list of a hundred good books.
If we had such lists drawn up by a few
good guides they would be most useful.
I have indeed sometimes heard it said
that in reading every one must choose for
himself, but this reminds me of the re
commendation not to go into the water
till you can swim.
PART I
In the absence of such lists I have
picked out the books most frequently
mentioned with approval by those who
have referred directly or indirectly to the
pleasure of reading, and have ventured to
include some which, though less frequently
mentioned, are especial favourites of my
own. Every one who looks at the list
will wish to suggest other books, as indeed
I should myself, but in that case the
number would soon run up.1
I have abstained, for obvious reasons,
from mentioning works by living authors,
though from many of them I have myself
derived the keenest enjoyment; and I
have omitted works on science, with one
or two exceptions, because the subject is
so progressive.
I feel that the attempt is over bold,
and I must beg for indulgence, while
hoping for criticism ; indeed one object
which I have had in view is to stimu
late others more competent than I am to
give us the advantage of their opinions.
Moreover, I must repeat that I suggest
these works rather as those which, as far
as I have seen, have been most frequently
recommended, than as suggestions of my
own, though I have slipped in a few of
my own special favourites.
In any such selection much weight
should, I think, be attached to the general
verdict of mankind. There is a “ struggle
for existence ” and a “ survival of the
fittest” among books, as well as among
animals and plants. As Alonzo of Aragon
said, “Age is a recommendation in four
things—old wood to burn, old wine to
drink, old friends to trust, and old books
to read.” Still, this cannot be accepted
without important qualifications.
The
most recent books of history and science
contain, or ought to contain, the most
accurate information and the most trust
worthy conclusions. Moreover, while the
1 Several longer lists have been given ; for
instance, by Comte, Catechism of Positive Philo
sophy ; Pycroft, Course of English Pleading;
Baldwin, The, Book Lover; Perkins, The Best
Reading ; and by Ireland, Books for General
Readers.
�CHAP. IV
THE CHOICE OF BOOKS
books of other races and times have an
interest from their very distance, it must
be admitted that many will still more
enjoy, and feel more at home with, those
of our own century and people.
Yet the oldest books of the world are
remarkable and interesting on account
of their very age; and the works which
have influenced the opinions, or charmed
the leisure hours, of millions of men in
distant times and far-away regions are
well worth reading on that very account,
even if to us they seem scarcely to deserve
their reputation.
It is true that to
many, such works are accessible only in
translations ; but translations, though
they can never perhaps do justice to the
original, may yet be admirable in them
selves. The Bible itself, which must
stand first in the list, is a conclusive
case.
At the head of all non- Christian
moralists, I must place the Enchiridion
of Epictetus and the Meditations of Marcus
Aurelius, certainly two of the noblest
books in the whole of literature ; and
which, moreover, have both been admir
ably translated. The Analects of Con
fucius will, I believe, prove disappointing
to most English readers, but the effect it
has produced on the most numerous race
of men constitutes in itself a peculiar
interest. The Ethics of Aristotle, per
haps, appear to some disadvantage from
the very fact that they have so profoundly
influenced our views of morality. The
Koran, like the Analects of Confucius,
will to most of us derive its principal
interest from the effect it has exercised,
and still exercises, on so many millions of
our fellow-men. I doubt whether in any
other respect it will seem to repay per
usal, and to most persons probably certain
extracts, not too numerous, would appear
sufficient.
The writings of the Apostolic Fathers
have been collected in one volume by
Wake. It is but a small one, and though
I must humbly confess that I vas dis
appointed, they are perhaps all the more
curious from the contrast they afford to
19
those of the Apostles themselves. Of the
later Fathers I have included only the
Confessions of St. Augustine, which Dr.
Pusey selected for the commencement of
the Library of the Fathers, and which, as
he observes, has “ been translated again
and again into almost every European
language, and in all loved ; ” though
Luther was of opinion that St. Augustine
“ wrote nothing to the purpose concerning
faith.” But then Luther was no great
admirer of the Fathers. St. Jerome, he
says, “ writes, alas ! very coldly ; ” Chrys
ostom “ digresses from the chief points ; ”
St. Jerome is “very poor;” and in fact,
he says, “ the more I read the. books of the
Fathers the more I find myself offended ; ”
while Renan, in his interesting auto
biography, compared theology to a Gothic
Cathedral, “ elle a la grandeur, les vides
immenses, et le peu de solidite.”
Among other devotional works most
frequently recommended are Thomas a
Kempis’s Imitation of Christ, Pascal’s
Pensees, Spinoza’s Tractatus TheologicoPoliticus, Butler’s Analogy of Religion,
Jeremy Taylor’s Holy Living and Dying,
Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, and last, not
least, Keble’s beautiful Christian Year.
Aristotle and Plato stand at the head
of another class. The Politics of Aristotle,
and Plato’s Dialogues, if not the whole,
at any rate the Phcedo, the Apology, and
the Republic, will be of course read by all
who wish to know anything of the history
of human thought, though I am heretical
enough to doubt whether the latter repays
the minute and laborious study often
devoted to it.
Aristotle being the father, if not the
creator, of the modern scientific method,
it has followed naturally—indeed, almost
inevitably—that his principles have be
come part of our very intellectual being,
so that they seem now almost self-evident
while his actual observations, though very
remarkable—as, for instance, when he
observes that bees on one journey confine
themselves to one kind of flower—still
have been in many cases superseded by
others, carried on under more favourable
�20
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
conditions. We must not be ungrateful
to the great master, because his own
lessons have taught us how to advance.
Plato, on the other hand, I say so with
all respect, seems to me in some cases to
play on words : his arguments are very
able, very philosophical, often very noble ;
but not always conclusive ; in a language
differently constructed they might some
times tell in exactly the opposite sense.
If his method has proved less fruitful, if
in metaphysics we have made but little
advance, that very fact in one point of
view leaves the Dialogues of Socrates as
instructive now as ever they were; while
the problems with which they deal will
always rouse our interest, as the calm
and lofty spirit which inspires them
must command our admiration.
Of
the Apology and the Phcedo especially
it would be impossible to speak too grate
fully.
I would also mention Demosthenes’s
De Corona, which Lord Brougham pro
nounced the greatest oration of the
greatest of orators ; Lucretius, Plutarch’s
Lives, Horace, and at least the De Officiis,
De Amicitia, and De Senectute of Cicero.
The great epics of the world have
always constituted one of the most popu
lar branches of literature. Yet how few,
comparatively, ever read Homer or Virgil
after leaving school.
The Nibelungenlied, our great AngloSaxon epic, is perhaps too much neglected,
no doubt on account of its painful char
acter. Brunhild and Kriemhild, indeed,
are far from perfect, but we meet with few
such “ live ” women in Greek or Roman
literature. Nor must I omit to mention
Sir T. Malory’s Morte d’A rthur, though I
confess I do so mainly in deference to the
judgment of others.
Among the Greek tragedians I include
zEschylus, if not all his works, at any rate
Prometheus, perhaps the sublimest poem
in Greek literature, and the Trilogy (Mr.
Symonds in his Greek Poets speaks of the
“ unrivalled majesty ” of the Agamemnon,
and Mark Pattison considered it “the
grandest work of creative genius in the
PART I
whole range of literature”); or, as Sir
M. E. Grant Duff recommends, the Persce;
Sophocles (CEdipus Tyrannus), Euripides
(Medea), and Aristophanes (The Knights and
Clouds') ; unfortunately, as Schlegel says,
probably even the greatest scholar does
not understand half his jokes ; and I think
most modern readers will prefer our own
poets.
I should like, moreover, to say a word
for Eastern poetry, such as portions of the
Maha Bharata and Ramayana (too long
probably to be read through, but of which
Taiboys Wheeler has given a most interest
ing epitome in the first two volumes of
his History of India); the Shali-nameh, the
work of the great Persian poet Firdusi;
Kalidasa’s Sakuntala, and the Sheking, the
classical collection of ancient Chinese odes.
Many I know, will think I ought to have
included Omar Khayyam.
In history we are beginning to feel that
the vices and vicissitudes of kings and
queens, the dates of battles and wars, are
far less important than the development
of human thought, the progress of art, of
science, and of law, and the subject is on
that very account even more interesting
than ever. I will, however, only mention,
and that rather from a literary than a his
torical point of view, Herodotus, Xenophon
(the Anabasis), Thucydides, and Tacitus
(Germania); and of modern historians,
Gibbon’s Decline and Fall (“ the splendid
bridge from the old world to the new ”),
Hume’s History of England, Carlyle’s
French Revolution, Grote’s History of Greece,
and Green’s Short History of the English
People.
Science is so rapidly progressive that,
though to many minds it is the most
fruitful and interesting subject of all, I
cannot here rest on that agreement which,
rather than my own opinion, I take as the
basis of my list. I will therefore only
mention Bacon’s Novum Organum, Mill’s
Logic, and Darwin’s Origin of Species; in
Political Economy, which some of our
rulers do not now sufficiently value, Mill,
and parts of Smith’s Wealth of Nations,
for probably those who do not intend to
�CHAP. IV
THE CHOICE OF BOOKS
make a special study of political economy
would scarcely read the whole.
Among voyages and travels, perhaps
those most frequently suggested are Cook’s
Voyages, Humboldt’s Travels, and Darwin’s
Naturalist’s Journal; though I confess I
should like to have added many more.
Mr. Bright not long ago specially re
commended the less known American poets,
but he probably assumed that every one
would have read Shakespeare, Milton
(Paradise Lost, Lycidas, Comus and minor
poems), Chaucer, Dante, Spenser, Dryden,
Scott, Wordsworth, Pope, Byron, and
others, before embarking on more doubtful
adventures.
Among other books most frequently re
commended are Goldsmith’s Vicar of
Wakefield, Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels, Defoe’s
Robinson Crusoe, The Arabian Nights, Don
Quixote, Boswell’s Life of Johnson, White’s
Natural History of Selborne, Burke’s Select
Works (Payne), the Essays of Bacon,
Addison, Hume, Montaigne, Macaulay, and
Emerson, Carlyle’s Past and Present,
Smiles’s Self-Help, and Goethe’s Faust and
Autobiography.
Nor can one go wrong in recommending
Berkeley’s Human Knowledge, Descartes’s
Discours sur la Methode, Locke’s Conduct
of the Understanding Lewes’s History of
Philosophy ; while, in order to keep within
the number one hundred, I can only
mention Moliere ,and Sheridan among
dramatists. Macaulay considered Mari
vaux’s La Vice de Marianne the best novel
in any language, but my number is so
nearly complete that I must content my
self with English: and will suggest
Thackeray (Vanity Fair and Pendennis'),
Dickens (Pickwick and David Copperfield),
G. Eliot (Adam Bede or The Mill on the
Floss), Kingsley (Westward Ho!), Lytton
(Last Days of Pompeii), and last, not least,
those of Scott, which indeed constitute a
library in themselves, but which I must
ask, in return for my trouble, to be allowed,
as a special favour, to count as one.
To any lover of books the very mention
of these names brings back a crowd of de
licious memories, grateful recollections of
21
peaceful home hours, after the labours and
anxieties of the day. How thankful we
ought to be for these inestimable blessings,
for this numberless host of friends who
never weary, betray, or forsake us !
LIST OF 100 BOOKS
Works by Living Authors are omitted
The Bible
The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius
Epictetus
Aristotle’s Ethics
Analects of Confucius
St. Hilaire’s “Le Bouddha et sa religion”
Wake’s Apostolic Fathers
Thos. a Kempis’s Imitation of Christ
Confessions of St. Augustine (Dr. Pusey)
The Koran (portions of)
Spinoza’s Tractatus Theologico-Politicus
Pascal’s Pensees
Butler’s Analogy of Religion
Taylor’s Holy Living and Dying
Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress
Keble’s Christian Year
Plato’s Dialogues ; at any rate, the Apology,
Crito, and Pheedo
Xenophon’s Memorabilia
Aristotle’s Politics
Demosthenes’s De Corona
Cicero’s De Officiis, De Amicitia, and De
Senectute
Plutarch’s Lives
Berkeley’s Human Knowledge
Descartes’s Discours sur la Methode
Locke s On the Conduct of the Understanding
Homer
Hesiod
Virgil
Maha Bliarata
Ramayana
Epitomised in Taiboys
Wheeler’s History of
India, vols. i. and ii.
The Shahnameh
The Nibelungenlied
Malory’s Morte d’Arthur
The Sheking
Kalidasa’s Sakuntala or The Lost Ring
Alschylus’s Prometheus
Trilogy of Orestes
Sophocles’s (Edipus
Euripides’s Medea
Aristophanes’s The Knights and Clouds
Horace
Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (perhaps in
Morris’s edition ; or, if expurgated, in C.
Clarke’s, or Mrs. Haweis’s)
�22
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
Shakespeare *
Milton’s Paradise Lost, Lycidas, Comus, and
the shorter poems
Dante’s Divina Commedia
Spenser’s Fairie Queen
Dryden’s Poems
Scott’s Poems
Wordsworth (Mr. Arnold’s selection)
Pope’s Essay on Criticism
Essay on Man
Rape of the Lock
Burns
Byron’s Childe Harold
Gray’s Poems
Tennyson’s Idylls and smaller poems
PART I
Thackeray’s Vanity Fair
Pendennis
Dickens’s Pickwick
David Copperfield
Lytton’s Last Days of Pompeii
George Eliot’s Adam Bede
Kingsley’s Westward Ho >.
Scott’s Novels
CHAPTER V
THE BLESSING OF FRIENDS1
Herodotus
Xenophon’s Anabasis
Thucydides
Tacitus’s Germania
Livy
Gibbon’s Decline and Fall
Hume’s History of England
Grote’s History of Greece
Carlyle’s French Revolution
Green’s Short History of England
Lewes’s History of Philosophy
“They seem to take away the sun from the
world who withdraw friendship from life ; for
we have received nothing better from the Im
mortal Gods, nothing more delightful.”—Cicero.
Most of those who have written in praise
of books have thought they could say
nothing more conclusive than to compare
them to friends.
All men, said Socrates, have their
different objects of ambition—horses, dogs,
Arabian Nights
money, honour, as the case may be ; but
Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels
Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe
for his own part he would rather have a
Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield
good friend than all these put together.
Cervantes’s Don Quixote
And again, men know “ the number of
Boswell’s Life of Johnson
their other possessions, although they
Moliere
Schiller’s William Tell
might be very numerous, but of their
Sheridan’s The Critic, School for Scandal, and friends, though but few, they were not
The Rivals
only ignorant of the number, but even
Carlyle’s Past and Present
when they attempted to reckon it to such
as asked them, they set aside again some
Bacon’s Novum Organum
that they had previously counted among
Smith’s Wealth of Nations (part of)
Mill’s Political Economy
their friends; so little did they allow
Cook’s Voyages
their friends to occupy their thoughts.
Humboldt’s Travels
Yet in comparison with what possession,
White’s Natural History of Selborne
of all others, would not a good friend
Darwin’s Origin of Species
Naturalist’s Voyage
appear far more valuable ? ”
Mill’s Logic
“ As to the value of other things,” says
Cicero, “most men differ; concerning
Bacon’s Essays
friendship all have the same opinion.
Montaigne’s Essays
What can be more foolish than, when
Hume’s Essays
Macaulay’s Essays
men are possessed of great influence by
Addison’s Essays
their wealth, power, and resources, to
Emerson’s Essays
procure other things which are bought
Burke’s Select Works
by money—horses, slaves, rich apparel,
Smiles’s Self-Help
costly vases—and not to procure friends,
Voltaire’s Zadig and Micromegas
Goethe’s Faust, and Autobiography
1 The substance of this was delivered at the
London Working Men’s College.
�CHAP. V
THE BLESSING OF. EE ZENDS
the most valuable and fairest furniture of
life?” And yet, he continues, “every
man can tell how many goats or sheep
he possesses, but not how many friends.”
In the choice, moreover, of a dog or of a
horse, we exercise the greatest care : we
inquire into its pedigree, its training and
character, and yet we too often leave the
selection of our friends, which is of in
finitely greater importance—by whom our
whole life will be more or less influenced
either for good or evil—almost to chance.
It is no doubt true, as the Autocrat of
the Breakfast Table says, that all men are
bores except when we want them. And
Sir Thomas Browne quaintly observes
that “ unthinking heads who have not
learnt to be alone, are a prison to them
selves if they be not with others ; whereas,
on the contrary, those whose thoughts are
in a fair and hurry within, are sometimes
fain to retire into company to be out of
the crowd of themselves.” Still I do not
quite understand Emerson’s idea that
“men descend to meet.” In another
place, indeed, he qualifies the statement,
and says, “ Almost all people descend to
meet.” Even so I should venture to
question it, especially considering the
context.
“ All association,” he adds,
“must be a compromise, and, what is
worse, the very flower and aroma of the
flower of each of the beautiful natures
disappears as they approach each other.”
What a sad thought! Is it really so ;
Need it be so ? And if it were, would
friends be any real advantage ? I should
have thought that the influence of friends
was exactly the reverse : that the flower
of a beautiful nature would expand, and
the colours grow brighter, when stimu
lated by the warmth and sunshine of
friendship.
It has been said that it is wise always
to treat a friend, remembering that he
may become an enemy, and an enemy,
remembering that he may become a
friend ; and whatever may be thought
of the first part of the adage, there is
certainly much wisdom in the latter.
Many people seem to take more pains
23
and more pleasure in making enemies,
than in making friends. Plutarch, in
deed, quotes with approbation the. advice
of Pythagoras “ not to shake hands with
too many,” but as long as friends are
well chosen, it is true rather that
“ He who has a thousand friends,
Has never a one to spare,
And he who has one enemy,
Will meet him everywhere,”
and unfortunately, while there are few
great friends there is no little enemy.
I guard myself, however, by saying
again—As long as they are well chosen.
One is thrown in life with a great many
people who, though not actively bad,
though they may not wilfully lead us
astray, yet take no pains with themselves,
neglect their own minds, and direct the
conversation to petty puerilities or mere
gossip ; who do not seem to realise that
conversation may by a little effort be
made instructive and delightful, without
being in any way pedantic ; or, on the
other hand, in ay be allowed to drift into
a mere morass of muddy thought and
weedy words. There are few from ■whom
we may not learn something, if only they
will trouble themselves to tell us. Nay,
even if they teach us nothing, they may
help us by the stimulus of intelligent
questions, or the warmth of sympathy.
But if they do neither, then indeed their
companionship, if companionship it can
be called, is mere waste of time, and of
such we may well say, “ I do desire that
we be better strangers.”
Much certainly of the happiness and
purity of our lives depends on our making
a wise choice of our companions and
friends. If badly chosen they will in
evitably drag us down ; if well they will
raise us up. Yet many people seem to
trust in this matter to the chapter of
accident. It is well and right, indeed, to
be courteous and considerate to every one
with whom we are brought into contact,
but to choose them as real friends is an
other matter. Some seem to make a man
a friend, or try to do so, because he lives
near, because he is in the same business,
�24
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
travels on the same line of railway, or for
some other trivial reason. There cannot
be a greater mistake. These are only, in
the words of Plutarch “ the idols and
images of friendship.”
To be friendly with every one is
another matter ; we must remember that
there is no little enemy, and those who
have ever really loved any one will have
some tenderness for all. There is indeed
some good in most men. “ I have heard
much,” says Mr. Nasmyth in his charming
autobiography, “ about the ingratitude
and selfishness of the world. It may
have been ray good fortune, but I have
never experienced either of these unfeel
ing conditions.” Such also has been my
own experience.
“ Men talk of unkind hearts, kind deeds
With coldness still returning.
Alas ! the gratitude of men
Has ofteuer left me mourning.”
I cannot, then, agree with Emerson
when he says that “we walk alone in the
world. Friends such as we desire are
dreams and fables. But a sublime hope
cheers ever the faithful heart, that else
where in other regions of the universal
power souls are now acting, enduring,
and daring, which can love us, and which
we can love.”
No doubt, much as worthy friends
add to the happiness and value of life,
we must in the main depend on ourselves,
and every one is his own best friend
or worst enemy.
Sad, indeed, is Bacon’s assertion that
“ there is little friendship in the world,
and least of all between equals, which
was wont to be magnified. That that is,
is between superior and inferior, whose
fortunes may comprehend the one to the
other.” But this can hardly be taken as
his deliberate opinion, for he elsewhere
says, “ but we may go farther, and affirm
most truly, that it is a mere and miser
able solitude to want true friends, without
which the world is but a wilderness.”
Not only, he adds, does friendship intro
duce “ daylight in the understanding out
of darkness and confusion of thoughts;”
PART I
it “ maketh a fair day in the affections
from storm and tempests:” in consultation
with a friend a man “ tosseth his thoughts
more easily; he marshalleth them more
orderly ; he seeth how they look when
they are turned into words ; finally, he
waxeth wiser than himself, and that more
by an hour’s discourse than by a day’s
meditation.” . . . “ But little do men
perceive what solitude is, and how far it
extendeth, for a crowd is not company,
and faces are but a gallery of pictures,
and talk but a tinkling cymbal where
there is no love.”
With this last assertion I cannot alto
gether concur. Surely even strangers may
be most interesting ! and many will agree
with Dr. Johnson when, describing a
pleasant evening, he summed it up—“ Sir,
we had a good talk.”
Epictetus gives excellent advice when
he dissuades from conversation on the
very subjects most commonly chosen, and
advises that it should be on “ none of
the common subjects—not about gladi
ators, nor horse-races, nor about athletes,
nor about eating or drinking, which are
the usual subjects ; and especially not
about men, as blaming them ; ” but when
he adds, “or praising them,” the injunction
seems to me of doubtful value. Surely
Marcus Aurelius more wisely advises that
“when thou wishest to delight thyself,
think of the virtues of those who live
with thee ; for instance, the activity of
one, and the modesty of another, and the
liberality of a third, and some other good
quality of a fourth. For nothing delights
so much as the examples of the virtues,
when they are exhibited in the morals of
those who live with us and present them
selves in abundance, as far as is possible.
Wherefore we must keep them before us.”
Yet how often we know merely the sight
of those we call our friends, or the sound
of their voices, but nothing whatever of
their mind or soul.
We must, moreover, be as careful to
keep friends as to make them. If every
one knew what one said of the other,
Pascal assures us that “ there would not
�THE VALUE OF TIME
CHAP. V
be four friends in the world.” This I
hope and think is too strong, but at
any rate try to be one of the four. And
when you have made a friend, keep
him. Hast thou a friend, says an Eastern
proverb, “ visit him often, for thorns and
brushwood obstruct the road which no
one treads.” The affections should not be
mere “tents of a night.”
Still less does Friendship confer any
privilege to make ourselves disagreeable.
Some people never seem to appreciate
their friends till they have lost them.
Anaxagoras described the Mausoleum as
the ghost of wealth turned into stone.
“ But he who has once stood beside the
grave to look back on the companionship
which has been for ever closed, feeling
how impotent then are the wild love and
the keen sorrow, to give one instant’s
pleasure to the pulseless heart, or atone
in the lowest measure to the departed
spirit for the hour of unkindness, will
scarcely for the future incur that debt to
the heart which can only be discharged
to the dust.” 1
Death, indeed, cannot sever friendship.
“Friends,” says Cicero, “though absent,
are still present ; though in poverty they
are rich ; though weak, yet in the enjoy
ment of health ; and, what is still more
difficult to assert, though dead they are
alive.” This seems a paradox, yet is
there not much truth in his explanation ?
“ To me, indeed, Scipio still lives, and
will always live ; for I love the virtue of
that man, and that worth is not yet ex
tinguished. . . . Assuredly of all things
that either fortune or time has bestowed
on me, I have none which I can compare
with the friendship of Scipio.”
If, then, we choose our friends for
what they are, not for what they have,
and if we deserve so great a blessing, then
they will be always with us, preserved in
absence, and even after death, in the
amber of memory.
25
CHAPTER VI
THE VALUE OF TIME1
Each day is a little life
All other good gifts depend on time
for their value. What are friends, books,
or health, the interest of travel or the de
lights of home, if we have not time for
their enjoyment ? Time is often said to
be money, but it is more—it is life ; and
yet many who would cling desperately to
life, think nothing of wasting time.
Ask of the wise, says Schiller in Lord
Sherbrooke’s translation,
‘ ‘ The moments we forego
Eternity itself cannot retrieve. ”
And, in the words of Dante,
“ For who knows most, him loss of time most
grieves.”
Not that a life of drudgery should be our
ideal. Far from it. Time spent in
innocent and rational enjoyments, in
healthy games, in social and family inter
course, is well and wisely spent. Games
not only keep the body in health, but give
a command over the muscles and limbs
which cannot be over-valued. Moreover,
there are temptations which strong exercise
best enables us to resist.
It is the idle who complain they cannot
find time to do that which they fancy
they wish. In truth, people can generally
make time for what they choose to do ; it
is not really the time but the will that is
wanting: and the advantage of leisure is
mainly that we may have the power of
choosing our own wTork, not certainly that
it confers any privilege of idleness.
“ Time travels in divers paces with
divers persons. I’ll tell you who time
ambles withal, who time trots withal, who
time gallops withal, and who he stands
still withal.” 2
1 Ruskin.
1 The substance of this was delivered at the
Polytechnic Institution.
2 Shakespeare.
�26
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART I
For it is not so much the hours that Devil tempts the busy man, but the idle
tell, as the way we use them.
man tempts the Devil. I remember, says
Hillard, “a satirical poem, in which the
“ Circles are praised, not that excel
In largeness, but th’ exactly framed ;
Devil is represented as fishing for men,
So life we praise, that does excel
and adapting his bait to the tastes and
Not in much time, but acting well.” 1
temperaments of his prey ; but the idlers
“Idleness,” says Jeremy Taylor, “is were the easiest victims, for they swallowed
the greatest prodigality in the world ; it even the naked hook.”
throws away that which is invaluable in
The mind of the idler indeed preys upon
respect of its present use, and irreparable itself. “ The human heart is like a mill
when it is past, being to be recovered by stone in a mill; when you put wheat
no power of art or nature.”
under it, it turns and grinds and bruises
Life must be measured rather by depth the wheat to flour ; if you put no wheat,
than by length, by thought and action it still grinds on—and grinds itself away.” 1
rather than by time. “ A counted number
It is not work, but care, that kills, and
of pulses only,” says Pater, “is given to us it is in this sense, I suppose, that we are
of a variegated, aromatic, life. How may told to “ take no thought for the morrow.”
we see in them all that is to be seen by To “ consider the lilies of the field, how
the finest senses 1 How can we pass most they grow ; they toil not, neither do they
swiftly from point to point, and be present spin : and yet even Solomon, in all his
always at the focus where the greatest glory, was not arrayed like one of these.
number of vital forces unite in their Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of
purest energy ? To burn always with this the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow
hard gem-like flame, to maintain this is cast into the oven, shall he not much
ecstasy, is success in life. Failure is to more clothe you, O ye of little faith 1 ” It
form habits, for habit is relation to a would indeed be a mistake to suppose that
stereotyped world ; . . . while all melts lilies are idle or imprudent. On the
under our feet, we may well catch at any contrary, plants are most industrious, and
exquisite passion, or any contribution to lilies store up in their complex bulbs a
knowledge, that seems, by a lifted horizon, great part of the nourishment of one year to
to set the spirit free for a moment.”
quicken the growth of the next. Care, on
I would not quote Lord Chesterfield as the other hand, they certainly know not.2
generally a safe guide, but there is certainly
“ Hours have wings, fly up to the author
much shrewd wisdom in his advice to his of time, and carry news of our usage.
son with reference to time. “ Every All our prayers cannot entreat one of them
moment you now lose, is so much character either to return or slacken his pace. The
and advantage lost ; as, on the other hand, misspents of every minute are a new record
every moment you now employ usefully, against us in heaven. Sure if we thought
is so much time wisely laid out, at pro thus, we should dismiss them with better
digious interest.”
reports, and not suffer them to fly away
And again, “ It is astonishing that any empty, or laden with dangerous intelli
one can squander away in absolute idleness gence. How happy is it when they carry
one single moment of that small portion up not only the message, but the fruits of
of time which is allotted to us in the world. good, and stay with the Ancient of Days
. . . Know the true value of time ; snatch, to speak for us before His glorious
seize, and enjoy every moment of it.”
throne! ” 3
‘ Are you in earnest ? seize this very minute,
What you can do, or think you can, begin it.” 2
There is a Turkish proverb that
1 Waller.
2 Faust.
1 Luther.
2 The word used iiepifiv-qa-qTe is translated in
the Liddell and Scott “to be anxious about, to be
distressed in mind, to be cumbered with many
cares.”
3 Milton.
�CHAP. VI
THE VALUE OF TIME
Time is often said to fly : but it is not
so much the time that flies ; as we that
waste it, and wasted time is worse than no
time at all; “ I wasted time,” Shake
speare makes Richard II. say, “and now
doth time waste me.”
“He that is choice of his time,” says
Jeremy Taylor, “ will also be choice of
his company, and choice of his actions ;
lest the first engage him in vanity and
loss, and the latter, by being criminal, be
a throwing his time and himself away,
and a going back in the accounts of
eternity.”
The life of man is seventy years, but
how little of this is actually our own.
We must deduct the time required for
sleep, for meals, for dressing and undress
ing, for exercise, etc., and then how little
remains really at our own disposal!
“ I have lived,” said Lamb, “ nominally
fifty years, but deduct from them the
hours I have lived for other people, and
not for myself, anct you will find me still
a young fellow.”
The hours we live for other people,
however, are not those which should be
deducted, but rather those which benefit
neither oneself nor any one else ; and
these, alas 1 are often very numerous.
“ There are some hours which are taken
from us, some which are stolen from us,
and some which slip from us.”1 But
however we may lose them, we can never
get them back. It is wonderful, indeed,
how much innocent happiness we thought
lessly throw away. An Eastern proverb
says that calamities sent by heaven may
be avoided, but from those we bring on
ourselves there is no escape.
Some years ago I paid a visit to the
sites of the ancient lake villages of Switzer
land in company with a distinguished
archseologist, M. Morlot. To my surprise
I found that his whole income was £100
a year, part of which, moreover, he spent
in making a small museum. I asked him
whether he contemplated accepting any
post or office, but he said certainly not.
He valued his leisure and opportunities
1 Seneca.
27
as priceless possessions far more than
silver or gold, and would not waste any
of his time in making money.
Time, indeed, is a sacred gift, and each
day is a little life. Just think of our
advantages here in London ! We have
access to the whole literature of the
world ; we may see in our National
Gallery the most beautiful productions of
former generations, and in the Royal
Academy and other galleries the works of
the greatest living artists. Perhaps there
is no one who has ever found time to
see the British Museum thoroughly. Yet
consider what it contains ; or rather, what
does it not contain ? The most perfect
collection of living and extinct animals;
the marvellous monsters of geological
ages ; the most beautiful birds, shells, and
minerals ; precious stones and fragments
from other worlds ; the most interesting
antiquities ; curious and fantastic speci
mens illustrating different races of men ;
exquisite gems, coins, glass, and china ;
the Elgin marbles; the remains of the
Mausoleum ; of the temple of Diana of
Ephesus; ancient monuments of Egypt
and Assyria ; the rude implements of our
predecessors in England, who were coeval
with the hippopotamus and rhinoceros, the
musk-ox, and the mammoth ; and beauti
ful specimens of Greek and Roman art.
Suffering may be unavoidable, but no
one has any excuse for being dull. And
yet some people are dull. They talk of
a better world to come, while whatever
dulness there may be here is all their
own. Sir Arthur Helps has well said :
“ What! dull, when you do not know
what gives its loveliness of form to the
lily, its depth of colour to the violet, its
fragrance to the rose; when you do not
know in what consists the venom of the
adder, any more than you can imitate the
glad movements of the dove. What !
<jull, when earth, air, and water are all
alike mysteries to you, and when as you
stretch out your hand you do not touch
anything the properties of which you have
mastered ; while all the time Nature is
inviting you to talk earnestly with her,
�28
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
part I
to understand her, to subdue
be blessed by her 1 Go away,
something, do something,
something, and let me hear
your dulness.”
her, and to
Surely no one who has the opportunity
man ; learn should omit to travel. The world belongs
understand to him who has seen it. “ But he that
no more of would make his travels delightful must
first make himself delightful.” 1
According to the old proverb, “ the fool
wanders, the wise man travels.” Bacon
tells us that “the things to be seen and
observed are the courts of princes, especi
CHAPTER VII
ally when they give audience to ambas
THE PLEASURES OF TRAVEL 1
sadors ; the courts of justice while they
sit and hear causes ; and so of consistories
“I ain a part of all that I have seen.”
ecclesiastic • the churches and monasteries,
with the monuments which are therein
I AM sometimes disposed to think that
extant; the walls and fortifications of
there are few things in which we of this cities and towns ; and so the havens and
generation enjoy greater advantages over harbours, antiquities and ruins, libraries,
our ancestors than in the increased facili colleges, disputations and lectures, when
ties of travel; but I hesitate to say this, any are; shipping and navies ; houses
not because our advantages are not great, and gardens of state and pleasure near
but because I have already made the same great cities; armouries, arsenals, maga
remark with reference to several other zines, exchanges, burses, warehouses, exer
aspects of life.
cises of horsemanship, fencing, training of
The very word “ travel ” is suggestive. soldiers, and the like; comedies, such
It is a form of “travail”—excessive labour; whereunto the better sort of persons do
and, as Skeat observes, it forcibly recalls resort; treasuries of jewels and robes;
the toil of travel in olden days. How cabinets and rarities ; and, to conclude,
different things are now !
whatsoever is memorable in the places
It is sometimes said that every one where they go.”
should travel on foot “ like Thales, Plato,
But this depends on the time at our
and Pythagoras ” ; we are told that in disposal, and the object with which we
these days of railroads people rush through travel. If we are long enough in any
countries and see nothing. It may be so, one place Bacon’s advice is no doubt
but that is not the fault of the railways. excellent; but for the moment I am
They confer upon us the inestimable ad thinking rather of an annual holiday,
vantage of being able, so rapidly and with taken for the sake of rest and health ;
so little fatigue, to visit countries which for fresh air and exercise rather than for
were much less accessible to our ancestors. study. Yet even so, if we have eyes to
What a blessing it is that not our own see, we cannot fail to lay in a stock of
islands only—our smiling fields and rich new ideas as well as a store of health.
woods, the mountains that are full of
We may have read the most vivid and
peace and the rivers of joy, the lakes and accurate description, we may have pored
heaths and hills, castles and cathedrals, over maps and plans and pictures, and yet
and many a spot immortalised in the the reality will burst on us like a revela
history of our country :—not these only, tion. This is true not only of mountains
but the sun and scenery of the South, and glaciers, of palaces and cathedrals,
the Alps the palaces of Nature, the blue but even of the simplest examples.
Mediterranean, and the cities of Europe,
For instance, like every one else, I had
with all their memories and treasures, are read descriptions and seen photographs
now brought within a few hours of us.
and pictures of the Pyramids. Their
1 The substance of this was delivered at Oldham.
1 Seneca.
�CHAP. VII
THE PLEASURES OF TRAVEL
form is simplicity itself. I do not know
that I could put into words any character
istic of the original for -which I was not
prepared. It was not that they were
larger ; it was not that they differed in
form, in colour, or situation. And yet,
the moment I saw them, I felt that my
previous impression had been but a faint
shadow of the reality. The actual sight
seemed to give life to the idea.
Every one who has been in the East
will agree that a -week of oriental travel
brings out, with more than stereoscopic
effect, the pictures of patriarchal life as
given us in the Old Testament. And
what is true of the Old Testament is true
of history generally. To those who have
been in Athens or Rome, the history of
Greece or Italy becomes far more interest
ing ; -while, on the other hand, some
knowledge of the history and literature
enormously enhances the interest of the
scenes themselves.
Good descriptions and pictures, how
ever, help us to see much more than we
should perhaps perceive for ourselves. It
may even be doubted whether some
persons do not derive a more correct im
pression from a good drawing or descrip
tion, which brings out the salient points,
than they would from actual, but unaided,
inspection. The idea may gain in ac
curacy, in character, and even in detail,
more than it misses in vividness. But,
however this may be, for those who cannot
travel, descriptions and pictures have an
immense interest; while to those who
have travelled, they will afford an inex
haustible delight in reviving the memories
of beautiful scenes and interesting expedi
tions.
It is really astonishing how little most
of us see of the beautiful world in which
we live. Mr. Norman Lockyer tells me
that while travelling on a scientific mission
in the Rocky Mountains, he w’as astonished
to meet an aged French Abbe, and could
not help showing his surprise. The Abbd
observed this, and in the course of con
versation explained his presence in that
distant region.
29
“You were,” he said, “I easily saw,
surprised to find me here. The fact is,
that some months ago I was very ill. My
physicians gave me up : one morning I
seemed to faint and thought that I was
already in the arms of the Bon Dieu. I
fancied one of the angels came and asked
me, ‘Well, M. l’Abbe, and how did you
like the beautiful world you have just
left?’ And then it occurred to me that
I who had been all my life preaching
about heaven, had seen almost nothing
of the world in which I was living. I
determined therefore, if it pleased Provi
dence to spare me, to see something of
this world ; and so here I am.”
Few of us are free, however much we
might wish it, to follow the example of
the worthy Abbe. But although it may
not be possible for us to reach the Rocky
Mountains, there are other countries nearer
home which most of us might find time
to visit.
Though it is true that no descriptions
can come near the reality, they may at
least persuade us to give ourselves this
great advantage. Let me then try to
illustrate this by pictures in words, as
realised by some of our most illustrious
countrymen; I will select references to
foreign countries only, not that we have
not equal beauties here, but because every
where in England one feels oneself at
home.
The following passage from Tyndall’s
Hours of Exercise in the Alps, is almost as
good as an hour in the Alps themselves :
“ I looked over this wondrous scene
towards Mont Blanc, the Grand Combin,
the Dent Blanche, the Weissliorn, the
Dom, and the thousand lesser peaks which
seemed to join in the celebration of the
risen day. I asked myself, as on previous
occasions, How was this colossal work
performed ? Who chiselled these mighty
and picturesque masses out of a mere
protuberance of the earth ? And the
answer was at hand. Ever young, ever
mighty—with the vigour of a thousand
worlds still within him—the real sculptor
was even then climbing up the eastern
�30
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART I
i
sky. It was lie wlio raised aloft the
waters which cut out these ravines; it
was he who planted the glaciers on the
mountain-slopes, thus giving gravity a
plough to open out the valleys ; and it is
he who, acting through the ages, will
finally lay low these mighty monuments,
rolling them gradually seaward, sowing
the seeds of continents to be ; so that the
people of an older earth may see mould
spread, and corn wave over the hidden
rocks which at this moment bear the
weight of the Jungfrau.” And the Alps
lie within twenty-four hours of London !
Tyndall’s writings also contain many
vivid descriptions of glaciers ; those
“ silent and solemn causeways . . . broad
enough for the march of an army in line
of battle and quiet as a street of tombs in
a buried city.” 1 I do not, however, borrow
from him or from any one else any descrip
tion of glaciers, for they are so unlike any
thing else, that no one who has not seen,
can possibly visualise them.
The history of European rivers yet
remains to be written, and is most inter
esting. They did not always run in their
present courses. The Rhone, for instance,
appears to have been itself a great traveller.
At least there seems reason to believe
that the upper waters of the Valais fell
at first into the Danube, and so into
the Black Sea ; subsequently joined the
Rhine and the Thames, and so ran far
north over the plains which once connected
the mountains of Scotland and of Norway
—to the Arctic Ocean ; and have only
comparatively of late years adopted their
present course into the Mediterranean.
But, however this may be, the Rhine
of Germany and the Rhine of Switzerland
are very unlike. The catastrophe of Schaff
hausen seems to alter the whole character
of the river, and no wonder. “ Stand for
half an hour,” says Ruskin, “beside the
Fall of Schaffhausen, on the north side
where the rapids are long, and watch how '
the vault of water first bends, unbroken,
in pure polished velocity, over the arching
rocks at the brow of the cataract, covering ,
1 Ruskin.
' them with a dome of crystal twenty feet
j thick, so swift that its motion is unseen
i except when a foam globe from above
, darts over it like a falling star ; . . . and
, how ever and anon, startling you with its
white flash, a jet of spray leaps hissing
out of the fall, like a rocket, bursting in
the wind and driven away in dust, filling
the air with light; and how, through the
curdling wreaths of the restless crushing
abyss below, the blue of the water, paled
by the foam in its body, shows purer
than the sky through white rain-cloud •
. . . their dripping masses lifted at inter
vals, like sheaves of loaded corn, by some
stronger gush from the cataract, and
bowed again upon the mossy rocks as its
roar dies away.”
But much as we may admire the
majestic grandeur of a mighty river,
either in its eager rush or its calmer
moments, there is something which
fascinates even more in the free life, the
young energy, the sparkling transparence,
and merry music of smaller streams.
“ The upper Swiss valleys,” as the
same great Seer says, “ are sweet with
perpetual streamlets, that seem always to
have chosen the steepest places to come
down, for the sake of the leaps, scattering
their handfuls of crystal this way and
that, as the wind takes them, with all the
grace, but with none of the formalism, of
fountains . . . until at last . . . they
find their way down to the turf, and lose
themselves in that, silently ; with quiet
depth of clear water furrowing among the
grass blades, and looking only like their
shadow, but presently emerging again in
little startled gushes and laughing hurries,
as if they had remembered suddenly that
the day was too short for them to get
down the hill.”
How vividly does Symonds bring before
us the sunny shores of the Mediterranean,
which he loves so well, and the contrast
between the scenery of the North and
the South.
“ In northern landscapes the eye travels
through vistas of leafy boughs to still,
secluded crofts and pastures, where slow-
�CHAP. VII
THE PLEASURES OF TRA VEL
moving oxen graze. The mystery of
dreams and the repose of meditation haunt
our massive bowers. But in the South,
the lattice-work of olive boughs and foliage
scarcely veils the laughing sea and bright
blue sky, while the hues of the landscape
find their climax in the dazzling radiance
of the sun upon the waves, and the pure
light of the horizon. There is no conceal
ment and no melancholy here. Nature
seems to hold a never-ending festival and
dance, in which the waves and sunbeams
and shadows join. Again, in northern
scenery, the rounded forms of full-foliaged
trees suit the undulating country, with its
gentle hills and brooding clouds ; but in
the South the spiky leaves and sharp
branches of the olive carry out the defined
outlines which are everywhere observable
through the broader beauties of mountain
and valley and sea-shore. Serenity and
intelligence characterise this southern
landscape, in which a race of splendid men
and women lived beneath the pure light
of Phoebus, their ancestral god. Pallas
protected them, and golden Aphrodite
favoured them with beauty. Olives are
not, however, by any means the only trees
which play a part in idyllic scenery. The
tall stone pine is even more important. . . .
Near Massa, by Sorrento, there are two
gigantic pines so placed that, lying on the
grass beneath them, one looks on Capri
rising from the sea, Baiae, and all the bay
of Naples sweeping round to the base of
Vesuvius. Tangled growths of olives,
oranges, and rose-trees fill the garden
ground along the shore, while far away in
the distance pale Inarime sleeps, with
her exquisite Greek name, a virgin island
on the deep.
“ On the wilder hills you find patches
of ilex and arbutus glowing with crimson
berries and white waxen bells, sweet myrtle
rods and shafts of bay, frail tamarisk and
tall tree-heaths that wave their frosted
houghs above your head. Nearer the
shore the lentisk grows, a savoury shrub,
with cytisus and aromatic rosemary.
Clematis and polished garlands of tough
sarsaparilla wed the shrubs with clinging,
3i
climbing arms ; and here and there in
sheltered nooks the vine shoots forth
luxuriant tendrils bowed with grapes,
stretching from branch to branch of mul
berry or elm, flinging festoons on which
young loves might sit and swing, or
weaving a lattice-work of leaves across the
open shed. Nor must the sounds of this
landscape be forgotten,—sounds of bleat
ing flocks, and murmuring bees, and
nightingales, and doves that moan, and
running streams, and shrill cicadas, and
hoarse frogs, and whispering pines. There
is not a single detail which a patient
student may not verify from Theocritus.
“ Then too it is a landscape in which
sea and country are never sundered. The
higher we climb upon the mountain-side
the more marvellousis the beauty of the sea,
which seems to rise as we ascend, and
stretch into the sky. Sometimes a little
flake of blue is framed by olive boughs,
sometimes a turning in the road reveals
the whole broad azure calm below. Or,
after toiling up a steep ascent we fall
upon the undergrowth of juniper, and
lo ! a double sea, this way and that,
divided by the sharp spine of the jutting
hill, jewelled with villages along its shore,
and smiling with fair islands and silver
sails.”
To many of us the mere warmth of the
South is a blessing and a delight. The
very thought of it is delicious. I have
read over again and again Wallace’s graphic
description of a tropical sunrise—of the
sun of the early morning that turneth all
into gold.
“ Up to about a quarter past five o’clock,”
he says, “ the darkness is complete ; but
about that time a few cries of birds begin
to break the silence of night, perhaps
indicating that signs of dawn are percept
ible in the eastern horizon. A little later
the melancholy voices of the goatsuckers
are heard, varied croakings of frogs, the
plaintive whistle of mountain thrushes,
and strange cries of birds or mammals
peculiar to each locality. About half-past
five the first glimmer of light becomes
perceptible ; it slowly becomes lighter, and
�32
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
then, increases so rapidly that at about a
quarter to six it seems full daylight. For
the next quarter of an hour this changes
very little in character ; when, suddenly,
the sun’s rim appears above the horizon,
decking the dew-laden foliage with glitter
ing gems, sending gleams of golden light
far into the woods, and waking up all
nature to life and activity. Birds chirp
and flutter about, parrots scream, monkeys
chatter, bees hum among the flowers, and
gorgeous butterflies flutter lazily along or
sit with full expanded wings exposed to
the warm and invigorating rays. The
first hour of morning in the equatorial
regions possesses a charm and a beauty
that can never be forgotten. All nature
seems refreshed and strengthened by the
coolness and moisture of the past night,
new leaves and buds unfold almost before
the eye, and fresh shoots may often be
observed to have grown many inches since
the preceding day. The temperature is
the most delicious conceivable. The slight
chill of early dawn, which was itself
agreeable, is succeeded by an invigorating
warmth ; and the intense sunshine lights
up the glorious vegetation of the tropics,
and realises all that the magic art of the
painter or the glowing words of the poet
have pictured as their ideals of terrestrial
beauty.”
Or take Dean Stanley’s description of
the colossal statues of Amenophis III., the
Memnon of the Greeks, at Thebes—“The
sun was setting, the African range glowed
red behind them ; the green plain was
dyed with a deeper green beneath them,
and the shades of evening veiled the vast
rents and fissures in their aged frames.
As I looked back at them in the sunset,
and they rose up in front of the background
of the mountain, they seemed, indeed, as
if they were part of it,—as if they belonged
to some natural creation.”
But I must not indulge myself in more
quotations, though it is difficult to stop.
Such pictures recall the memory of many
glorious days : for the advantages of travels
last through life ; and often, as we sit at
home, “some bright and perfect view of
PART I
Venice, of Genoa, or of Monte Rosa comes
back on you, as full of repose as a day
wisely spent in travel.” 1
So far is a thorough love and enjoyment
of travel from interfering with the love of
home, that perhaps no one can thoroughly
enjoy his home who does not sometimes
wander away. They are like exertion and
rest, each the complement of the other ; so
that, though it may seem paradoxical, one
of the greatest pleasures of travel is the
return ; and no one who has not roamed
abroad, can realise the devotion which the
wanderer feels for Domiduca—the sweet
and gentle goddess who watches over our
coming home.
CHAPTER VIII
THE PLEASURES OF HOME
“There’s no place like Home.”—
Old English Song.
It may ■well be doubted which is more
delightful,—to start for a holiday which
has been fully earned, or to return home
from one which has been thoroughly
enjoyed ; to find oneself, with renewed
vigour, with a fresh store of memories
and ideas, back once more by one’s own
fireside, with one’s family, friends, and
books.
“ To sit at home,” says Leigh Hunt,
“with an old folio (?) book of romantic
yet credible voyages and travels to read,
an old bearded traveller for its hero, a
fireside in an old country house to read it
by, curtains drawn, and just wind enough
stirring out of doors to make an accom
paniment to the billows or forests we are
reading of—this surely is one of the
perfect moments of existence.”
It is no doubt a great privilege to
visit foreign countries; to travel say
in Mexico or Peru, or to cruise among
the Pacific Islands ; but in some respects
the narratives of early travellers, the
histories of Prescott or the voyages of
1 Helps.
�CHAP. VIII
THE PLEASURES OF HOME
Captain Cook, are even more interesting ;
describing to us, as they do, a state of
society which was then so unlike ours,
but which has now been much changed
and Europeanised.
Thus we may make our daily travels
interesting, even though, like those of the
Vicar of Wakefield, all 'our adventures
are by our own fireside, and all our migra
tions from one room to another.
Moreover, even if the beauties of home
are humble, they are still infinite, and a
man “ may lie in his bed, like Pompey
and his sons, in all quarters of the
earth.” 1
It is, then, wise to “ cultivate a talent
very fortunate for a man of my dis
position, that of travelling in my easy
chair ; of transporting myself, without
stirring from my parlour, to distant places
and to absent friends ; of drawing scenes
in my mind’s eye ; and of peopling them
with the groups of fancy, or the society
of remembrance.” 2
We may indeed secure for ourselves
endless variety without leaving our own
firesides.
In the first place, the succession of
seasons multiplies every home.
How
different is the view from our windows as
we look on the tender green of spring, the
rich foliage of summer, the glorious tints
of autumn, or the delicate tracery of
winter.
Our climate is so happy, that even in
the worst months of the year, “ calm
mornings of sunshine visit us at times,
appearing like glimpses of departed spring
amid the wilderness of wet and windy
days that lead to winter. It is pleasant,
when these interludes of silvery light
occur, to ride into the woods and see how
wonderful are all the colours of decay.
Overhead, the elms and chestnuts hang
their wealth of golden leaves, while the
beeches darken into russet tones, and the
wild cherry glows like blood-red wine.
In the hedges crimson haws and scarlet
hips are wreathed with hoary clematis or
1 Sir T. Browne.
2 Mackenzie, The Lounger.
D
33
necklaces of coral briony-berries ; the
brambles burn with many-coloured flames ;
the dog-wood is bronzed to purple ; and
here and there the ’ spindle-wood puts
forth its fruit, like knots of rosy buds,
on delicate frail twigs. Underneath lie
fallen leaves, and the brown bracken
rises to our knees as we thread the forest
paths.”1
Nay, every day gives us a succession of
glorious pictures in never-ending variety.
It is remarkable how few people seem
to derive any pleasure from the beauty of
the sky. Gray, after describing a sunrise
—how it began, with a slight whitening,
just tinged with gold and blue, lit up
all at once by a little line of insufferable
brightness which rapidly grew to half an
orb, and so to a whole one too glorious
to be distinctly seen—adds, “ I wonder
whether any one ever saw it before. I
hardly believe it.” 2
No doubt from the dawn of poetry, the
splendours of the morning and evening
skies have delighted all those who have
eyes to see.
But we are especially
indebted to Ruskin for enabling us more
vividly to realise these glorious sky
pictures. As he says, in language almost
as brilliant as the sky itself, the whole
heaven, “from the zenith to the horizon,
becomes one molten, mantling sea of
color and fire ; every black bar turns
into massy gold, every ripple and wave
into unsullied, shadowless crimson, and
purple, and scarlet, and colors for which
there are no words in language, and
no ideas in the mind—things which can
only be conceived while they are visible ;
the intense hollow blue of the upper sky
melting through it all, showing here deep
and pure, and lightness ; there, modulated
by the filmy, formless body of the trans
parent vapour, till it is lost imperceptibly
in its crimson and gold.”
' It is in some cases indeed “ not color
but conflagration,” and though the tints
are richer and more varied towards morn
ing and at sunset, the glorious kaleidoscope
goes on all day long. Yet “ it is a strange
1 J. A. Symonds.
2 Gray’s Letters.
�THE PLEASURES OE LIRE
34
thing how little in general people know
about the sky. It is the part of creation
in which Nature has done more for the
sake of pleasing man, more for the sole
and evident purpose of talking to him and
teaching him, than in any other of her
works, and it is just the part in which we
least attend to her. There are not many
of her other works in which some more
material or essential purpose than the
mere pleasing of man is not answered by
every part of their organisation ; but
every essential purpose of the sky might,
so far as we know, be answered, if once
in three days, or thereabouts, a great,
ugly, black rain-cloud were brought up
over the blue, and everything well
watered, and so all left blue again till
next time, with perhaps a film of morning
and evening mist for dew. And instead
of this, there is-not a moment of any day
of our lives when Nature is not producing
scene after scene, picture after picture,
glory after glory, and working still upon
such exquisite and constant principles of
the most perfect beauty, that it is quite
certain it is all done for us, and intended
for our perpetual pleasure.” 1
Nor does the beauty end with the day.
“ Is it nothing to sleep under the canopy
of heaven, where we have the globe of
the earth for our place of repose, and the
glories of the heavens for our spectacle? ”2
For my part I always regret the custom
of shutting up our rooms in the evening,
as though there was nothing worth seeing
outside. What, however, can be more
beautiful than to “ look how the floor of
heaven is thick inlaid with patines of
bright gold,” or to watch the moon
journeying in calm and silver glory
through the night. And even if we do
not feel that “ the man who has seen the
rising moon break out of the clouds at
midnight, has been present like an Arch
angel at the creation of light and of the
world,”3 still “ the stars say something
significant to all of us : and each man
has a whole hemisphere of them, if he
r Ruskin.
2 Seneca.
3 Emerson.
PART I
will but look up, to counsel and befriend
him ” ;1 for it is not so much, as Helps
elsewhere observes, “in guiding us over
the seas of our little planet, but out of
the dark waters of'our own perturbed
minds, that we may make to ourselves
the most of their significance.” Indeed,
“ How beautiful is night !
A dewy freshness fills the silent air ;
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor
stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven :
In full-orbed glory yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark blue depths ;
Beneath her steady ray
The desert circle spreads,
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky ;
How beautiful is night ! ” 2
I have never wondered at those who
worshipped the sun and moon.
On the other hand, when all outside is
dark and cold ; when perhaps
“ Outside fall the snowflakes lightly ;
Through the night loud raves the storm ;
In my room the fire glows brightly,
And ’tis cosy, silent, warm.
Musing sit I on the settle
By the firelight’s cheerful blaze,
Listening to the busy kettle
Humming long-forgotten lays.” 3
For after all the true pleasures of home
are not without, but within ; and “ the
domestic man who loves no music so well
as his -own kitchen clock and the airs
which the logs sing to him as they burn
on the hearth, has solaces which others
never dream of.” 4
We love the ticking of the clock, and
the flicker of the fire, like the sound of
the cawing of rooks, not so much for any
beauty of their own as for their associations.
It is a great truth that when we re
tire into ourselves we can call up what
memories we please.
“ How dear to this heart are the scenes of my
childhood,
When fond recollection recalls them to view.—
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled
wildwood
And every lov’d spot which my infancy knew.” 5
1 Helps.
2 Southey.
3 Heine, trans, by E. A. Bowring.
4 Emerson,
8 Woodworth.
�THE PLEASURES OF HOME
CHAP. VIII
It is not so much the
“ Fireside enjoyments,
And all the comforts of the lowly roof,” 1
but rather, according to the higher and
better ideal of Keble,
“ Sweet is the smile of home ; the mutual look,
When hearts are of each other sure ;
Sweet all the joys that crowd the household
nook,
The haunt of all affections pure.”
In ancient times, not only among
savage races, but even among the Greeks
themselves, there seems to have been but
little family life.
What a contrast was the home life of
the Greeks, as it seems to have been, to
that, for instance, described by Cowley—
a home happy “ in books and gardens,”
and above all, in a
“ Virtuous wife, where thou dost meet
Both pleasures more refined and sweet;
The fairest garden in her looks
And in her mind the wisest books.”
No one who has ever loved mother or
wife, sister or daughter, can read without
astonishment and pity St. Chrysostom’s
description of woman as “a necessary
evil, a natural temptation, a desirable
calamity, a domestic peril, a deadly fascina
tion, and a painted ill.”
In few respects has mankind made a
greater advance than in the relations of
men and women. It is terrible to think
how women suffer in savage life; and
even among the intellectual Greeks, with
rare exceptions, they seem to have been
treated rather as housekeepers or play
things than as the Angels who make a
Heaven of home.
The Hindoo proverb that you should
“ never strike a wife, even with a flower,”
though a considerable advance, tells a
melancholy tale of what must previously
have been.
In The Origin of Civilisation I have
given many cases showing how small a
part family affection plays in savage life.
Here I will only mention one case
in illustration. The Algonquin (North i
1 Cowper.
|
35
America) language contained no word
for “ love,” so that when the missionaries
translated the Bible into it they were
obliged to invent one. What a life, and
what a language, without love.
Yet in marriage even the rough passion
of a savage may contrast favourably with
any cold calculation, which, like the en
chanted hoard of the Nibelungs, is almost
sure to bring misfortune. In the Kalevala,
the Finnish epic, the divine smith, Ilmarinnen, forges a bride of gold and silver
for Wainamoinen, who was pleased at first
to have so rich a wife, but soon found
her intolerably cold, for, in spite of fires
and furs, whenever he touched her she
froze him.
Moreover, apart from mere coldness,
how much we suffer from foolish quarrels
about trifles ; from mere misunderstand
ings ; from hasty words thoughtlessly
repeated, sometimes without the context
or tone which would have deprived them
of any sting. How much would that
charity which “beareth all things, believeth all things, bopeth all things,
endureth all things,” effect to smooth
away the sorrows of life and add to the
happiness of home. Home indeed may
be a sure haven of repose from the storms
and perils of the world. But to secure
this we must not be content to pave it
with good intentions, but must make it
bright and cheerful.
If our life be one of toil and of suffer
ing, if the world outside be cold and
dreary, what a pleasure to return to
the sunshine of happy faces and the
warmth of hearts we love.
�36
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
’Twas she discovered that the world was
young,
And taught a language to its lisping tongue.”
CHAPTER IX
SCIENCE 1
“Happy is he that findeth wisdom,
And the man that getteth understanding :
For the merchandise of it is better than silver,
And the gain thereof than fine gold.
She is more precious than rubies :
And all the things thou canst desire are not to
be compared unto her.
Length of days is in her right hand,
And in her left hand riches and honour.
Her ways are ways of pleasantness,
And all her paths are peace.”
Proverbs
of
PART I
Solomon.
Those who have not tried for themselves
can hardly imagine how much Science
adds to the interest and variety of life.
It is altogether a mistake to regard it as
dry, difficult, or prosaic—-much of it is
as easy as it is interesting. A wise in
stinct of old united the prophet and the
“ seer.” “ The wise man’s eyes are in
his head, but the fool walketh in dark
ness.” Technical works, descriptions of
species, etc., bear the same relation to
science as dictionaries do to literature.
Occasionally, indeed, Science may de
stroy some poetical myth of antiquity,
such as the ancient Hindoo explanation
of rivers, that “ Indra dug out their beds
with his thunderbolts, and sent them
forth by long continuous paths ; ” but
the real causes of natural phenomena are
far more striking, and contain more true
poetry, than those which have occurred
to the untrained imagination of mankind.
In endless aspects science is as wonder
ful and interesting as a fairy tale.
‘ ‘ There are things whose strong reality
Outshines our fairyland ; in shape and hues
More beautiful than our fantastic sky,
And the strange constellations which the Muse
O’er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse.” 2
Mackay justly exclaims :
“Blessings on Science! When the earth
seemed old,
When Faith grew doting, and our reason cold,
1 The substance of this was delivered at
Mason College, Birmingham.
2 Byron.
Botany, for instance, is by many re
garded as a dry science. Yet though
without it we may admire flowers and
trees, it is only as strangers, only as one
may admire a great man or a beautiful
woman in a crowd. The botanist, on the
contrary—nay, I will not say the botanist,
but one with even a slight knowledge of
that delightful science—when he goes
out into the woods, or into one of those
fairy forests which we call fields, finds
himself welcomed by a glad company of
friends, every one with something inter
esting to tell. Dr. Johnson said that, in
his opinion, when you had seen one
green field you had seen them all; and a
greater even than Johnson—Socrates—
the very type of intellect without science,
said he was always anxious to learn, and
from fields and trees he could learn
nothing.
It has, I know, been said that botanists
“Love not the flower they pluck and know it
not,
And all their botany is but Latin names. ”
Contrast this, however, with the language
of one who would hardly claim to be a
master in botany, though he is certainly a
loving student. “Consider,” says Ruskin,
“ what we owe to the meadow grass, to
the covering of the dark ground by that
glorious enamel, by the companies of
those soft, countless, and peaceful spears
of the field ! Follow but for a little
time the thought of all that we ought to
recognise in those words. All spring and
summer is in them—the walks by silent
scented paths, the rest in noonday heat,
the joy of the herds and flocks, the power
of all shepherd life and meditation; the
life of the sunlight upon the world, fall
ing in emerald streaks and soft blue
shadows, when else it would have struck
on the dark mould or scorching dust;
pastures beside the pacing brooks, soft
banks and knolls of lowly hills, thymy
slopes of down overlooked by the blue
�CHAP. IX
SCIENCE
line of lifted sea ; crisp lawns all dim
with early dew, or smooth in evening
warmth of barred sunshine, dinted by
happy feet, softening in their fall the
sound of loving voices.”
My own tastes and studies have led
me mainly in the direction of Natural
History and Archaeology ; but if you
love one science, you cannot but feel in
tense interest in them all. How grand
are the truths of Astronomy ! Prudhomme, in a sonnet, beautifully trans
lated by Arthur O’Shaugnessy, has
pictured an Observatory. He says—
“ ’Tis late ; the astronomer in his lonely height,
Exploring all the dark, descries afar
Orbs that like distant isles of splendour are.”
He notices a comet, and calculating its
orbit, finds that it will return in a
thousand years—
“ The star will come. It dare not by one hour
Cheat Science, or falsify her calculation ;
Men will have passed, but, watchful in the
tower,
Man shall remain in sleepless contemplation ;
And should all men have perished in their
turn,
Truth in their place would watch that star’s
return.”
Ernest Rhys well says of a student’s
chamber—
“ Strange things pass nightly in this little room,
All dreary as it looks by light of day ;
Enchantment reigns here when at evening
play
Red fire-light glimpses through the pallid
gloom.”
And the true student, in Ruskin’s words,
stands on an eminence from which he
looks back on the universe of God and
forward over the generations of men.
Even if it be true that science was dry
when it was buried in huge folios, that is
certainly no longer the case now ; and
Lord Chesterfield’s wise wish, that Minerva
might have three Graces as well as Venus,
has been amply fulfilled.
The study of natural history indeed
seems destined to replace the loss of what
is, not very happily I think, termed
“ sport; ” engraven in us as it is by the
37
operation of thousands of years, during
which man lived greatly on the produce
of the chase. Game is gradually becoming
“small by degrees and beautifully less.”
Our prehistoric ancestors hunted the
Mammoth, the woolly-haired Rhinoceros,
and the Irish Elk ; the ancient Britons
had the wild ox, the deer, and the wolf.
We have still the pheasant, the partridge,
the fox, and the hare; but even these are
becoming scarcer, and must be preserved
first, in order that they may be killed
afterwards. Some of us even now—and
more, no doubt, will hereafter—satisfy
instincts, essentially of the same origin, by
the study of birds, or insects, or even
infusoria—of creatures which more than
make up by their variety what they want
in size.
Emerson avers that when a naturalist
has “got all snakes and lizards in his
phials, science has done for him also, and
has put the man into a bottle.” I do not
deny that there are such cases, but they
are quite exceptional. The true naturalist
is no mere dry collector.
I cannot resist, although it is rather
long, quoting the following description
from Hudson and Gosse’s beautiful work
on the Rotifera :—
“ On the Somersetshire side of the Avon,
and not far from Clifton, is a little combe,
at the bottom of which lies an old fish-pond,
Its slopes are covered with plantations of
beech and fir, so as to shelter the pond on
three sides, and yet leave it open to the
soft south-western breezes, and to the
afternoon sun. At the head of the combe
wells up a clear spring, which sends a
thread of water, trickling through a bed
of osiers, into the upper end of the pond.
A stout stone wall has been drawn across
the combe from side to side, so as to dam
up the stream ; and there is a gap in one
corner through which the overflow finds
its way in a miniature cascade, down into
the lower plantation.
“ If we approach the pond by the game
keeper’s path from the cottage above, we
shall pass through the plantation, and
come unseen right on the corner of the
�38
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
wall; so that one quiet step will enable
us to see at a glance its whole surface,
without disturbing any living thing that
may be there.
“Far off at the upper end a water-hen
is leading her little brood among the
willows ; on the fallen trunk of an old
beech, lying half way across the pond, a
vole is sitting erect, rubbing his right ear,
and the splash of a beech husk just at our
feet tells of a squirrel who is dining some
where in the leafy crown above us.
“ But see, the water-rat has spied us out,
and is making straight for his hole in the
bank, while the ripple above him is the
only thing that tells of his silent flight.
The water-hen has long ago got under
cover, and the squirrel drops no more
husks. It is a true Silent Pond, and
without a sign of life.
“But if, retaining sense and sight, we
could shrink into living atoms and plunge
under the water, of what a world of
wonders should we then form part ! We
should find this fairy kingdom peopled
with the strangest creatures—creatures
that swim with their hair, that have ruby
eyes blazing deep in their necks, with
telescopic limbs that now are withdrawn
wholly within their bodies and now
stretched out to many times their own
length. Here are some riding at anchor,
moored by delicate threads spun out from
their toes ; and there are others flashing
by in glass armour, bristling with sharp
spikes or ornamented with bosses and
flowing curves ; while fastened to a green
stem is an animal convolvulus that, by
some invisible power, draws a neverceasing stream of victims into its gaping
cup, and tears them to death with hooked
jaws deep down within its body.
“ Close by it, on the same stem, is some
thing that looks like a filmy heart’s-ease.
A curious wheelwork runs round its four
outspread petals ; and a chain of minute
things, living and dead, is winding in and
out of their curves into a gulf at the back
of the flower. What happens to them
there we cannot see ; for round the stem
is raised a tube of golden-brown balls, all j
PART I
regularly piled on each other. Some
creature dashes by, and like a flash the
flower vanishes within its tube.
“We sink still lower, and now see on
the bottom slow gliding lumps of jelly
that thrust a shapeless arm out where they
will, and grasping their prey with these
chance limbs, wrap themselves round their
food to get a meal; for they creep without
feet, seize without hands, eat without
mouths, and digest without stomachs.”
Too many, however, still feel only in
Nature that which we share “ with the
weed and the worm ; ” they love birds as
boys do—that is, they love throwing
stones at them ; or wonder if they are good
to eat, as the Esquimaux asked about the
watch ; or treat them as certain devout
Afreedee villagers are said to have treated
a descendant of the Prophet—killed him
in order to worship at his tomb: but
gradually we may hope that the love of
Science—the notes “we sound upon the
strings of nature ”1—-will become to more
and more, as already it is to many, a
“ faithful and sacred element of human
feeling.”
Science summons us
“ To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon
supply ;
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder,
Its dome the sky.” 2
Where the untrained eye will see
nothing but mire and dirt, Science will
often reveal exquisite possibilities. The
mud we tread under our feet in the street
is a grimy mixture of clay and sand, soot
and water. Separate the sand, however,
as Ruskin observes—-let the atoms arrange
themselves in peace according to their
nature—and you have the opal. Separate
the clay, and it becomes a white earth,
fit for the finest porcelain; or if it still
further purifies itself, you have a sapphire.
Take the soot, and if properly treated it
will give you a diamond. While, lastly,
the water, purified and distilled, will
become a dew-drop, or crystallise into a
lovely star. Or, again, you may see as
1 Emerson.
2 H. Smith.
�CHAP. IX
SCIENCE
39
you will in any shallow pool either the many years ago by Professor Huxley to
mud lying at the bottom, or the image the South London Working Men’s College
of the heavens above.
which struck me very much at the time,
Nay, even if we imagine beauties and and which puts this in language more
charms which do not really exist ; still if forcible than any which I could use.
we err at all, it is better to do so on the
“Suppose,” he said, “it were perfectly
side of charity; like Nasmyth, who tells certain that the life and fortune of every
us in his delightful autobiography, that one of us would, one day or other, depend
he used to think one of his friends had a upon his winning or losing a game of
charming and kindly twinkle, and was chess. Don’t you think that we should
one day surprised to discover that he all consider it to be a primary duty to
had a glass eye.
learn at least the names and the moves of
But I should err indeed were I to the pieces ? Do you not think that we
dwell exclusively on science as lending should look with a disapprobation amount
interest and charm to our leisure hours. ing to scorn upon the father who allowed
Far from this, it would be impossible his son, or the State which allowed its
to overrate the importance of scientific members, to grow up without knowing a
training on the wise conduct of life.
pawn from a knight ? Yet it is a very
“ Science,” said the Royal Commission plain and elementary truth that the life,
of 1861, “quickens and cultivates directly the fortune, and the happiness of every
the faculty of observation, which in very one of us, and more or less of those who
many persons lies almost dormant through are connected with us, do depend upon
life, the power of accurate and rapid our knowing something of the rules of a
generalisation, and the mental habit of game infinitely more difficult and compli
method and arrangement; it accustoms cated than chess. It is a game which
young persons to trace the sequence of has been played for untold ages, every
cause and effect; it familiarises them with man and woman of us being one of the
a kind of reasoning which interests them, two players in a game of his or her own.
and which they can promptly compre The chessboard is the world, the pieces
hend • and it is perhaps the best correc are the phenomena of the Universe, the
tive for that indolence which is the vice rules of the game are what we call the
of half-awakened minds, and which shrinks laws of Nature. The player on the other
from any exertion that is not, like an side is hidden from us. We know that
effort of memory, merely mechanical.”
his play is always fair, just, and patient.
Again, when we contemplate the gran But also we know to our cost that he
deur of science, if we transport ourselves never overlooks a mistake or makes the
in imagination back into primeval times, smallest allowance for ignorance. To the
or away into the immensity of space, man who plays well the highest stakes
our little troubles and sorrows seem to are paid, with that sort of overflowing
shrink into insignificance. “ Ah, beautiful generosity which with the strong shows
creations ! ” says Helps, speaking of the delight in strength. And one who plays
stars, “it is not in guiding us over the ill is checkmated—without haste, but
seas of our little planet, but out of the without remorse.”
dark waters of our own perturbed minds,
I have elsewhere1 endeavoured to show
that we may make to ourselves the most the purifying and ennobling influence of
of your significance.” They teach, he tells science upon religion ; how it has assisted,
us elsewhere, “something significant to if indeed it may not claim the main share,
all of us; and each man has a whole in sweeping away the dark superstitions,
hemisphere of them, if he will but look the degrading belief in sorcery and witch
up, to counsel and befriend him.”
craft, and the cruel, however well-intenThere is a passage in an address given
1 The, Origin of Civilisation.
�40
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
tioned, intolerance which embittered the
Christian world almost from the very days
of the Apostles themselves. In this she
has surely performed no mean service to
religion itself. As Canon Fremantle has
well and justly said, men of science, and not
the clergy only, are ministers of religion.
Again, the national necessity for
scientific education is imperative. We
are apt to forget how much we owe to
science, because so many of its wonderful
gifts have become familiar parts of our
everyday life, that their very value makes
us forget their origin. At the recent
celebration of the sexcentenary of Peterhouse College, near the close of a long
dinner, Sir Frederick Bramwell was called
on, some time after midnight, to return
thanks for Applied Science. He excused
himself from making a long speech on the
ground that, though the subject was
almost inexhaustible, the only illustration
which struck him as appropriate under
the circumstances was “ the application
of the domestic lucifer to the bedroom
candle.” One cannot but feel how un
fortunate was the saying of the poet that
“The light-outspeeding telegraph
Bears nothing on its beam.”
The report of the Royal Commission
on Technical Instruction, which has
recently been issued, teems with illustra
tions of the advantages afforded by
technical instruction. At the same time,
technical training ought not to begin too
soon, for, as Bain truly observes, “ in a
right view of scientific education the first
principles and leading examples, with
select details, of all the great sciences,
are the proper basis of the complete and
exhaustive study of any single science.”
Indeed, in the words of Sir John Herschel,
“it can hardly be pressed forcibly enough
on the attention of the student of Nature,
that there is scarcely any natural pheno
menon which can be fully and completely
explained in all its circumstances, with
out a union of several, perhaps of all, the
sciences.” The most important secrets of
Nature are often hidden away in unex
pected places. Many valuable substances
PART I
have been discovered in the refuse of
manufactories ; and it was a happy
thought of Glauber to examine what
everybody else threw away. There is
perhaps no nation the future happiness
and prosperity of which depend more on
science than our own. Our population is
over 35,000,000, and is rapidly increas
ing. Even at present it is far larger
than our acreage can support.
Few
people whose business does not lie in the
study of statistics realise that we have
to pay foreign countries no less than
£150,000,000 a year for food. This, of
course, we purchase mainly by manu
factured articles. We hear even now a
great deal about depression of trade, and
foreign, especially American, competition ;
but let us look forward a hundred years
—no long time in the history of a nation.
Our coal supplies will then be greatly
diminished. The population of Great
Britain doubles at the present rate of
increase in about fifty years, so that we
should, if the present rate continues,
require to import over £400,000,000 a
year in food. How, then, is this to be
paid for ? We have before us, as usual,
three courses.
The natural rate of
increase may be stopped, which means
suffering and outrage ; or the population
may increase, only to vegetate in misery
and destitution; or, lastly, by the de
velopment of scientific training and
appliances, they may probably be main
tained in happiness and comfort. We
have, in fact, to make our choice between
science and suffering. It is only by
wisely utilising the gifts of science that
we have any hope of maintaining our
population in plenty and comfort.
Science, however, will do this for us if
we will only let her. She may be no
Fairy Godmother indeed, but she will
richly endow those who love her.
That discoveries, innumerable, marvel
lous, and fruitful, await the successful
explorers of Nature no one can doubt.
“We are so far,” says Locke, “from
being admitted into the secrets of Nature,
that we scarce so much as approach the
�CHAP. IX
SCIENCE
first entrance towards them.”
What
would one not give for a Science primer
of the next century ? for, to paraphrase a
well-known saying, even the boy at the
plough will then, know more of science
than the wisest of our philosophers do
now. Boyle entitled one of his essays
“ Of Man’s great Ignorance of the Uses
of Natural Things; or that there is no
one thing in Nature whereof the uses to
human life are yet thoroughly under
stood ”—a saying which is still as true
now as when it was written. And, lest I
should be supposed to be taking too
sanguine a view, let me give the authority
of Sir John Herschel, who says : “Since
it cannot but be that innumerable and
most important uses remain to be dis
covered among the materials and objects
already known to us, as well as among
those which the progress of science must
hereafter disclose, we may hence conceive
a well-grounded expectation, not only of
constant increase in the physical resources
of mankind, and the consequent improve
ment of their condition, but of continual
accession to our power of penetrating into
the arcana of Nature and becoming
acquainted with her highest laws.”
Nor is it merely in a material point of
view that science would thus benefit the
nation. She will raise and strengthen
the national, as surely as the individual,
character. The great gift which Minerva
offered to Paris is now freely tendered to
all, for we may apply to the nation, as
well as to the individual, Tennyson’s
noble lines :—
“ Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control:
These three alone lead life to sovereign power,
Yet not for power (power of herself
Would come uncalled for), but to live bylaw ;
Acting the law we live by without fear.”
“ In the vain and foolish exultation of
the heart,” said John Quincey Adams, at
the close of his final lecture on resigning
his chair at Boston, “ which the brighter
prospects of life will sometimes excite,
the pensive portress of Science shall call
you to the sober pleasures of her holy
cell. In the mortification of disappoint
4i
ment, her soothing voice shall whisper
serenity and peace. In social converse
with the mighty dead of ancient days,
you will never smart under the galling
sense of dependence upon the mighty
living of the present age. And in your
struggles with the world, should a crisis
ever occur, when even friendship may
deem it prudent to desert you, when
priest and Levite shall come and look on
you and pass by on the other side, seek
refuge, my unfailing friends, and be
assured you shall find it, in the friend
ship of Laelius and Scipio, in the
patriotism of Cicero, Demosthenes, and
Burke, as well as in the precepts and
example of Him whose law is love, and
who taught us to remember injuries only
to forgive them.”
Let me in conclusion quote the glow
ing description of our debt to science
given by Archdeacon Farrar in his address
at Liverpool College-—-testimony, more
over, all the more valuable, considering
the source from which it comes.
“In this great commercial city,” he
said, “ where you are surrounded by the
triumphs of science and of mechanism—
you, whose river is ploughed by the great
steamships whose white wake has been
called the fittest avenue to the palace
front of a mercantile people—you know
well that in the achievements of science
there is not only beauty and wonder, but
also beneficence and power. It is not
only that she has revealed to us infinite
space crowded with unnumbered worlds ;
infinite time peopled by unnumbered
existences ; infinite organisms hitherto in
visible but full of delicate and irridescent
loveliness ; but also that she has been, as
a great Archangel of Mercy, devoting
herself to the service of man. She has
laboured, her votaries have laboured, not
to increase the power of despots or add to
the magnificence of courts, but to extend
human happiness, to economise human
effort, to extinguish human pain. Where
of old, men toiled, half blinded and half
naked, in the mouth of the glowing
furnace to mix the white-hot iron, she
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
42
now substitutes the mechanical action of
the viewless air. She has enlisted the
sunbeam in her service to limn for us,
with absolute fidelity, the faces of the
friends we love. She has shown the
poor miner how he may work in safety,
even amid the explosive fire-damp of the
mine.
She has, by her anaesthetics,
enabled the sufferer to be hushed and
unconscious while the delicate hand of
some skilled operator cuts a fragment
from the nervous circle of the unquiver
ing eye. She points not to pyramids
built during weary centuries by the
sweat of miserable nations, but to the
lighthouse and the steamship, to the rail
road and the telegraph. She has restored
eyes to the blind and hearing to the deaf.
She has lengthened life, she has minimised
danger, she has controlled madness, she
has trampled on disease. And on all
these grounds, I think that none of our
sons should grow up wholly ignorant of
studies which at once train the reason
and fire the imagination, which fashion as
well as forge, which can feed as well as
fill the mind.”
CHAPTER X
EDUCATION
“No pleasure is comparable to the standing
upon the vantage ground of truth.”—Bacon.
‘ ‘ Divine Philosophy !
Not harsh and crabbed as dull fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo’s lute,
And a perpetual feast of nectar’d sweets
Where no crude surfeit reigns.”—Milton.
It may seem rather surprising to include
education among the pleasures of life ;
for in too many cases it is made odious
to the young, and is supposed to cease
with school; while, on the contrary, if it
is to be really successful it must be suit
able, and therefore interesting, to children,
and must last through life. The very
process of acquiring knowledge is a
privilege and a blessing. It used to be
PART I
said that there was no royal road to learn
ing : it would be more true to say that
the avenues leading to it are all royal.
“It is not,” says Jeremy Taylor, “the
eye that sees the beauties of heaven, nor
the ear that hears the sweetness of music,
or the glad tidings of a prosperous
accident; but the soul that perceives all
the relishes of sensual and intellectual
perceptions: and the more noble and
excellent the soul is, the greater and
more savoury are its perceptions. And
if a child behold the rich ermine, or the
diamonds of a starry night, or the order
of the world, or hears the discourses of
an apostle ; because he makes no reflex
act on himself and sees not what he sees,
he can have but the pleasure of a fool or
the deliciousness of a mule.”
Herein lies the importance of educa
tion. I say education rather than in-,
struction, because it is far more important
to cultivate the mind than to store the
memory. Instruction is only a part of
education : the true teacher has been well
described by Montgomery :
‘ ’ And while in tones of sportive tenderness,
He answer’d all its questions, and ask’d others
As simple as its own, yet wisely framed
To wake and prove an infant’s faculties ;
As though its mind were some sweet instru
ment,
And he, with breath and touch, were finding
out
What stops or keys would yield the richest
music.”
Studies are a means and not an end.
“To spend too much time in studies is
sloth ; to use them too much for orna
ment is affectation ; to make judgment
wholly by their rules is the humour of a
scholar : they perfect nature, and are per
fected by experience. . . . Crafty men
contemn studies, simple men admire
them, and wise men use them.” 1
Moreover, though, as Mill says, “in
the comparatively early state of human
development in which we now live, a
person cannot indeed feel that entireness
of sympathy with all others which would
make any real discordance in the general
1 Bacon.
�EDUCATION
CHAP. X
direction of tlieir conduct in life impos
sible,” yet education might surely do more
to root in us the feeling of unity with our
fellow-creatures. At any rate, if we do
not study in this spirit, all our learning
will but leave us as weak and sad as
Faust.
Our studies should be neither “a
couch on which to rest; nor a cloister in
which to promenade alone ; nor a tower
from which to look down on others; nor
a fortress whence we may resist them ;
nor a workshop for gain and merchandise ;
but a rich armoury and treasury for the
glory of the creator and the ennoblement
of life.” 1
For in the noble words of Epictetus,
“ you will do the greatest service to the
state if you shall raise, not the roofs of
the houses, but the souls of the citizens :
for it is better that great souls should
dwell in small houses rather than for
mean slaves to lurk in great houses.”
It is then of great importance to con
sider whether our present system of
education is the one best calculated to
fulfil these great objects. Does it really
give that love of learning which is better
than learning itself ? Does all the study
of the classics to which our sons devote
so many years give any just appreciation
of them; or do they not on leaving
college too often feel with Byron—
“ Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so ! ”
Too much concentration on any one
subject is a great mistake, especially in
early life. Nature herself indicates the
true system, if we would but listen to
her. Our instincts are good guides,
though not infallible, and children will
profit little by lessons which do not
interest them. In cheerfulness, says
Pliny, is the success of our studies—
“ studia hilaritate proveniunt ”—and we
may with advantage take a lesson from
Theognis, who, in his Ode on the
Marriage of Cadmus and Harmonia,
makes the Muses sing —
1 Bacon.
43
‘ ‘ What is good and fair,
Shall ever be our care ;
Thus the burden of it rang,
That shall never be our care,
Which is neither good nor fair.
Such were the words your lips immortal sang.”
There are some who seem to think
that our educational system is as good as
possible, and that the only remaining
points of importance are the number of
schools and scholars, the question of fees,
the relation of voluntary and board
schools, etc. “No doubt,” says Mr.
Symonds, in his Sketches in Italy and
Greece, “ there are many who think that
when we not only advocate education but
discuss the best system we are simply
beating the air ; that our population is
as happy and cultivated as can be, and
that no substantial advance is really
possible. Mr. Galton, however, has ex
pressed the opinion, and most of those
who have written on the social condition
of Athens seem to agree with him, that
the population of Athens, taken as a
whole, was as superior to us as we are to
Australian savages.”
That there is, indeed, some truth in
this, probably no student of Greek history
will deny. Why, then, should this be so ?
I cannot but think that our system of
education is partly responsible.
Manual and science teaching need not
in any way interfere with instruction in
other subjects. Though so much has
been said about the importance of science
and the value of technical instruction, or
of hand-training, as I should prefer to
call it, it is unfortunately true that in
our system of education, from the highest
schools downwards, both of them are
sadly neglected, and the study of language
reigns supreme.
This is no new complaint. Ascham,
in The Schoolmaster, long ago lamented
it; Milton, in his letter to Mr. Samuel
Hartlib, complained “ that our children
are forced to stick unreasonably in these
grammatick flats and shallows ; ” and
observes that, “though a linguist should
pride himself to have all the tongues
�44
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
Babel cleft tlie world into, yet, if he have
not studied the solid things in them as
well as the words and lexicons, he were
nothing so much to be esteemed a learned
man as any yeoman or tradesman com
petently wise in his mother dialect only ; ”
and Locke said that “ schools fit us for
the university rather than for the world.”
Commission after commission, committee
after committee, have reiterated the same
complaint. How then do we stand now ?
I see it indeed constantly stated that,
even if the improvement is not so rapid
as could be desired, still we are making
considerable progress. But is this so ?
I fear not.
I fear that our present
system does not really train the mind, or
cultivate the power of observation, or
even give the amount of information
which we may reasonably expect from the
time devoted to it.
Sir M. E. Grant-Duff has expressed
the opinion that a boy or girl of fourteen
might reasonably be expected to “read
aloud clearly and agreeably, to write a
large distinct round hand, and to know
the ordinary rules of arithmetic, especially
compound addition — a by no cneans
universal accomplishment; to speak and
write French with ease and correctness,
and have some slight acquaintance with
French literature ; to translate ad aperturam libri from an ordinary French
or German book ; to have a thoroughly
good elementary knowledge of geography,
under which are comprehended some
notions of astronomy—enough to excite
his curiosity ; a knowledge of the very
broadest facts of geology and history—
enough to make him understand, in a
clear but perfectly general way, how the
larger features of the world he lives in,
physical and political, came to be like
what they are ; to have been trained from
earliest infancy to use his powers of
observation on plants, or animals, or rocks,
or other natural objects; and to have
gathered a general acquaintance with what
is most supremely good in that portion
of the more important English classics
which is suitable to his time of life; to
PART I
have some rudimentary acquaintance with
drawing and music.”
To effect this, no doubt, “industiy
must be our oracle, and reason our
Apollo,” as Sir T. Browne says ; but surely
it is no unreasonable estimate; yet how
far do we fall short of it ? General
culture is often deprecated because it is
said that smatterings are useless. But
there is all the difference in the world
between having a smattering of, or being
well grounded in, a subject. It is the
latter which we advocate-—to try to know,
as Lord Brougham well said, “ every
thing of something, and something of
everything.”
“It can hardly,” says Sir John Her
schel, “ be pressed forcibly enough on
the attention of the student of nature,
that there is scarcely any natural phe
nomenon which can be fully and com
pletely explained, in all its circumstances,
without a union of several, perhaps of all,
the sciences.”
The present system in most of our
public schools and colleges sacrifices
everything else to classics and arithmetic.
They are most important subjects, but
ought not to exclude science and modern
languages. Moreover, after all, our sons
leave college unable to speak either Latin
or Greek, and too often absolutely with
out any interest in classical history or
literature. But the boy who has been
educated without any training in science
has grave reason to complain of “ wisdom
at one entrance quite shut out.”
By concentrating the attention, indeed,
so much on one or two subjects, we defeat
our own object, and produce a feeling of
distaste where we wish to create an
interest.
Our great mistake in education is, as
it seems to me, the worship of book
learning—the confusion of instruction and
education. We strain the memory instead
of cultivating the mind. The children
in our elementary schools are wearied
by the mehanical act of wilting, and
the interminable intricacies of spelling;
they are oppressed by columns of dates
�CHAP. X
EDUCATION
45
by lists of kings and places, which convey man he was. I doubt, however, whether
no definite idea to their minds, and have the boys were deceived by the hat ; and
no near relation to their daily wants am very sceptical about Dr. Busby’s
and occupations; while in our public theory of education.
schools the same unfortunate results are
Master John of Basingstoke, who was
produced by the weary monotony of Latin Archdeacon of Leicester in 1252, learnt
and Greek grammar. We ought to follow Greek during a visit to Athens, from
exactly the opposite course with children Constantina, daughter of the Archbishop
—to give them a wholesome variety of of Athens, and used to say afterwards
mental food, and endeavour to cultivate that though he had studied well and
their tastes, rather than to fill their minds diligently at the University of Paris, yet
with dry facts. The important thing is he learnt more from an Athenian maiden
not so much that every child should be of twenty. We cannot all study so
taught, as that every child should be pleasantly as this, but the main fault
given the wish to learn. What does it I find with Dr. Busby’s system is that
matter if the pupil knows a little more or it keeps out of sight the great fact of
a little less ? A boy who leaves school human ignorance.
knowing much, but hating his lessons,
Boys are given the impression that
will soon have forgotten almost all he the masters know everything. If, on the
ever learnt; while another who had contrary, the great lesson impressed on
acquired a thirst for knowledge, even if them was that what we know is as nothing
he had learnt little, would soon teach to what we do not know, that the “great
himself more than the first ever knew. ocean of truth lies all undiscovered before
Children are by nature eager for informa us,” surely this would prove a great
tion. They are always putting questions. stimulus, and many would be nobly
This ought to be encouraged. In fact, anxious to enlarge the boundaries of
we may to a great extent trust to their human knowledge, and extend the in
instincts, and in that case they will do I tellectual kingdom of man. Philosophy,
much to educate themselves. Too often, says Aristotle, begins in wonder, for Iris
however, the acquirement of knowledge is the child of Thaumas.
is placed before them in a form so irk
Education ought not to cease w’hen we
some and fatiguing that all desire for leave school; but if well begun there,
information is choked, or even crushed will continue through life.
out; so that our schools, in fact, become
Moreover, whatever our occupation
places for the discouragement of learning, or profession in life may be, it is most
and thus produce the very opposite effect desirable to create for ourselves some
from that at which we aim. In short, other special interest. In the choice of
children should be trained to observe and a subject every one should consult his
to think, for in that way there would own instincts and interests. I will not
be opened out to them a source of the attempt to suggest whether it is better to
purest enjoyment for leisure hours, and pursue art or science ; whether we should
the wisest judgment in the work of study the motes in the sunbeam, or the
life.
heavenly bodies themselves. Whatever
Another point in which I venture to may be the subject of our choice, we shall
think that our system of education might find enough, and more than enough, to
be amended, is that it tends at present repay the devotion of a lifetime.
to give the impression that everything is
Life no doubt is paved with enjoyments,
known.
but we must all expect times of anxiety,
Dr. Busby is said to have kept his of suffering, and of sorrow ; and when
hat on in the presence of King Charles, these come it is an inestimable comfort to
that the boys might see what a great have some deep interest which will, at
�46
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
any rate to some extent, enable us to escape
from ourselves.
“ A cultivated mind,” says Mill—“ I do
not mean that of a philosopher, but any
mind to which the fountains of knowledge
have been opened, and which has been
taught in any tolerable degree to exercise
its faculties—will find sources of inex
haustible interest in all that surrounds
it; in the objects of nature, the achieve
ments of art, the imaginations of poetry,
the incidents of history, the ways of man
kind, past and present, and their prospects
in the future. It is possible, indeed, to
become indifferent to all this, and that too
without having exhausted a thousandth
part of it ; but only when one has had
from the beginning no moral or human
interest in these things, and has sought in
them only the gratification of curiosity.”
I have been subjected to some goodnatured banter for having said that I
looked forward to a time when our artizans
and mechanics would be great readers. But
it is surely not unreasonable to regard our
social condition as susceptible of great im
provement. The spread of schools, the
cheapness of books, the establishment of
free libraries will, it may be hoped, exercise
a civilising and ennobling influence. They
will even, I believe, do much to diminish
poverty and suffering, so much of which
is due to ignorance and to the want of
interest and brightness in uneducated life.
So far as our elementary schools are con
cerned, there is no doubt much difficulty in
apportioning the National Grant without
unduly stimulating mere mechanical in
struction. But this is not the place to dis
PART I
cuss the subject of religious or moral train
ing, or the system of apportioning the grant.
If we succeed in giving the love of learn
ing, the learning itself is sure to follow.
We should therefore endeavour to edu
cate our children so that every country
walk may be a pleasure ; that the dis
coveries of science may be a living interest;
that our national history and poetry may
be sources of legitimate pride and rational
enjoyment. In short, our schools, if they
are to be worthy of the name—if they are
to fulfil their high function—must be
something more than mere places of dry
study ; they must train the children edu
cated in them so that they may be able
to appreciate and enjoy those intellectual
gifts which might be, and ought to be, a
source of interest and of happiness, alike
to the high and to the low, to the rich
and to the poor.
A wise system of education will at
least teach us how little man yet knows,
how much he has still to learn ; it will
enable us to realise that those ■who com
plain of the tiresome monotony of life
have only themselves to' blame ; and that
knowledge is pleasure as well as power.
It will lead us all to try with Milton “ to
behold the bright countenance of truth
in the quiet and still air of study,” and to
feel with Bacon that “no pleasure is com
parable to the standing upon the vantage
ground of truth.”
We should then indeed realise in part,
for as yet we cannot do so fully, the
“ sacred trusts of health, strength, and
time,” and how thankful we ought to be
for the inestimable gift of life.
�PAET II
��PREFACE
“ And what is writ, is writ—
Would it were worthier.”
Byron.
Herewith I launch the conclusion of my subject. Perhaps I am unwise in
publishing a second part. The first was so kindly received that I am running
a risk in attempting to add to it.
In the preface, however, to the first part I have expressed the hope that
the thoughts and quotations in which I have found most comfort and delight,
might be of use to others also.
In this my most sanguine hopes have been more than realised. Not only
has the book passed through twenty editions in less than three years, but the
many letters which I have received have been most gratifying.
Two criticisms have been repeated by several of those who have done me
the honor, of noticing my previous volume. It has been said in the first
place that my life has been exceptionally bright and full, and that I cannot
therefore judge for others. Nor do I attempt to do so. I do not forget, I
hope I am not ungrateful for, all that has been bestowed on me. But if I
have been greatly favoured, ought I not to be on that very account especially
qualified to write on such a theme 1 Moreover, I have had,—who has not,—
my own sorrows.
Again, some have complained that there is too much quotation—too little
of my own. This I take to be in reality a great compliment. I have not
striven to be original.
If, as I have been assured by many, my book has added to their power
of enjoying life, and has proved a comfort in the hours of darkness, that
is indeed an ample reward and is the utmost I have ever hoped.
High Elms, Down, Kent,
April 1889.
E
�CONTENTS
PART II
CHAP.
I. Ambition ....
51
II. Wealth ....
54
III. Health
....
IV. Love
....
V. Art
....
65
....
70
....
74
VI. Poetry
•VII. Music
VIII. The Beauties of Nature
IX. The Troubles of Life
.
X. Labour and Rest
XI. Religion .
XII. The Hope of Progress .
XIII. The Destiny of Man
56
61
79
86
89
92
98
102
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART II
CHAPTER I
I know, says Morris,
“ How far high failure overleaps the bound
Of low successes.”
AMBITION
“ Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth
raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights and live laborious days.”
Milton.
If fame be the last infirmity of noble
minds, ambition is often the first ; though,
when properly directed, it may be no
feeble aid to virtue.
Had not my youthful mind, says
Cicero, “ from many precepts, from many
writings, drunk in this truth, that glory
and virtue ought to be the darling, nay,
the only wish in life; that, to attain
these, the torments of the flesh, with the
perils of death and exile, are to be
despised ; never had I exposed my person
in so many encounters, and to these daily
conflicts with the worst of men, for your
deliverance. But, on this head, books
are full; the voice of the wise is full;
the examples of antiquity are full: and
all these the night of barbarism had still
enveloped, had it not been enlightened
by the sun of science.”
The poet tells us that
“The many fail: the one succeeds.”1
And Bacon assures us that “ if a man
look sharp and attentively he shall see
fortune; for though she is blind, she is
not invisible.”
To give ourselves a reasonable prospect
of success, we must realise what we
hope to achieve ; and then make the
most of our opportunities.
Of these the use of time is one of the
most important. What have we to do
with time, asks Oliver Wendell Holmes,
but to fill it up with labour. “At the
battle of Montebello,” said Napoleon, “I
ordered Kellermann to attack with 800
horse, and with these he separated the
6000 Hungarian grenadiers before the
very eyes of the Austrian cavalry. This
cavalry was half a league off, and required
a quarter of an hour to arrive on the
field of action ; and I have observed that
it is always these quarters of an hour
that decide the fate of a battle,” including,
we may add, the battle of life.
Nor must we spare ourselves in other
ways, for
“ He who thinks in strife
To earn a deathless fame, must do, nor ever
care for life.” 1
But this is scarcely true. All succeed
who deserve, though not perhaps as they
hoped. An honourable defeat is better
than a mean victory, and no one is really
the worse for being beaten, unless he
loses heart. Though we may not be able
to attain, that is no reason why we should
not aspire.
In the excitement of the struggle,
moreover, he will suffer comparatively
little from wounds and blows which
would otherwise cause intense pain.
It is well to weigh scrupulously the
object in view, to run as little risk as
may be, to count the cost with care.
1 Tennyson.
1 Beowulf.
�52
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
But when the mind is once made up,
there must be no looking back, you must
spare yourself no labour, nor shrink from
danger.
“ He either fears his fate too much
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.” 1
Glory, says Renan, “is after all the
thing which has the best chance of not
being altogether vanity.” But what is
glory ?
Marcus Aurelius observes that “ a
spider is proud when it has caught a fly,
a man when he has caught a hare,
another when he has taken a little fish
in a net, another when he has taken
wild boars, another when he has taken
bears, and another when he has taken
Sarmatians ; ”2 but this, if from one
point of view it shows the vanity of
lame, also encourages us with the evidence
that every one may succeed if his objects
are but reasonable.
Alexander may be taken as almost a
type of Ambition in its usual form,
though carried to an extreme.
His desire was to conquer, not to in
herit or to rule. When news was brought
that his father Philip had taken some
town, or won some battle, instead of
being delighted, he used to say to his
companions, “ My father will go on con
quering, till there be nothing extra
ordinary left for you and me to do.”3
He is said even to have been mortified at
the number of the stars, considering that
he had not been able to conquer one
world. Such ambition is justly fore
doomed to disappointment.
The remarks of Philosophers on the
vanity of ambition refer generally to that
unworthy form of which Alexander may
be taken as the type—the idea of self
exaltation, not only without any reference
to the happiness, but even regardless of
the sufferings, of others.
“A continual and restless search after
1 Montrose.
2 He is referring here to one of his expeditions.
3 Plutarch.
PART II
fortune,” says Bacon, “ takes up too much
of their time who have nobler things to
observe.” Indeed he elsewhere extends
this, and adds that “No man’s private
fortune can be an end in any way worthy
of his existence.”
Goethe well observes that man “ exists
for culture; not for what he can accom
plish, but for what can be accomplished
in him.” 1
As regards fame, we must not confuse
name and essence. To be remembered is
not necessarily to be famous. There is
infamy as well as fame; and unhappily
almost as many are remembered for the
one as for the other, and not a few for a
mixture of both.
Who would not, however, rather be
forgotten, than recollected as Ahab or
Jezebel, Nero or Commodus, Messalina
or Heliogabalus, King John or Richard
III.?
“To be nameless in worthy deeds ex
ceeds an infamous history. The Canaanitish woman lives more happily without
a name than Herodias with one ; and
■who would not rather have been the good
thief than Pilate ? ” 2
Kings and Generals are often remem
bered as much- for their misfortunes as
for their successes, for their deaths as for
their lives. The Hero of Thermopylae
was Leonidas, not Xerxes. Alexander’s
Empire fell to pieces at his death.
Napoleon was a great genius, though no
Hero. But what came of all his victories ?
They passed away like the smoke of his
guns and he left France weaker, poorer,
and smaller than he found her. The
most lasting result of his genius is no
military glory, but the Code Napoleon.
A surer and more glorious title to
fame is that of those who are remembered
for some act of justice or self-devotion:
the self-sacrifice of Leonidas, the good
faith of Regulus, are the glories of history.
In some cases where men have been
called after places, the men are remem
bered, while the places are forgotten.
When we speak of Palestrina or Perugino,
1 Emerson.
2 Sir T. Browne.
�CHAP. I
AMBITION
of Nelson or Wellington, of Newton or
Darwin, who remembers the towns ?
We think only of the men.
Goethe has been called the soul of his
century.
We have but meagre biographies of
Shakespeare or of Plato • yet how’ much
we know about them.
Statesmen and Generals enjoy great
celebrity during their lives. The news
papers chronicle every word and move
ment. But the fame of the Philosopher
and Poet is more enduring.
Wordsworth deprecates monuments to
Poets, with some exceptions, on this very
account. The case of Statesmen, he says,
is different. It is right to commemorate
them because they might otherwise be
forgotten ; but Poets live in their books
for ever.
The real conquerors of the world in
deed are not the generals but the
thinkers ; not Genghis Khan and Akbar,
Barneses, or Alexander, but Confucius
and Buddha, Aristotle, Plato, and Christ.
The rulers and kings wrho reigned over
our ancestors have for the most part long
since sunk into oblivion—they are for
gotten for want of some sacred bard to
give them life—or are remembered, like
Suddhodana and Pilate, from their associ
ation with higher spirits.
Such men’s lives cannot be compressed
into any biography.
They lived not
merely in their own generation, but for
all time. When we speak of the Eliza
bethan period we think of Shakespeare
and Bacon, Raleigh and Spenser. The
ministers and secretaries of state, with
one or two exceptions, we scarcely re
member, and Bacon himself is recollected
less as the Judge than as the Philosopher.
Moreover, to what do Generals and
Statesmen owe their fame? They were
celebrated for their deeds, but to the
Poet and the Historian they are indebted
for their immortality, and to the Poet and
Historian we owe their glorious memories
and the example of their virtues.
‘ ‘ Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi; sed omnes illacrimabiles
53
Urgentur ignotique Tonga
Nocte, carent quia vate sacro.”
Montrose happily combined the tw*o,
when in “ My dear and only love ” he
promises,
“ I’ll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.”
It is remarkable, and encouraging, how
many of the greatest men have risen
from the lowest rank, and triumphed
over obstacles which might well have
seemed insurmountable; nay, even ob
scurity itself may be a source of honour.
The very doubts as to Homer’s birthplace
have contributed to his glory, seven cities
as we all know laying claim to the great
poet—
“Smyrna, Rhodos, Colophon, Salamis, Chios,
Argos, Athenaj.”
Take men of Science only. Ray was
the son of a blacksmith, Watt of a ship
wright, Franklin of a tallow-chandler,
Dalton of a handloom weaver, Fraunhofer
of a glazier, Laplace of a farmer, Linnseus
of a poor curate, Faraday of a blacksmith,
Lamarck of a banker’s clerk ; George
Stephenson wras a working collier, Davy
an apothecary’s assistant, Wheatstone a
musicalinstrumentmaker; Galileo, Kepler,
Sprengel, Cuvier, and Sir W. Herschel
were all children of very poor parents.
It is, on the other hand, sad to think
how many of our greatest benefactors are
unknown even by name. Who discovered
the art of procuring fire ? Prometheus is
merely the personification of forethought.
Who invented letters ? Cadmus is a
mere name.
These inventions, indeed, are lost in
the mists of antiquity, but even as re
gards recent progress the steps are often
so gradual, and so numerous, that few in
ventions can be attributed entirely, or
even mainly, to any one person.
Columbus is said, and truly said, to
have discovered America, though the
Northmen were there before him.
We Englishmen have every reason to
be proud of our fellow-countrymen. To
�54
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART II
take Philosophers and men of Science what as the years roll on, does add to the
only, Bacon and Hobbes, Locke and comfort of life. But this is of course on
Berkeley, Hume and Hamilton, will the supposition that you are master of
always be associated with the progress of your money, that the money is not master
human thought; Newton with gravita of you.
tion, Adam Smith with Political Economy,
Unquestionably the possession of wealth
Young with the undulatory theory of is attended by many drawbacks. Money
light, Herschel with the discovery of and the love of money often go together.
Uranus and the study of the star depths, The poor man, as Emerson says, is the
Lord Worcester, Trevethick, and Watt man who wishes to be rich ; and the more
with the steam-engine, Wheatstone with a man has, the more he often longs to
the electric telegraph, Jenner with the be richer. Just as drinking often does
banishment of smallpox, Simpson with but increase thirst; so in many cases the
the practical application of anaesthetics, craving for riches grows with wealth
and Darwin with the creation of modern
This is, of course, especially the case
Natural History.
when money is sought for its own sake.
These men, and such as these, have Moreover, it is often easier to make money
made our history and moulded our than to keep or to enjoy it. Keeping it
opinions ; and though during life they is dull and anxious drudgery. The dread
may have occupied, comparatively, an of loss may hang like a dark cloud over
insignificant space in the eyes of their life. Seneca tells us that when Apicius
countrymen, they became at length an had squandered most of his patrimony,
irresistible power, and have now justly but had still 250,000 crowns left, he
grown to a glorious memory.
committed suicide, for fear he should die
of hunger.
Wealth is certainly no sinecure. More
over, the value of money depends partly
CHAPTER II
on knowing what to do with it, partly
WEALTH
on the manner in which it is acquired.
“ Acquire money, thy friends say, that
“ The rich and poor meet together : the Lord
is the maker of them all.” — Proverbs of we also may have some. If I can acquire
money and also keep myself modest, and
Solomon.
faithful, and magnanimous, point out the
Ambition often takes the form of a love way, and I will acquire it. But if you
of money. There are many who have ask me to lose the things which are good
never attempted Art or Music, Poetry or and my own, in order that you may gain
Science ; but most people do something things that are not good, see how unfair
for a livelihood, and consequently an and unwise you are. For which would
increase of income is not only acceptable you rather have? Money, or a faithful
in itself, but gives a pleasant feeling of and modest friend. . . .
success.
■“What hinders a man, who has clearly
Doubt is indeed often expressed whether comprehended these things, from living
wealth is any advantage. I do not my with a light heart, and bearing easily the
self believe that those who are born, as reins, quietly expecting everything which
the saying is, with a silver spoon in their can happen, and enduring that which has
mouth, are necessarily any the happier for already happened ? Would you have me
it. No doubt wealth entails almost more to bear poverty ? Come, and you will
labour than poverty, and certainly more know what poverty is when it has found
anxiety. Still it must, I think, be con one who can act well the part of a poor
fessed that the possession of an income, man.” 1
whatever it may be, which increases some
1 Epictetus.
�CHAP. II
WEALTH
We must bear in mind Solon’s answer
to Croesus, “ Sir, if any other come that
hath better iron than you, he will be
master of all this gold.”
Midas is another case in point. He
prayed that everything he touched might
be turned into gold, and this prayer was
granted. His wine turned to gold, his
bread turned to gold, his clothes, his very
bed.
“Attonitus novitate mali, divesque miserque,
Effugere optat opes, et quse modo voverat, odit.”
He is by no means the only man who
has suffered from too much gold.
The real truth I take to be that wealth
is not necessarily an advantage, but that
whether it is so or not depends on the
use we make of it. The same, however,
might be said of most other opportunities
and privileges ; Knowledge and Strength,
Beauty and Skill, may all be abused ; if
we neglect or misuse them we are worse
off than if we had never had them.
Wealth is only a disadvantage in the hands
of those who do not know how to use it.
It gives the command of so many other
things—leisure, the power of helping
others, books, works of art, opportunities
and means of travel.
It would, however, be easy to exagger
ate the advantages of money. It is well
worth having, and worth working for,
but it does not requite too great a sacri
fice ; not indeed so great as is often offered
up to it. A wise proverb tells us that
gold may be bought too dear. If wealth
is to be valued because it gives leisure,
clearly it would be a mistake to sacrifice
leisure in the struggle for wealth. Money
has no doubt also a tendency to make men
poor in spirit. But, on the other hand,
what gift is there which is without
danger ?
Euripides said that money finds friends
for men, and has great (he said the
greatest) power among Mankind, cynically
adding, “ Mighty indeed is a rich man,
especially if his heir be unknown.”
Bossuet tells us that “he had no
attachment to riches, still if he had only
55
what was barely necessary, he felt him
self narrowed, and would lose more than
half his talents.”
Shelley was certainly not an avaricious
man, and yet “ I desire money,” he said,
“ because I think I know the use of it.
It commands labour, it gives leisure ; and
to give leisure to those who will employ
it in the forwarding of truth is the noblest
present an individual can make to the
whole.”
Many will have felt with Pepys when
he quaintly and piously says, “ Abroad
with my wife, the first time that ever I
rode in my own coach ; which do make
my heart rejoice and praise God, and pray
him to bless it to me, and continue it.”
This, indeed, was a somewhat selfish
satisfaction. Yet the merchant need not
quit nor be ashamed of his profession,
bearing in mind only the inscription on
the Church of St. Giacomo de Bialto at
Venice: “ Around this temple let the
merchant’s law be just, his weights true,
and his covenants faithful.” 1
If, however, life has been sacrificed to
the rolling up of money for its own sake,
the very means by which it was acquired
will prevent its being enjoyed ; the chill
of poverty will have entered into the very
bones. The miser deprives himself of
everything, for fear lest some day he
should be deprived of something. The
term Miser was happily chosen for such
persons ; they are essentially miserable.
“ A collector peeps into all the picture
shops of Europe for a landscape of Poussin,
a crayon sketch of Salvator; but the
Transfiguration, the Last Judgment, the
Communion of St. Jerome, and what are
as transcendent as these, are on the walls
of the Vatican, the Uffizi, or the Louvre,
where every footman may see them ; to
say nothing of Nature’s pictures in every
street, of sunsets and sunrises every day,
and the sculpture of the human body
never absent. A collector recently bought
at public auction in London, for one
hundred and fifty-seven guineas, an auto
graph of Shakespeare : but for nothing a
1 Ruskin.
�56
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
schoolboy can read Hamlet, and can detect
secrets of highest concernment yet un
published therein.”1 And yet “What
hath the owner but the sight of it with
his eyes.” 2
We are really richer than we think.
We often hear of Earth hunger. People
envy a great Landlord, and fancy how
delightful it must be to possess a large
estate. But, too often, as Emerson says,
“if you own land, the land owns you.”
Moreover, have we not all, in a better
sense—have we not all thousands of acres
of our own ? The commons, and roads,
and footpaths, and the seashore, our grand
and varied coast—these are all ours.
The sea-coast has, moreover, two great
advantages. In the first place, it is for
the most part but little interfered with
by man, and in the second it exhibits most
instructively the forces of Nature.
We are, indeed, all great landed pro
prietors, if we only knew it. What we
lack is not land, but the power to enjoy it.
This great inheritance has the additional
advantage that it entails no labour, requires
no management. The landlord has the
trouble, but the landscape belongs to
every one who has eyes to see it. Thus
Kingsley called the heaths round Eversley
his “ winter garden ” ; not because they
were his in the eye of the law, but in that
higher sense in which ten thousand persons
may own the same thing.
CHAPTER III
HEALTH
“ Health is best for mortal man ; next beauty ;
thirdly, well gotten wealth ; fourthly, the
pleasure of youth among friends.”
Simonides.
But if there has been some difference of
opinion as to the advantage of wealth,
with reference to health all are agreed.
“Health,” said Simonides long ago, “is
best for mortal man ; next beauty ; thirdly,
well gotten wealth ; fourthly, the pleasure
1 Emerson.
2 Solomon.
PART II
of youth among friends.” “Life, ’ says
Longfellow, “ without health is a burden,
with health is a joy and gladness.” Em
pedocles delivered the people of Selinus
from a pestilence by draining a marsh, and
was hailed as a Demigod. We are told
that a coin was struck in his honour, re
presenting the Philosopher in the act of
staying the hand of Phoebus.
We scarcely realise, I think, how much
we owe to Doctors. Our system of Medi
cine seems so natural and obvious that it
hardly occurs to us as something new and
exceptional. When we are ill we send for
a Physician ; he prescribes some medicine ;
we take it, and pay his fee. But among
the lower races of men pain and illness
are often attributed to the presence of evil
spirits. The Medicine Man is a Priest, or
rather a Sorcerer, more than a true Doctor,
and his effort is to exorcise the evil Spirit.
In other countries where some advance
has been made, a charm is written on a
board, washed off, and drunk. In some
cases the medicine is taken, not by the
patient, but by the Doctor. Such a sys
tem, however, is generally transient; it is
naturally discouraged by the Profession,
and is indeed incompatible with a large
practice. Even as regards the payment
we find very different- systems. The
Chinese pay their medical man as long as
they are well, and stop his salary as soon
as they are ill. In ancient Egypt we are
told that the patient feed the Doctor for the
first few days, after which the Doctor paid
the patient until he made him well. This
is a fascinating system, but might afford
too much temptation to heroic remedies.
On the whole our plan seems the best,
though it does not offer adequate encour
agement to discovery and research. There
is probably some cure for cancer if we did
but know it. If, however, the substantial
rewards of discovery are inadequate, we
ought to be all the more grateful to such
men as Hunter and Jenner, Simpson and
Lister. And yet in the matter of health
we can generally do more for ourselves
than the greatest Doctors can for us.
But if all are agreed as to the blessing
�CHAP. Ill
HEALTH
of health, there are many who will not
take the little trouble, or submit to the
slight sacrifices, necessary to maintain it.
Many, indeed, deliberately ruin their own
health, and incur the certainty of an early
grave, or an old age of suffering.
No doubt some inherit a constitution
which renders health almost unattainable.
Pope spoke of that long disease, his life.
Many indeed may say, 111 suffer, therefore
I am.” But happily these cases are excep
tional. Most of us might be well, if we
would. It is very much our own fault
that we are ill. We do those things
which we ought not to do, and we leave
undone those things which we ought to
have done, and then we wonder that there
is no health in us.
Like Naaman, we expect our health to
be the subject of some miraculous interfer
ence, and neglect the homely precautions
by which it might be secured.
We all know that we can make ourselves
ill, but few perhaps realise how much we
can do to keep ourselves well. Much of
our suffering is self-inflicted. It has been
observed that among the ancient Egyptians
it seemed the chief aim of life to be well
buried. Many, however, live even now
as if this were the principal object of their
existence.
I am inclined to doubt whether the
study of health is sufficiently impressed
on the minds of those entering life. Not
that it is desirable to potter over minor
ailments, to con over books on illnesses,
or experiment on ourselves with medicine.
Far from it. The less we fancy ourselves
ill, or bother about little bodily discom
forts, the more likely perhaps we are to
preserve our health.
It is, however, a different matter to
study the general conditions of health. A
well-known proverb tells us that, by the
time he is forty, every one is either a fool
or a physician. Unfortunately, however,
many persons are invalids at forty as well
as physicians.
Ill-health, however, is no excuse for
moroseness. If we have one disease we
may at least congratulate ourselves that
57
we are escaping all the rest. Sydney
Smith, ever ready to look on the bright
side of things even when borne down by
suffering, wrote to a friend that he had
gout, asthma, and seven other maladies,
but was “otherwise very well”; and many
of the greatest invalids have borne their
sufferings with cheerfulness and good
spirits.
It is said that the celebrated physiog
nomist, Campanella, could so abstract his
attention from any sufferings of his body,
that he was even able to endure the rack
without much pain ; and whoever has the
power of concentrating his attention and
controlling his will, can emancipate him
self from most of the minor miseries of
life. He may have much cause for anxiety,
his body may be the seat of severe suffer
ing, and yet his mind will remain serene
and unaffected ; he may triumph over care
and pain.
It is sad to think how much unnecessary
suffering has been caused, and how many
valuable lives have been lost, through
ignorance or carelessness.
We cannot
but fancy that the lives of many great
men might have been much prolonged by
the exercise of a little ordinary care.
If we take musicians only, what a
grievous loss to the world it is that Pergolesi should have died at twenty-six,
Schubert at thirty-one, Mozart at thirtyfive, Purcell at thirty-seven, and Mendels
sohn at thirty-eight.
In the old Greek myth the life of
Meleager was indissolubly connected by
fate with the existence of a particular
log of wood. As long as this was kept
safe by Althaea, his mother, Meleager bore
a charmed life. It seems wonderful that
we do not watch with equal care over our
body, on the state of which happiness so
much depends.
The requisites of health are plain
enough: regular habits, daily exercise,
cleanliness, and moderation in all things
—in eating as well as in drinking—would
keep most people well.
I need not here dwell on the evils of
alcohol, but we perhaps scarcely realise
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
how much of the suffering and ill-humour
of life is due to over-eating. Dyspepsia,
for instance, from which so many suffer,
is in nine cases out of ten their own fault,
and arises from the combination of too
much food with too little exercise. To
lengthen your life, says an old proverb,
shorten your meals. Plain living and
high thinking will secure health for most
of us, though it matters, perhaps, com
paratively little what a healthy man eats,
so long as he does not eat too much#
“ Go to your banquet then, but use delight,
So as to rise still with an appetite.”1
Mr. Gladstone has told us that the
splendid health he enjoys is greatly due
to his having early learnt one simple
physiological maxim, and laid it down as
a rule for himself always to make twentyfive bites at every bit of meat.
No doubt, however, though the rule not
to eat or drink too much is simple enough
in theory, it is not quite so easy in applica
tion. There have been many Esaus who
have sold their birthright of health for a
mess of pottage.
Yet, though it may seem paradoxical,
it is certainly true, that in the long run
the moderate man will derive more enjoy
ment even from eating and drinking, than
the glutton or the drunkard will ever
obtain. They know not what it is to
enjoy “the exquisite taste of common
dry bread.” 2
Even then if we were to consider
merely the pleasure to be derived from
eating and drinking, the same rule would
hold good. A lunch of bread and cheese
after a good walk is more enjoyable than
a Lord Mayor’s feast. Without wishing,
like Apicius, for the neck of a stork, so
as to enjoy our dinner longer, we must
not be ungrateful for the enjoyment we
derive from eating and drinking, even
though they be amongst the least aesthetic
of our pleasures.
They are homely,
no doubt, but they come morning, noon,
and night, and are not the less real
Herrick,
2 Hamerton.
PART II
because they have reference to the body
rather than the soul.
We speak truly of a healthy appetite,
for it is a good test of our bodily condi
tion ; and indeed in some cases of our
mental state also. That
“ There cometh no good thing
Apart from toil to mortals,”
is especially true with reference to appe
tite ; to sit down to a dinner, however
simple, after a walk with a friend among
the mountains or along the shore, is a
pleasure not to be despised.
Cheerfulness and good humour, more
over, during meals are not only pleasant
in themselves, but conduce greatly to
health.
It has been said that hunger is the
best sauce, but most would prefer some
good stories at a feast even to a good
appetite; and who would not like to
have it said of him, as of Biron by
Rosaline—
“A merrier man,
Within the limit of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour’s talk withal.”
In the three great “Banquets” of
Plato, Xenophon, and Plutarch, the food
is not even mentioned.
In the words of the old Lambeth
adage—
“ What is a merry man ?
Let him do all he can
To entertain his guests
With wine and pleasant jests,
Yet if his wife do frown
All merryment goes down.”
What salt is to food, wit and humour
are to conversation and literature. “You
do not,” an amusing writer in the Cornhill
has said, “expect humour in Thomas a
Kempis or the Hebrew Prophets”; but
we have Solomon’s authority that there is
a time to laugh, as well as to weep.
“ To read a good comedy is to keep
the best company in the world, when the
best things are said,* and the most amus
ing things happen.” 1
It is not without reason that every one
1 Hazlitt.
�HEALTH
CHAP. Ill
resents the imputation of being unable to
see a joke.
Laughter appears to be the special
prerogative of man. The higher animals
present us with proofs of evident, if not
highly-developed reasoning power, but it
is more than doubtful whether they are
capable of appreciating a joke.
Wit, moreover, has solved many diffi
culties and decided many controversies.
“ Ridicule shall frequently prevail,
And cut the knot when graver reasons fail.” 1
The most wasted of all days, says
Chamfort, is that on which one has not
laughed.
A careless song, says Walpole, “with
a little nonsense in it now and then, does
not misbecome a monarch ; ” but it is
difficult now to realise that James I.
should have regarded skill in punning in
his selection of bishops and privy coun
cillors.
It is no small merit of laughter that it
is quite spontaneous. “You cannot force
people to laugh ; you cannot give a
reason why they should laugh; they
must laugh of themselves or not at all.
. . . If we think we must not laugh,
this makes our temptation to laugh the
greater.”2 Humour is, moreover, con
tagious. A witty man may say, as Falstaff does of himself, “ I am not only
witty in myself, but the cause that wit is
in other men.”
One may paraphrase the well-known
remark about port wine and say that
some jokes may be better than others, but
anything which makes one laugh is good.
“After all,” says Dryden, “it is a good
thing to laugh at any rate ; and if a straw
can tickle a man, it is an instrument of
happiness,” and I may add, of health.
I have been told that in omitting any
mention of smoking I was overlooking
one of the real pleasures of life. Not
being a smoker myself I cannot perhaps
judge ; much must depend on the in
dividual temperament ; to some nervous
natures it certainly appears to be a great
1 Francis.
2 Hazlitt.
59
comfort; but I have my doubts whether
smoking, as a general rule, does add to
the pleasures of life. It must, at any
rate, detract somewhat from the sensitive
ness of taste and of smell.
Those who live in cities may almost
lay it down as a rule that no time spent
out of doors is ever wasted. Fresh air is
a cordial of incredible virtue ; old families
are in all senses county families, not town
families ; and those who prefer Homer
and Plato and Shakespeare to rivers and
forests and mountains must beware that
they are not tempted to neglect this great
requisite of our nature.
An Oriental traveller, having been
taken to watch a game of cricket, was
astonished at hearing that many of those
playing were rich men. He asked why
they did not pay some poor people to do
it for them.
Most Englishmen, however, love open
air, and it is probably true that most of
us enjoy a game at cricket or golf more
than looking at any of the old masters.
The love of sport is engraven in the
English character.
As was said of
William Rufus, “ he loves the tall deer as
if he had been their father.”
Wordsworth made it a rule to go out
every day, and used to say that as he
never consulted the weather, he never had
to consult the physicians.
It always seems to be raining harder
than it really is when you look at the
weather through the window. Even in
winter, though the landscape often seems
cheerless and bare enough when you look
at it from the fireside, still it is far better
to go out, even if you have to brave the
storm : when you are once out of doors
the touch of earth and the breath of the
fresh air will give you new life and
energy. Men, like trees, live in great
part on air.
After a gallop over the downs, a row
on the river, a sea voyage, a walk by the
seashore or in the woods,
“ The blue above, the music in the air,
The flowers upon the ground,” 1
1 Trench.
�6o
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
one feels as if one could say with Henry
IV., “ Je me porte comme le Pont Neuf.”
The Roman proverb that a child should
be taught nothing which he cannot learn
standing up, went no doubt into one
extreme, but surely we fall into another
when we act as if games were the only
thing which boys could learn upon their
feet.
The love of games among boys is
indeed a healthy instinct, and though
carried too far in some of our great
schools, there can be no question that
cricket and football, fives and hockey,
bathing and boating, are not only among
the greatest pleasures, but the best medi
cines, for boys.
We cannot always secure sleep. When
important decisions have to be taken, the
natural anxiety to come to a right decision
will often keep us awake.
Nothing,
however, is more conducive to healthy
sleep than plenty of open air. Then in
deed we can enjoy the fresh life of the
early morning : “ the breezy call of in
cense-breathing mom.”1
“ At morn the blackcock trims his jetty wing,
’Tis morning prompts the linnet’s blithest
lay,,
All Nature’s children feel the matin spring
Of life reviving, with reviving day.”
Epictetus described himself as “ a
spirit bearing about a corpse.” That
seems to me an ungrateful description.
Surely we ought to cherish the body, even
if it be but a frail and humble companion.
Do we not owe to the eye our enjoyment
of the beauties of this world and the
glories of the Heavens ; to the ear the
voices of friends and all the delights of
music ; are not the hands most faithful
and invaluable instruments, ever ready
in case of need, ever willing to do our
bidding ? and even the feet bear us with
out a murmur along the roughest and
stoniest paths of life.
With reasonable care, most of us may
hope to enjoy good health. And yet
what a marvellous and complex organisa
tion we have!
1 Gray.
PART II
We are indeed fearfully and wonder
fully made. It is
“ Strange that a harp of a thousand strings
Should keep in tune so long.”
When we consider the marvellous com
plexity of our bodily organisation, it
seems a miracle that we should live at
all; much more that the innumerable
organs and processes should continue day
after day and year after year with so
much regularity and so little friction
that we are sometimes scarcely conscious
of having a body at all.
And yet in that body we have more
than 200 bones, of complex and varied
forms, any irregularity in, or injury to,
which would of course grievously inter
fere with our movements.
We have over 500 muscles ; each
nourished by almost innumerable blood
vessels, and regulated by nerves. One
of our muscles, the heart, beats over
30,000,000 times in a year, and if it
once stops, all is over.
In the skin are wonderfully varied
and complex organs—for instance, over
2,000,000 perspiration glands, which
regulate the temperature, communicating
with the surface by ducts which have a
total length of some ten miles.
Think of the miles of arteries and veins,
of capillaries and nerves ; of the blood,
with the millions of millions of blood
corpuscles, each a microcosm in itself.
Think of the organs of sense,—the eye
with its cornea and lens, vitreous humour,
aqueous humour, and choroid, culminating
in the retina, no thicker than a sheet of
paper, and yet consisting of nine distinct
layers, the innermost composed of rods
and cones, supposed to be the immediate
recipients of the undulations of light,
and so numerous that in each eye the
cones are estimated at over 3,000,000,
the rods at over 30,000,000.
Above all, and most wonderful of all,
the brain itself. Meinert has calculated
that the gray matter alone contains no
less than 600,000,000 cells ; each cell
consists of several thousand visible mole-
�LOVE
CHAP. IV
cules, and each molecule again of many
millions of atoms.
And yet, with reasonable care, we can
most of us keep this wonderful organisa
tion in health, so that it will work with
out causing us pain, or even discomfort,
for many years ; and we may hope that
even when old age comes
“ Time may lay his hand
Upon your heart gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations.”
61
To this a look, to that a word, dispenses,
And, whether stern or smiling, loves them
still;—
So Providence for us, high, infinite,
Makes our necessities its watchful task,
Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our
wants,
And e’en if it denies what seems our right,
Either denies because ’twould have us ask,
Or seems but to deny, and in denying
grants.”1
Sir Walter Scott well says—
“And if there be a human tear
From passion’s dross 2 refined and clear,
’Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter’s head.”
Epaminondas is said to have given as
his main reason for rejoicing at the victory
of Leuctra, that it would give so much
LOVE
pleasure to his father and mother.
“ £)tre avec ceux qu’on aime, cela suffit.”
Nor must the love of animals be
La Bruy1:re.
altogether omitted. It is impossible not
Love is the light and sunshine of life. to sympathise with the Savage when he
We cannot fully enjoy ourselves, or any believes in their immortality, and thinks
thing else, unless some one we love enjoys that after death
it with us. Even if we are alone, w’e
“Admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.” 3
store up our enjoyment in hope of shar
ing it hereafter with those wre love.
In the Mahabharata, the great Indian
Love lasts through life, and adapts Epic, when the family of Pandavas, the
itself to every age and circumstance ; in heroes, at length reach the gates of
childhood for father and mother, in man heaven, they are welcomed themselves,
hood for wife, in age for children, and but are told that their dog cannot come
throughout for brothers and sisters, re in. Having pleaded in vain, they turn
lations and friends. The strength of to depart, as they say they can never
friendship is indeed proverbial, and in leave their faithful companion. Then at
some cases, as in that of David and the last moment the Angel at the door
Jonathan, is described as surpassing the relents, and their Dog is allowed to enter
love of women. But I need not now with them.
refer to it, having spoken already of what
We may hope the time will come when
we owe to friends.
we shall learn
The goodness of Providefice to man has
to blend
or our pride,
been often compared to that of fathers “Never sorrow of our pleasure thing that feels.” 4
With
the meanest
and mothers for their children.
But at the present moment I am speak
“ Just as a mother, with sweet, pious face,
ing rather of the love which leads to mar
Yearns towards her little children from her
riage. Such love is the music of life, nay,
seat,
Gives one a kiss, another an embrace,
“there is music in the beauty, and the
Takes this upon her knees, that on her silent note of love, far sweeter than the
feet;
sound of any instrument.” 5
And while from actions, looks, complaints,
CHAPTER IV
pretences,
She learns their feelings and their various
will,
1 Filicaja. Translated by Leigh Hunt.
2 Not from passion itself.
3 Pope.
4 Wor ds worth.
5 Browne.
�62
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
The Symposium of Plato contains an in
teresting and amusing disquisition on Love.
“ Love,” Ph sod r us is made to say, “ will
make men dare to die for their beloved—
love alone ; and women as well as men.
Of this, Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias,
is a monument to all Hellas ; for she was
willing to lay down her life on behalf of
her husband, when no one else would,
although he had a father and mother ;
but the tenderness of her love so far ex
ceeded theirs, that she made them seem
to be strangers in blood to their own son,
and in name only related to him ; and so
noble did this action of hers appear to the
gods, as well as to men, that among the
many who have done virtuously she is
one of the very few to whom they have
granted the privilege of returning to earth,
in admiration of her virtue ; such exceed
ing honour is paid by them to the devo
tion and virtue of love.”
Agathon is even more eloquent—
Love “fills men with affection, and
takes away their disaffection, making them
meet together at such banquets as these.
In sacrifices, feasts, dances, he is our lord
—supplying kindness and banishing un
kindness, giving friendship and forgiving
enmity, the joy of the good, the wonder
of the wise, the amazement of the gods,
desired by those who have no part in him,
and precious to those who have the better
part in him ; parent of delicacy, luxury,
desire, fondness, softness, grace, regardful
of the good, regardless of the evil. In
every word, work, wish, fear—pilot, com
rade, helper, saviour ; glory of gods and
men, leader best and brightest: in whose
footsteps let every man follow, sweetly
singing in his honour that sweet strain
with which love charms the souls of gods
and men.”
No doubt, even so there are two
Loves, “one, the daughter of Uranus,
who has no mother, and is the elder and
wiser goddess ; and the other, the daughter
of Zeus and Dione, who is popular and
common,”—but let us not examine too
closely. Charity tells us even of Guine
vere, “ that while she lived, she was a
PART II
good lover and therefore she had a good
end.” 1
The origin of love has exercised philo
sophers almost as much as the origin of
evil. The Symposium continues with a
speech which Plato attributes in joke to
Aristophanes, and of which Jowett ob
serves that nothing in Aristophanes is
more truly Aristophanic.
The original human nature, he says,
was not like the present. The Primeval
Man “ was round,2 his back and sides form
ing a circle ; and he had four hands and
four feet, one head with two faces, look
ing opposite ways, set on a round neck
and precisely alike.
He could walk
upright as men now do, backwards or
forwards as he pleased, and he could
also roll over and over at a great rate,
whirling round on his four hands and
four feet, eight in all, like tumblers going
over and over with their legs in the
air ; this was when he wanted to run fast.
Terrible was their might and strength, and
the thoughts of their hearts were great, and
they made an attack upon the gods ; of
them is told the tale of Otys and Epliialtes,
who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven,
and would have laid hands upon the gods.
Doubt reigned in the celestial councils.
Should they kill them and annihilate the
race with thunderbolts, as they had done
the giants, then there would be an end
of the sacrifices and worship which men
offered to them ; but, on the other hand,
the gods could not suffer their insolence
to be unrestrained. At last, after a good
deal of reflection, Zeus discovered a way.
He said : ‘ Methinks I have a plan which
will humble their pride and mend their
manners ; they shall continue to exist, but
I will cut them in two, which will have a
double advantage, for it will halve their
strength and we shall have twice as many
sacrifices. They shall walk upright on
two legs, and if they continue insolent and
will not be quiet, I will split them again
and they shall hop on a single leg.’ He
spoke and cut men in two, ‘ as you might
1 Malory, Morte eVArthur.
2 I avail myself of Dr. Jowett’s translation.
�LOVE
CHAP. IV
split an egg with a hair.’ . . . After the
division the two parts of man, each de
siring his other half, came together. . . .
So ancient is the desire for one another
which is implanted in us, reuniting our
original nature, making one of two, and
healing the state of man. Each of us when
separated is but the indenture of a man,
having one side only, like a flat-fish,
and he is always looking for his other
half.
“ And when one of them finds his other
half, the pair are lost in amazement of
love and friendship and intimacy, and
one will not be out of the other’s sight,
as I may say, even for a minute : they
will pass their whole lives together ; yet
they could not explain what they desire
of one another. For the intense yearn
ing which each of them has towards the
other does not appear to be the desire of
lovers’ intercourse, but of something else,
which the soul of either evidently desires
and cannot tell, and of which she has
only a dark and doubtful presentiment.”
However this may be, there is such in
stinctive insight in the human heart
that we often form our opinion almost
instantaneously, and such impressions
seldom change, I might even say, they
are seldom wrong. Love at first sight
sounds like an imprudence, and yet is
almost a revelation. It seems as if we
were but renewing the relations of a
previous existence.
‘ But to see her were to love her,
Love but her, and love for ever."1
Yet though experience seldom falsifies
such a feeling, happily the reverse does
not hold good. Deep affection is often of
slow growth. Many a warm love has
been won by faithful devotion.
Montaigne indeed declares that “ Few
have married for love without repenting
it.” Dr. Johnson also maintained that
marriages would generally be happier if
they were arranged by the Lord Chan
cellor ; but I do not think either Mon
taigne or Johnson were good judges. As
1 Burns.
63
Lancelot said to the unfortunate Maid of
Astolat, “ I love not to be forced to love,
for love must arise of the heart and not
by constraint.” 1
Love defies distance and the elements ;
Sestos and Abydos are divided by the
sea, “ but Love joined them by an arrow
from his bow.” 2
Love can be happy anywhere. Byron
wished
“ 0 that the desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair Spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her.”
And many will doubtless have felt
“ 0 Love ! what hours were thine and mine
In lands of palm and southern pine,
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.”
What is true of space holds good equally
of time.
“ In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed ;
In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed ;
In halls, in gay attire is seen ;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above ;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.”3
Even when, as among some Eastern
races, Religion and Philosophy have com
bined to depress Love, truth reasserts
itself in popular sayings, as for instance
in the Turkish proverb, “ All women are
perfection, especially she who loves you.”
A French lady having once quoted to
Abd-el-Kader the Polish proverb, “ A
woman draws more with a hair of her
head than a yoke of oxen well harnessed ; ”
he answered with a smile, “ The hair is
unnecessary, woman is powerful as fate.”
But we like to think of Love rather as
the Angel of Happiness than as a ruling
force : of the joy of home when “hearts
are of each other sure.”
“ It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind
In body and in soul can bind.” 4
1 Malory, Morte. d’Arthur.
2 Symonds.
3 Scott.
4 Ibid.
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
64
What Bacon says of a friend is even
truer of a wife ; there is “ no man that
imparteth his joys to his friend, but he
joyeth the more ; and no man that
imparteth his griefs to his friend, but he
grieveth the less.”
Let some one we love come near us and
“ At once it seems that something new or
strange
Has passed upon the flowers, the trees, the
ground ;
Some slight but unintelligible change
On everything around.” 1
PART II
Glistering with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers ; and sweet the coming-on
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night,
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry
train.
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun
On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit,
flower,
Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after
showers ;
Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night,
With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon,
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.”
Moreover, no one need despair of an
ideal marriage. We fortunately differ so
much in our tastes ; love does so much to
create love, that even the humblest may
hope for the happiest marriage if only he
deserves it; and Shakespeare speaks, as
11 Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps
Not on the ground, but on the heads of men.” he does so often, for thousands when he
says
Love and Reason divide the life of man.
“ She is mine own,
We must give to each its due. If it is
And I as rich in having such a jewel
impossible to attain to virtue by the aid
As twenty seas, if all their sands were pearls,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.”
of Love without Reason, neither can we
do so by means of Reason alone without
True love indeed will not be unreason
Love.
able or exacting.
Love, said Melanippides, “ sowing in
“ Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind
the heart of man the sweet harvest of
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
desire, mixes the sweetest and most
To war and arms I fly.
beautiful things together.”
How true is the saying of La Bruyere,
“ Etre avec ceux qu’on aime, cela suffit.”
We might, I think, apply to Love what
Homer says of Fate :
“ Love is kind, and suffers long,
Love is meek, and thinks no wrong,
Love than death itself more strong—
Therefore give us Love.”
True ! a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore,
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.”1
No one indeed could complain now,
with Phaedrus in Plato’s Symposium,
And yet
that Love has had no worshippers among
the Poets. On the contrary, Love has 1 ‘ Alas ! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love !
brought them many of their sweetest in
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
spirations : none perhaps nobler or more
but more
beautiful than Milton’s description of And sorrowthe storm, closely tied, were rough,
That stood
when waves
Paradise :
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
‘ With thee conversing, I forget all time,
When heaven was all tranquillity.” 2
All seasons, and their change ; all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
For love is brittle. Do not risk even
With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the
any little jar ; it may be
sun,
When first on this delightful land he spreads
“The little rift within the lute,
His orient beams, on herb, treo, fruit, and
That by and by will make the music mute,
flower,
And ever widening slowly silence all.”3
1 Trench.
1 Lovelace.
2 Moore.
3 Tennyson.
�ART
CHAP. V
Love is delicate; “ Love is hurt with
jar and fret,” and you might as well ex
pect a violin to remain in tune if roughly
used, as Love to survive if chilled or
driven into itself. But what a pleasure
to keep it alive by
“ Little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love.” 1
“ She whom you loved and chose,” says
Bondi,
“ Is now your bride, •
The gift of heaven, and to your trust consigned;
Honour her still, though not with passion blind;
And in her virtue, though you watch, confide.
Be to her youth a comfort, guardian, guide,
In whose experience she may safety find ;
And whether sweet or bitter be assigned,
The joy with her, as well as pain, divide.
Yield not too much if reason disapprove ;
Nor too much force ; the partner of your life
Should neither victim be, nor tyrant prove.
Thus shall that rein, which often mars the bliss
Of wedlock, scarce be felt; and thus your wife
Ne’er in the husband shall the lover miss.” 2
65
Earthly these passions of the Earth,
They perish where they have their birth,
But Love is indestructible ;
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven retumeth ;
Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.
“ The Mother when she meets on high
The Babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight ? ”1
As life wears on the love of husband or
wife, of friends and of children, becomes
the great solace and delight of age. The
one recalls the past, the other gives in
terest to the future ; and in our children
we live our lives again.
Every one is ennobled by true love—
“ ’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.” 3
Perhaps no one ever praised a woman
more gracefully in a sentence than Steele
when he said of Lady Elizabeth Hastings
that “ to know her was a liberal educa
tion ” ; but every woman may feel as she
improves herself that she is not only
laying in a store of happiness for herself,
but also raising and blessing those whom
she would most wish to- see happy and
good.
Love, true love, grows and deepens
with time. Husband and wife, who are
married indeed, live
CHAPTER V
ART
“ High art consists neither in altering, nor in
improving nature ; but in seeking throughout
nature for ‘whatsoever things are lovely, what
soever things are pure ’ ; in loving these, in dis
playing to the utmost of the painter’s power
such loveliness as is in them, and directing the
thoughts of others to them by winning art, or
gentle emphasis. Art (caeteris paribus) is great
in exact proportion to the love of beauty shown
by the painter, provided that love of beauty
forfeit no atom of truth.”—Ruskin.
The most ancient works of Art which we
possess, are representations of animals,
rude indeed, but often strikingly charac
teristic, engraved on, or carved in, stag’s“ By each other, till to love and live
Be one.” 4
horn or bone ; and found in English,
Nor does it end with life. A mother’s French, and German caves, with stone
and other rude implements, and the re
love knows no bounds.
mains of mammalia, belonging apparently
“ They err who tell us Love can die,
to the close of the glacial epoch: not
With life all other passions fly,
only of the deer, bear, and other animals
All others are but vanity.
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
now inhabiting temperate Europe, but
Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell ;
of some, such as the reindeer, the musk
4 Wordsworth.
2 Bondi. Tr. by Glassford. sheep, the mammoth, and the woolly-
3 Tennyson.
K
4 Swinburne.
1 Southey.
�66
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
haired rhinoceros, which have either re
treated north or become altogether ex
tinct. We may even, I think, venture to
hope that other designs may hereafter be
found, which will give us additional in
formation as to the manners and customs
of our ancestors in those remote ages.
Next to these in point of antiquity
come the sculptures and paintings on
Egyptian and Assyrian tombs, temples,
and palaces.
These ancient scenes, considered as
works of art, have no doubt many faults,
and yet how graphically they tell their
story ! As a matter of fact a king is not,
as a rule, bigger than his soldiers, but in
these battle-scenes he is always so repre
sented. We must, however, remember
that in ancient warfare the greater part
of the fighting was done by the chiefs.
In this respect the Homeric poems re
semble the Assyrian and Egyptian repre
sentations. At any rate, we see at a
glance which is the king, which are
officers, which side is victorious, the
struggles and sufferings of the wounded,
the flight of the enemy, the city of refuge
—so that he who runs may read ; while
in modern battle-pictures the story is
much less clear, and, indeed, the untrained
eye sees for some time little but scarlet
and smoke.
These works assuredly possess a grandeur
and dignity of their own, even though
they have not the beauty of later art.
In Greece Art reached a perfection
which has never been excelled, and it
was more appreciated than perhaps it has
ever been since.
At the time when Demetrius attacked
the city of Rhodes, Protogenes was paint
ing a picture of Ialysus. “ This,” says
Pliny, “hindered King Demetrius from
taking Rhodes, out of fear lest he should
burn the picture; and not being able to
fire the town on any other side, he was
pleased rather to spare the painting than
to take the victory, which was already in
his hands. Protogenes, at that time, had
his painting-room in a garden out of the
town, and very near the camp of the
PART II
enemies, where he was daily finishing
those pieces which he had already begun,
the noise of soldiers not being capable of
interrupting his studies. But Demetrius
causing him to be brought into his pre
sence, and asking him what made him so
bold as to work in the midst of enemies,
he answered the king, ‘That he under
stood the war which he made was against
the Rhodians, and not against the Arts.’ ”
With the decay of Greece, Art sank too,
until it was revived in the thirteenth
century by Cimabue, since whose time its
progress has been triumphal.
Art is unquestionably one of the purest
and highest elements in human happiness.
It trains the mind through the eye, and
the eye through the mind. As the sun
colors flowers, so does art color life.
“In true Art,” says Ruskin, “the
hand, the head, and the heart of man go
together. But Art is no recreation : it
cannot be learned at spare moments, nor
pursued when we have nothing better to
do.”
It is not only in the East that great
works, really due to study and labour,
have been attributed to magic.
Study and labour cannot make every
man an artist, but no one can succeed in
art without them. In Art two and two
do not make four, and no number of
little things will make a great one.
It has been said, and on high authority,
that the end of all art is to please. But
this is a very imperfect definition. It
might as well be said that a library is
only intended for pleasure and ornament.
Art has the advantage of nature, in so
far as it introduces a human element,
which is in some respects superior even
to nature. “If,” says Plato, “you take
a man as he is made by nature and com
pare him with another who is the effect
of art, the work of nature will always
appear the less beautiful, because art is
more accurate than nature.”
Bacon also, in The Advancement of
Learning, speaks of “ the world being in
ferior to the soul, by reason whereof there
is agreeable to the spirit of man a more
�CHAP. V
ART
ample greatness, a more exact goodness,
and a more absolute variety than can be
found in the nature of things.”
The poets tell us that, Prometheus
having made a beautiful statue of Minerva,
the goddess was so delighted that she
offered to bring down anything from
Heaven which could add. to its perfection.
Prometheus on this prudently asked her
to take him there, so that he might choose
for himself. This Minerva did, and Pro
metheus, finding that in heaven all things
were animated by fire, brought back a
spark, with which he gave life to his
work.
In fact, Imitation is the means and not
the end of Art. The story of Zeuxis and
Parrhasius is a pretty tale ; but to deceive
birds, or even man himself, is but a
trifling matter compared with the higher
functions of Art. To imitate the Iliad,
says Dr. Young, is not imitating Homer ;
though, as Sir J. Reynolds adds, the more
the artist studies nature “the nearer he
approaches to the true and perfect idea of
art.”
Art, indeed, must create as well as
copy. As Victor Cousin well says, “ The
ideal without the real lacks life ; but the
real without the ideal lacks pure beauty.
Both need to unite; to join hands and
enter into alliance. In this way the best
work may be achieved. Thus beauty is
an absolute idea, and not a mere copy of
imperfect Nature.”
The grouping of the picture is of course
of the utmost importance. Sir Joshua
Reynolds gives two remarkable cases to
show how much any given figure in a
picture is affected by its surroundings.
Tintoret in one of his pictures has taken
the Samson of Michael Angelo, put an
eagle under him, placed thunder and
lightning in his right hand instead of the
jawbone of an ass, and thus turned him
into a Jupiter. The second instance is
even more striking. Titian has copied
the figure in the vault of the Sistine
Chapel which represents the Deity divid
ing light from darkness, and has intro
duced it into his picture of the battle of
67
Cadore, to represent a general falling from
his horse.
We must remember that so far as the
eye is concerned, the object of the artist
is to train, not to deceive, and that his
higher function has reference rather to
the mind than to the eye.
Those who love beauty will see beauty
everywhere. No doubt
“ To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to
garnish,
Is wasteful aud ridiculous excess.”1
But all is not gold that glitters, flowers
are not all arrayed like the lily, and
there is room for selection as well as
representation.
“The true, the good, and the beautiful,”
says Cousin, “ are but forms of the in
finite : what then do we really love in
truth, beauty, and virtue1? We love the
infinite himself. The love of the infinite
substance is hidden under the love of its
forms. It is so truly the infinite which
charms in the true, the good, and the
beautiful, that its manifestations alone do
not suffice. The artist is dissatisfied at
the sight even of his greatest works ; he
aspires still higher.”
It is indeed sometimes objected that
Landscape painting is not true to nature;
but we must ask, What is truth ? Is the
object to produce the same impression on
the mind as that created by the scene
itself? If so, let any one try to draw
from memory a group of mountains, and
he will probably find that in the impres
sion produced on his mind the mountains
are loftier and steeper, the valleys deeper
and narrower, than in the actual reality.
A drawing, then, which was literally
exact would not be true, in the sense of
conveying the same impression as Nature
herself.
In fact, Art, says Goethe, is called Art
simply because it is not Nature.
It is not sufficient for the artist to
choose beautiful scenery, and delineate
1 Shakespeare.
�68
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
tART ii
it with accuracy. He must not be a
mere copyist.
Something higher and
more subtle is required. He must create,
or at any rate interpret, as well as copy.
Turner was never satisfied merely to
copy even the most glorious scenery. He
moved, and even suppressed, mountains.
A certain nobleman, we are told, was
very anxious to see the model from whom
Guido painted his lovely female faces.
Guido placed his color-grinder, a big
coarse man, in an attitude, and then drew
a beautiful Magdalen. “ My dear Count,”
he said, “ the beautiful and pure idea
must be in the mind, and then it is no
matter what the model is.”
When painting St. Michael for the
Church of the Capuchins at Rome, Guido
wished that he “ had the wings of an
angel, to have ascended unto Paradise, and
there to have beheld the forms of those
beautiful spirits, from which I might have
copied my Archangel. But not being
able to mount so high, it was in vain for
me to seek for his resemblance here below;
so that I was forced to look into mine
own mind, and into that idea of beauty
which I have formed in my own imagina
tion.” 1
Science attempts, as far as the limited
powers of Man permit, to reproduce the
actual facts in a manner which, however
bald, is true in itself, irrespective of time
and scene. To do this she must submit
to many limitations ; not altogether unvexatious, and not without serious draw
backs. Art, on the contrary, endeavours
to convey the impression of the original
under some especial aspect.
In some respects, Art gives a clearer
and more vivid idea of an unknown
country than any description can convey.
In literature rock may be rock, but in
painting it must be granite, slate, or some
other special kind, and not merely rock
in general.
It is remarkable that while artists have
long recognised the necessity of studying
anatomy, and there has been from the
commencement a professor of anatomy in
the Royal Academy, it is only of late
years that any knowledge of botany or
geology has been considered desirable,
and even now their importance is by no
means generally recognised.
Much has been written as to the rela
tive merits of painting, sculpture, and
architecture. This, if it be not a some
what unprofitable inquiry, would at any
rate be out of place here.
Architecture not only gives intense
pleasure, but even the impression of
something ethereal and superhuman.
Madame de Stael described it as
“ frozen music ”; and a cathedral is a
glorious specimen of “ thought in stone,”
whose very windows are transparent walls
of gorgeous hues.
Caracci said that poets paint in their
words and artists speak in their works.
The latter have indeed one great advan
tage, for a glance at a statue or a painting,
will convey a more vivid idea than a long,
and minute description.
Another advantage possessed by Art
is that it is understood by all civilised
nations, whilst each has a separate language.
Again, from a material point of view
Art is most important.
In a recent
address Sir F. Leighton has observed that
the study of Art “ is every day becoming
more important in relation to certain
sides of the waning material prosperity of
the country. For the industrial compe
tition between this and other countries
—a competition, keen and eager, which
means to certain industries almost a race
for life—runs, in many cases, no longer
exclusively or mainly on the lines of
excellence of material and solidity of
workmanship, but greatly nowadays on
the lines of artistic charm and beauty
of design.”
The highest service, however, that Art
can accomplish for man is to become “ at
once the voice of his nobler aspirations,
and the steady disciplinarian of his
emotions ; and it is with this mission,
rather than with any eesthetic perfection,
that we are at present concerned.” 1
1 Dryden.
1 Haweis.
�CHAI’. V
ART
69
Science and Art are sisters, or rather story, that the picture was sold for a pot
perhaps they are like brother and sister. of porter and a cheese, which, however,
The mission of Art is in some respects does not give a higher idea of the ap
like that of woman. It is not Hers preciation of the art of landscape at that
so much to do the hard toil and moil date.
Until very recently the general feeling
of the world, as to surround it with a
halo of beauty, to convert work into with reference to mountain scenery has
been that expressed by Tacitus. “ Who
pleasure.
In Science we naturally expect pro would leave Asia or Africa or Italy to go
gress, but in Art the case is not so clear : to Germany, a shapeless and unformed
and yet Sir Joshua Reynolds did not country, a harsh sky, and melancholy
hesitate to express his conviction that in aspect, unless indeed it was his native
the future “ so much will painting im land?”
It is amusing to read the opinion of
prove, that the best we can now achieve
will appear like the work of children,” Dr. Beattie, in a special treatise on Truth.,
and we may hope that our power of Poetry, and Music, written at the close
enjoying it may increase in an equal of last century, that “ The Highlands of
ratio. Wordsworth says that poets have Scotland are in general a melancholy
to create the taste for their own works, country. ■ Long tracts of mountainous
and the same is, in some degree at any country, covered with dark heath, and
often obscured by misty weather ; narrow
rate, true of artists.
In one respect especially modern painters valleys thinly inhabited, and bounded by
appear to have made a marked advance, precipices resounding with the fall of
and one great blessing which in fact we torrents ; a soil so rugged, and a climate
owe to them is a more vivid enjoyment so dreary, as in many parts to admit
neither the amenities of pasturage, nor
of scenery.
I have of course no pretensions to speak the labours of agriculture ; the mournful
with authority, but even in the case of the dashing of waves along the firths and
greatest masters before Turner, the land lakes ; the portentous noises which every
scapes seem to me singularly inferior to the change of the wind is apt to raise in a
figures. Sir Joshua Reynolds tells us that ' lonely region, full of echoes, and rocks,
Gainsborough framed a kind of model of a and caverns ; the grotesque and ghastly
landscape on his table, composed of broken appearance of such a landscape by the
stones, dried herbs, and pieces of looking- light of the moon: objects like these
glass, which he “ magnified and improved diffuse a gloom over the fancy,” etc.1
Even Goldsmith regarded the scenery
into rocks, trees, and water” ; and Sir
Joshua solemnly discusses the wisdom of of the Highlands as dismal and hideous.
such a proceeding. “ How far it may be Johnson, we know, laid it down as an
useful in giving hints,” he gravely says, axiom that “ the noblest prospect which
“ the professors of landscape can best a Scotchman ever sees is the high road
determine,” but he does not recommend that leads him to England ”—a saying
it, and is disposed to think, on the whole, which throws much doubt on his dis
the practice may be more likely to do tinction that the Giant’s Causeway was
“ worth seeing but not worth going to
harm than good !
In the picture of Ceyx and Alcyone, by see.” 2
Madame de Stael declared, that though
Wilson, of whom Cunningham said that,
with Gainsborough, he laid the foundation she would go 500 leagues to meet a clever
of our School of Landscape, the castle is man, she would not care to open her
said to have been painted from a pot of window to see the Bay of Naples.
porter, and the rock from a Stilton cheese.
Nor was the ancient absence of apThere is indeed another version of the
1 Beattie. 1776.
2 Boswell.
�70
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
preciation confined to scenery. Burke,
speaking of Stonehenge, even says, “ Stone
henge, neither for disposition nor ornament,
has in it anything admirable.”
Ugly scenery may well in some cases
have an injurious effect on the human
system.
It has been ingeniously sug
gested that what really drove Don Quixote
out of his mind was not the study of his
books of chivalry, so much as the mono
tonous scenery of La Mancha.
The love of landscape is not indeed
due to Art alone. It has been the happy
combination of art and science which has
trained us to perceive the beauty which
surrounds us.
Art helps us-to see, and “hundreds of
people can talk for one who can think ;
but thousands can think for one who can
see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy,
and religion all in one. . . . Remember
ing always that there are two characters
in which all greatness of Art consists—
first, the earnest and intense seizing of
natural facts ; then the ordering those
facts by strength of human intellect, so
as to make them, for all who look upon
them, to the utmost serviceable, memor
able, and beautiful. And thus great Art
is nothing else than the type of strong
and noble life ; for as the ignoble person,
in his dealings w’ith all that occurs in the
world about him, first sees nothing clearly,
looks nothing fairly in the face, and then
allows himself to be swept away by the
trampling torrent and unescapable force
of the things that he would not foresee
and could not understand : so the noble
person, looking the facts of the world full
in the face, and fathoming them with deep
faculty, then deals with them in unalarmed
intelligence and unhurried strength, and
becomes, with his human intellect and
will, no unconscious nor insignificant
agent in consummating their good and
restraining their evil.” 1
May we not also hope that in this
respect also still further progress may be
made, that beauties may be revealed, and
pleasures may be in store for those who
1 Ruskin.
PART JI
come after us, which we cannot appreciate,
or at least can but faintly feel ?
Even now there is scarcely a cottage
without something more or less success
fully claiming to rank as Art,—a picture,
a photograph, or a statuette; and we may
fairly hope that much as Art even now
contributes to the happiness of life, it
will do so even more effectively in the
future.
CHAPTER VI
POETRY
“ And here the singer for his Art
Not all in vain may plead
‘ The song that nerves a nation’s heart
Is in itself a deed.’ ”
Tennyson.
After the disastrous defeat of the Athen
ians before Syracuse, Plutarch tells us
that the Sicilians spared those who could
repeat any of the poetry of Euripides.
“ Some there were,” he says, “ who owed
their preservation to Euripides. Of all
the Grecians, his was the muse with whom
the Sicilians were most in love. From
the strangers who landed in their island
they gleaned every small specimen or
portion of his works, and communicated
it with pleasure to each other. It is said
that upon this occasion a number of
Athenians on their return home went to
Euripides, and thanked him in the most
grateful manner for their obligations to
his pen ; some having been enfranchised
for teaching their masters what they re
membered of his poems, and others having
procured refreshments, when they were
wandering about after the battle, by sing
ing a few of his verses.”
Nowadays we are not likely to owe our
lives to Poetry in this sense, yet in another
we many of us owe to it a similar debt.
How often, when worn with overwork,
sorrow, or anxiety, have we taken down
Homer or Horace, Shakespeare or Mil ton,
and felt the clouds gradually roll
away, the jar of nerves subside, the con-
�POETRY
CHAP. VI
sciousness of power replace physical
exhaustion, and the darkness of despond
ency brighten once more into the light of
life.
“And yet Plato/’ says Jowett, “expels
the poets from his Republic because they
are allied to sense; because they stimulate
the emotions ; because they are thrice re
moved from the ideal truth.”
In that respect, as in some others, few
would accept Plato’s Republic as being
an ideal Commonwealth, and most would
agree with Sir Philip Sidney that “ if you
cannot bear the planet-like music of
poetry ... I must send you in the be
half of all poets, that while you live, you
live in love, and never get favour for
lacking skill of a sonnet; and when you
die, your memory die from the earth, for
want of an epitaph.”
Poetry has often been compared with
painting and sculpture. Simonides long
ago said that Poetry is a speaking picture,
and painting is mute Poetry.
“ Poetry,” says Cousin, “ is the first of
the Arts because it best represents the
infinite.”
And again, “Though the arts are in
some respects isolated, yet there is one
which seems to profit by the resources of
all, and that is Poetry. With words,
Poetry can paint and sculpture ; she can
build edifices like an architect; she unites,
to some extent, melody and music. She
is, so to say, the centre in which all arts
unite.”
A true poem is a gallery of pictures.
It must, Tthink, be admitted that paint
ing and sculpture can give us a clearer and
more vivid idea of an object we have
never seen than any description can
convey. But when we have once seen it,
then on the contrary there are many
points which the poet brings before us,
and which perhaps neither in the repre
sentation, nor even in nature, should we
perceive for ourselves. Objects can be
most vividly brought before us by the
artist, actions by the poet; space is the
domain of Art, time of Poetry.1
1 See Lessing’s Tmocooh.
71
Take, for instance, as a typical instance,
female beauty. How laboured and how
cold any description appears, The great
est poets recognise this ; as, for instance,
when Scott wishes us to realise the Lady
of the Lake he does not attempt any de
scription, but just mentions her attitude
and then adds—
“ And ne’er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form or lovelier face ! ”
A great poet must be inspired ; he
must possess an exquisite sense of beauty,
with feelings deeper than those of most men,
and yet well under control. “The Milton
of poetry is the man, in his own magnifi
cent phrase, of devout prayer to that
Eternal Spirit that can enrich with all
utterance and knowledge, and sends out
his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his
altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom
he pleases.” 1 And if from one point of
view Poetry brings home to us the im
measurable inequalities of different minds,
on the other hand it teaches us that genius
is no affair of rank or wealth.
“ I think of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,
The sleepless soul, that perish’d in his pride ;
Of Burns, that walk’d in glory and in joy
Behind his plough upon the mountain-side.” 2
A man may be a poet and yet write no
verse, but not if he writes bad or poor
ones.
“ Mediocribus esse poetis
Non homines, non Di, non concessere column a?.”3
Poetry will not live unless it be alive,
“ that which comes from the head goes to
the heart ”;4 and Milton truly said that
“ he who would not be frustrate of his
hope to write well hereafter in laudable
things, ought himself to be a true poem.”
For “ he who, having no touch of the
Muses’ madness in his soul, comes to the
door and thinks he will get into the temple
by the help of Art—he, I say, and his
Poetry are not admitted.” 5
Secondrate poets, like secondrate writers
1 Arnold.
3 Horace.
2 Wordsworth.
4 Coleridge.
5 Plato.
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
72
PART II
generally, fade gradually into dreamland;
The works of our greatest Poets are all
but the work of the true poet is immortal. episodes in that one great poem which
“ For have not the verses of Homer the genius of man has created since the
continued 2500 years or more without commencement of human history.
the loss of a syllable or a letter, during
A distinguished mathematician is said
which time infinite palaces, temples, once to have inquired what was proved
castles, cities, have been decayed and by Milton in his Paradise Lost; and there
demolished ? It is not possible to have are no doubt still some who ask them
the true pictures or statues of Cyrus, selves, even if they shrink from putting
Alexander, or Ciesar ; no, nor of the kings the question to others, whether Poetry
or great personages of much later years ; is of any use, just as if to give pleasure
for the originals cannot last, and the were not useful in itself. No true Utili
copies cannot but lose of the life and tarian, however, would feel this doubt,
truth. But the images of men’s wits and since the greatest happiness of the greatest
knowledge remain in books, exempted number is the rule of his philosophy.
from the wrong of time and capable of
We must not however “ estimate the
perpetual renovation. Neither are they works of genius merely with reference
fitly to be called images, because they to the pleasure they afford, even when
generate still and cast their seeds in the pleasure was their principal object. We
minds of others, provoking and causing must also regard the intelligence which
infinite actions and opinions in succeeding they presuppose and exercise.”1
ages ; so that if the invention of the ship
Thoroughly to enjoy Poetry we must
was thought so noble, which carrietli riches not limit ourselves, but must rise to a
and commodities from place to place, and high ideal.
consociateth the most remote regions in
“ Yes ; constantly in reading poetry, a
participation of their fruits, how much sense for the best, the really excellent,
more are letters to be magnified, which, and of the strength and joy to be drawn
as ships, pass through the vast seas of time from it, should be present in our minds,
and make ages so distant to participate of and should govern our estimate of what
the wisdom, illuminations, and inventions, we read.” 2
the one of the other 1 ” 1
Cicero, in his oration for Archias, well
The poet requires many qualifications. asked, “ Has not this man then a right to
“ Who has traced,” says Cousin, “ the plan my love, to my admiration, to all the
of this poem ? Reason. Who has given means which I can employ in his defence ?
it life and charm ? Love. And who has For we are instructed by all the greatest
guided reason and love ? The Will.” All and most learned of mankind, that educa
men have some imagination, but the lover tion, precepts, and practice, can in every
and the poet
other branch of learning produce excel
“ Are of imagination all compact.
lence. But a poet is formed by the hand
of nature ; he is aroused by mental vigour,
The Poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
and inspired by what we may call the
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth
spirit of divinity itself. Therefore our
to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
Ennius has a right to give to poets the
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen epithet of Holy,3 because they are, as it
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing !
were, lent to mankind by the indulgent
A local habitation and a name.” 2
bounty of the gods.”
Poetry is the fruit of genius; but it
“Poetry,” says Shelley, “awakens and
cannot be produced without labour. Moore, enlarges the mind itself by rendering it
one of the airiest of poets, tells us that he
1 St. Hilaire.
2 Arnold.
was a slow and painstaking workman.
1 Bacon.
2 Shakespeare.
3 Plato styles poets the sons and interpreters
of the gods,
�CHAP. VI
POETRY
73
The man who has a love for Poetry can
scarcely fail to derive intense pleasure
from Nature, which to those who love it
is all “ beauty to the eye and music to
the ear.”
“Yet Nature never set forth the earth
in so rich tapestry as divers poets have
done ; neither with so pleasant rivers,
fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flow’ers, nor
whatsoever else may make the too-muchloved earth more lovely.”1
In the smokiest city the poet will
transport us, as if by enchantment, to the
fresh air and bright sun, to the murmur
of woods and leaves and water, to the
ripple of waves upon sand ; and enable
us, as in some delightful dream, to cast
off the cares and troubles of life.
The poet, indeed, must have more true
knowledge, not only of human nature,
but of all Nature, than other men are
gifted with.
Crabbe Robinson tells us that when a
“ Higher still and higher
stranger once asked permission to see
From the earth thou springest
Wordsworth’s study, the maid said, “ This
Like a cloud of fire ;
The blue deep thou wingest,
is master’s Library, but he studies in the
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever fields.” No wonder then that Nature
singest.
has been said to return the poet’s love.
the receptacle of a thousand unappre
hended combinations of thought. Poetry
lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of
the world, and makes familiar objects be
as if they were not familiar ; it repro
duces all that it represents, and the im
personations clothed in its Elysian light
stand thenceforward in the minds of those
who have once contemplated them, as
memorials of that gentle and exalted
content which extends itself over all
thoughts and actions with which it co
exists.”
And again, “All high Poetry is infinite;
it is as the first acorn, which contained
all oaks potentially. Veil after veil may
be undrawn, and the inmost naked beauty
of the meaning never exposed. A great
poem is a fountain for ever overflowing
with the waters of wisdom and delight.”
Or, as he has expressed himself in his
Ode to a Skylark :
“ Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
“ Call it not vain ;—they do not err
Who say that, when the poet dies,
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
And celebrates his obsequies.” 2
Swinburne says of Blake, and I feel
“ Like a glow-worm golden
entirely with him, though in my case the
In a dell of dew,
application would have been different,
Scattering unbeholden
that “The sweetness of sky and leaf, of
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it grass and water—the bright light life of
from the view.”
bird, child, and beast—is, so to speak,
We speak now of the poet as the
Maker or Creator—•ttoitjtt/s ; the origin
of the word “ bard ” seems doubtful.
The Hebrews well called their poets
“ Seers,” for they not only perceive more
than others, but also help other men to
see much which would otherwise be lost
to us. The old Greek word was aoiSos
—the Bard or Singer.
Poetry lifts the veil from the beauty
of the world which would otherwise be
hidden, and throws over the most familiar
objects the glow and halo of imagination.
kept fresh by some graver sense of
faithful and mysterious love, explained
and vivified by a conscience and purpose
in the artist’s hand and mind. Such a
fiery outbreak of spring, such an insurrec
tion of fierce floral life and radiant riot
of childish power and pleasure, no poet
or painter ever gave before ; such lustre
of green leaves and flushed limbs, kindled
cloud and fervent fleece, was never
wrought into speech or shape.”
1 Sydney, Defence of Poetry.
3 Scott.
�74
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
To appreciate Poetry we must not
merely glance at it, or rush through it,
or read it in order to talk or write about
it. One must compose oneself into the
right frame of mind. Of course for one’s
own sake one will read Poetry in times of
agitation, sorrow, or anxiety, but that is
another matter.
The inestimable treasures of Poetry
again are open to all of us. The best
books are indeed the cheapest. For the
price of a little beer, a little tobacco,
we can buy Shakespeare or Milton—or
indeed almost as many books as a man
can read with profit in a year.
Nor, in considering the advantage of
Poetry to man, must we limit ourselves
to its past or present influence. The
future of Poetry, says Mr. Matthew
Arnold, and no one was more qualified to
speak, “ The future of Poetry is immense,
because in Poetry, where it is worthy of
its high destinies, our race, as time goes
on, will find an ever surer and surer stay.
But for Poetry the idea is everything ;
the rest is a world of illusion, of divine
illusion. Poetry attaches its emotion to
the idea; the idea is the fact. The
strongest part of our religion to-day is its
unconscious Poetry. We should conceive
of Poetry worthily, and more highly than
it has been the custom to conceive of it.
We should conceive of it as capable of
higher uses, and called to higher destinies
than those which in general men have
assigned to it hitherto.”
Poetry has been well called the record
“ of the best and happiest moments of the
happiest and best minds ” ; it is the light
of life, the very “ image of life expressed
in its eternal truth ” ; it immortalises all
that is best and most beautiful in the
world ; “ it purges from our inward sight
the film of familiarity which obscures
from us the wonder of our being” ; “it
is the centre and circumference of know
ledge ” ; and poets are “ mirrors of the
gigantic shadows which futurity casts
upon the present.”
Poetry, in effect, lengthens life ; it
creates for us time, if time be realised as
TART II
the succession of ideas and not of minutes ;
it is the “ breath and finer spirit of all
knowledge ” ; it is bound neither by time
nor space, but lives in the spirit of man.
What greater praise can be given than
the saying that life should be Poetry put
into action ?
CHAPTER VIT
MUSIC
“Music is a moral law. It gives a soul to
the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the
imagination, a charm to sadness, gaiety and life
to everything. It is the essence of order, and
leads to all that is good, just, and beautiful, of
which it is the invisible, but nevertheless
dazzling, passionate, and eternal form.”—Plato.
Music is in one sense far more ancient
than man, and the voice was, from the
very commencement of human existence,
a source of melody. The early history of
Music is, however, unfortunately wrapped
in much obscurity. The use of letters
long preceded the invention of notes, and
tradition in such a matter can tell us but
little. So far, however, as musical in
struments are concerned, it is probable
that percussion came first, then wind in
struments, and lastly, those with strings :
first the Drum, then the Flute, and
thirdly, the Lyre.
The contest between Marsyas and
Apollo is supposed by some to typify the
struggle between the Flute and the Lyre ;
Marsyas representing the archaic Flute,
Apollo the champion of the Lyre. The
latter of course was victorious : it sets the
voice free, and the sound
“ Of music that is born of human breath
Conies straighter to the soul than any strain
The hand alone can make.” 1
Various myths have grown up to ex
plain the origin of Music. One Greek
tradition was to the effect that Grass
hoppers were human beings themselves
in a world before the Muses ; that when
1 L. Morris.
�CHAP. VII
MUSIC
75
the Muses came, being ravished with
delight, they “sang and sang and forgot
to eat, until they died of hunger for the
love of song. And they carry to heaven
the report of those who honour them on
earth.” 1
The old writers and commentators tell
us that Pythagoras, “ as he was one day
meditating on the want of some rule to
guide the ear, analogous to what had
been used to help the other senses,
chanced to pass by a blacksmith’s shop,
and observing that the hammers, which
were four in number, sounded very har
moniously, he had them weighed, and
found them to be in the proportion of
six, eight, nine, and twelve. Upon this
he suspended four strings of equal length
and thickness, etc., fastened weights in
the above-mentioned proportions to each
of them respectively, and found that they
gave the same sounds that the hammers
had done; viz., the fourth, fifth, and
octave to the gravest tone.”2 However
this may be, it would appear that the
lyre had at first four strings only;
Terpander is said to have given it three
more, and an eighth was subsequently
added.
The Chinese indicated the notes by
words or their initials. The lowest was
termed “ Koung,” or the Emperor, as
being the Foundation on which all were
supported ; the second was Tschang, the
Prime Minister ; the third, the Subject;
the fourth, Public Business ; the fifth,
the Mirror of Heaven.3 The Greeks also
had a name for each note. We have
unfortunately no specimens of Greek 4 or
Roman, or even of Early Christian music.
The so-called Gregorian notes were not
invented until six hundred years after
Gregory’s death. The Monastery of St.
Gall possesses a copy of Gregory’s Antiphonary, made about the year 780 by a
chorister who was sent from Rome to
Charlemagne to reform the Northern
music, and in this the sounds are indi
cated by “ pneumes,” from which our
notes were gradually developed, being
first arranged along one line, to which
others were gradually added.
The most ancient known piece-of music
for several voices is an English four men’s
song, “Summer is i-comen in,” which is
considered to be at least as early as 1240,
and is now in the British Museum.
.In the matter of music Englishmen
have certainly deserved well of the world.
Even as long ago as 1185 Giraldus
Cambrensis, Archdeacon of St. David’s,
says, “ The Britons do not sing their
tunes in unison like the inhabitants of
other countries, but in different parts.
So that when a company of singers meet
to sing, as is usual in this country, as
many different parts are heard as there
are singers.”1
The Venetian ambassador in the time
of Henry VIII. said of our English
Church music : “ The mass was sung by
His Majesty’s choristers, whose voices are
more heavenly than human; they did
not chaunt like men, but like angels.”
Dr. Burney says that Purcell was “ as
much the pride of an Englishman in
music as Shakespeare in productions of
the stage, Mil ton in epic poetry, Locke
in metaphysics, or Sir Isaac Newton in
philosophy and mathematics ” ; and yet
Purcell’s music is unfortunately but little
known to us now, as Macfarren says, “ to
our great loss.”
Purcell died early, and on his tomb is
the celebrated epitaph—
“ Here lies Henry Purcell, who left
this life, and is gone to that blessed place,
where, only, his harmony can be exceeded.”
The authors of some of the loveliest
music, and even in some cases that of
comparatively recent times, are unknown
to us. This is the case for instance with
the exquisite song “Drink to me only
with thine eyes,” the words of which
were taken by Jonson from Philostratus,
1 Plato.
2 Crowest.
and which has been considered as the
3 Rowbotliam, History of Music.
4 Since this was written some fragments of a most beautiful of all “people’s songs.”
hymn to Apollo have been found at Delphi.
1 Wakefield.
�76
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
The music of “ God save the Queen ”
has been adopted in more than half a
dozen other countries, and yet the author
ship is a matter of doubt, being attributed
by some to Dr. John Bull, by others to
Carey. It was apparently first sung in a
tavern in Cornhill.
Both the music and words of “ O
Death, rock me to sleep ” are said to be
by Anne Boleyn : “ Stay, Corydon ” and
“ Sweet Honey-sucking Bees ” by Wildye,
“ the first of madrigal writers. ” “ Rule
Britannia ” was composed by Arne, and
originally formed part of his Masque of
Alfred, first performed in 1740 at Cliefden, near Maidenhead. To Arne we are
also indebted for the music of “ Where
the Bee sucks, there lurk I.” “ The
Vicar of Bray ” is set to a tune originally
known as “ A Country Garden.” “ Come
unto these yellow sands ” we owe to
Purcell; “ Sigh no more, Ladies ” to
Stevens ; “ Home, Sweet Home ” to
Bishop.
There is a curious melancholy in
national music, which is generally in the
minor key ; indeed this holds good with
the music of savage races generally.
They appear, moreover, to have no love
songs.
Herodotus tells us that during the
whole time he was in Egypt he only
heard one song, and that was a sad one.
My own experience there was the same.
Some tendency to melancholy seems in
herent in music, and Jessica is not alone
in the feeling
Pz\RT II
composed “ Il trillo del Diavolo,” con
sidered to be his best work, in a dream.
Rossini, speaking of the chorus in G
minor in his “ Dal tuo stellato soglio,”
tells us: “ While I was writing the
chorus in G minor I suddenly dipped my
pen into a medicine bottle instead of the
ink. I made a blot, and when I dried
this with the sand it took the form of a
natural, which instantly gave me the idea
of the effect the change from G minor to
G major would make, and to this blot is
all the effect, if any, due.” But these of
course are exceptional cases.
There are other forms of Music, which,
though not strictly entitled to the name,
are yet capable of giving intense pleasure.
To the Sportsman what Music can excel
that of the hounds themselves. The
cawing of rooks has been often quoted as
a sound which has no actual beauty of its
own, and yet which is delightful from its
associations.
There is, moreover, a true Music of
Nature,— the song of birds, the whisper
of leaves, the ripple of waters upon a
sandy shore, the wail of wind or sea.
There was also an ancient impression
that the Heavenly bodies give out sound
as well as light: the Music of the Spheres
has become proverbial.
“There’s not the smallest orb which thou beholdest
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims ;
Such harmony is in immortal souls.
But while this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.” 1
Music indeed often seems as if it
scarcely belonged to this material universe,
The histories of music contain many but was
curious anecdotes as to the circumstances
“ A tone
under w’hich different works have been
Of some world far from ours,
Where music, and moonlight, and feeling are
composed.
one.” 2
Rossini tells us that he wrote the over
“ It is a language which is incapable
ture to the “ Gazza Ladra ” on the very
day of the first performance, in the upper of expressing anything impure.” There
loft of the La Scala, where he had been is music in speech as well as in song.
confined by the manager under the guard Not merely in the voice of those we love,
of four scene-shifters, who threw the text and the charm of association, but in
out of window to copyists bit by bit as it actual melody ; as when Milton says,
was composed. Tartini is said to have
1 Shakespeare.
2 Swinburne.
“ I am never merry when I hear sweet music.”
�MUSIC
CHAP. VII
77
“ The Angel ended, and in Adam’s ear
As touching the human heart—
So charming left his voice, that he awhile
Thought him still speaking, still stood fixed “ The soul of music slumbers in the shell,
Till waked and kindled by the master’s spell ;
to hear.”
And feeling hearts—touch them but rightly—
pour
It is remarkable that more pains are
A thousand melodies unheard before.”1
not taken with the voice in conversation
As an education—
as well as in singing, for
“What plea so tainted and corrupt
But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,
Obscures the show of evil.”
As a general rule
“ I have sent books and music there, and all
Those instruments with which high spirits call
The future from its cradle, and the past
Out of its grave, and make the present last
In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot
die,
Folded within their own eternity.” 2
‘ ‘ The man that hath no Music in himself
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ” ;1 As an aid to religion—
“ As from the power of sacred lays
but there are some notable exceptions.
The spheres began to move,
Dr. Johnson had. no love of music. On
And sung the great Creator’s praise
one occasion, hearing that a certain piece
To all the blessed above,
So when the last and dreadful hour
of music was very difficult, he expressed
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
his regret that it was not impossible.
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
Poets, as( might have been expected,
The dead shall live, the living die,
have sung most sweetly in praise of song.
And music shall untune the sky.” 3
They have, moreover, done so from the Or again—
opposite points of view.
“Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along,
Milton invokes it as a luxury—
“ And ever against eating cares
Lap me in soft Lydian airs ;
Married to immortal verse
Such as the meeting soul may pierce,
In notes -with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out ;
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running ;
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony.”
Like distant beHs upon the lake at eve,
When all is still; and now it grows more strong
As when the choral train their dirges weave
Mellow and many voiced ; where every close
O’er the old minster roof, in echoing waves
reflows.
Oh ! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars
Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind;
Lo ! angels lead me to the happy shores.
And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind.
Farewell! base earth, farewell ! my soul is
freed.”
Sometimes it is used as a temptation : so
The power of Music to sway the feel
Spenser says of Phsedria,
ings of Man has never been more cleverly
“ And she, more sweet than any bird on bough, portrayed than by Dryden in “ The
Would oftentimes amongst them bear a part, Feast of Alexander,” though the circum
And strive to passe (as she could well enough)
stances of the case precluded any reference
Their native musicke by her skilful art.”
to the influence of Music in its nobler
Or as an element of pure happiness—
aspects.
Poets have always attributed to Music
“There is in souls a sympathy with sounds ;
And as the mind is pitched, the ear is pleased —and who can deny it—a power even
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave ; over the inanimate forces of Nature.
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Shakespeare accounts for shooting stars
Is touched within us, and the heart replies.
by the attraction of Music :
How soft the music of those village bells,
Falling at intervals upon the e.ar
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again and louder still
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on.” 2
1 Shakespeare.
2 Cowper.
“ The rude sea grew civil at her song,
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the Sea-maid’s Music.”
Prose writers have also been inspired
1 Rogers.
2 Shelley.
3 Dryden.
�7«
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
by Music to their highest eloquence.
“ Music,” said Plato, “ is a moral law.
It gives a soul to the universe, wings to
the mind, flight to the imagination, a
charm to sadness, gaiety and life to
everything. It is the essence of order,
and leads to all that is good, just, and
beautiful, of which it is the invisible,
but nevertheless dazzling, passionate, and
eternal form.”
“Music,” said Luther,
“is a fair and glorious gift from God. I
would not for all the world renounce my
humble share in music.” “Music,” said
Halevy, “is an art that God has given
us, in which the voices of all nations
may unite their prayers in one harmoni
ous rhythm.” And Carlyle, “ Music is a
kind of inarticulate, unfathomable speech,
which leads us to the edge of the infinite,
and lets us for moments gaze into it.”
“ There are but seven notes in the
scale; make them fourteen,” says Newman,
“ yet what a slender outfit for so vast an
enterprise ! What science brings so miicli
out of so little ?
Out of what poor
elements does some great master in it
create his new world ! Shall we say that
all this exuberant inventiveness is a mere
ingenuity or trick of art, like some game
of fashion of the day, without reality,
without meaning ? . . . Is it possible that
that inexhaustible evolution and dis
position of notes, so rich yet so simple, so
intricate yet so regulated, so various yet
so majestic, should be a mere sound, which
is gone and perishes ? Can it be that
those mysterious stirrings of the heart, and
keen emotions, and strange yearnings after
we know not what, and awful impressions
from we know not whence, should be
wrought in us by what is unsubstantial,
and conies and goes, and begins and ends
in itself ? it is not so ; it cannot be. No ;
they have escaped from some higher
sphere ; they are the outpourings of eter
nal harmony in the medium of created
sound ; they are echoes from our Home ;
they are the voice of Angels, or the Mag
nificat of Saints, or the living laws of
Divine Governance, or the Divine Attri
butes ; something are they besides them
PART II
selves, which we cannot compass, which
we cannot utter, though mortal man, and
he perhaps not otherwise distinguished
above his fellows, has the gift of eliciting
them.”
Let me also quote Helmholtz, one of
the. profoundest exponents of modern
science. “Just as in the rolling ocean,
this movement, rhythmically repeated, and
yet ever-varying, rivets our attention and
hurries us along. But whereas in the sea
blind physical forces alone are at work,
and hence the final impression on the
spectator’s mind is nothing but solitude—
in a musical work of art the movement
follows the outflow of the artist’s own
emotions. Now gently gliding, now grace
fully leaping, now violently stirred,
penetrated, or laboriously contending with
the natural expression of passion, the
stream of sound, in primitive vivacity,
bears over into the hearer’s soul unimagined
moods which the artist has overheard
from his own, and finally raises him up to
that repose of everlasting beauty of which
God has allowed but few of his elect
favourites to be the heralds.”
Poetry and Music unite in song. From
the earliest ages song has been the sweet
companion of labour. The rude chant of
the boatman floats upon the water, the
shepherd sings upon the hill, the milk
maid in the dairy, the ploughman in the
field. Every trade, every occupation,
every act and scene of life, has long
had its own especial music. The bride
went to 'her marriage, the labourer to
his work, the old man to his last long rest,
each with appropriate and immemorial
music.
Music has been truly described as the
mother of sympathy, the handmaid of
Religion, and will never exercise its full
effect, as the Emperor Charles VI. said to
Farinelli, unless it aims not merely to
charm the ear, but to touch the heart.
There are many who consider that our
life at present is peculiarly prosaic and
mercenary. I greatly doubt whether
that be the case, but if so our need for
Music is all the more imperative.
�CHAP. VIII
THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE
Much indeed as Music has already done
for man, we may hope even more from it
in the future.
It is, moreover, a joy for all. To ap
preciate Science or Art requires some
training, and no doubt the cultivated ear
will more and more appreciate the beauties
of Music ; but though there are exceptional
individuals, and even races, almost devoid
of any love of Music, still they are happily
but rare.
Good Music, moreover, does not neces
sarily involve any considerable outlay ; it
is even now no mere luxury of the rich,
and we may hope that as time goes on, it
will become more and more the comfort
and solace of the poor.
CHAPTER VIII
THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE
“ Speak to the earth and it shall teach thee.”
Job.
“ And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running
brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.”
Shakespeare.
We are told in the first chapter of Genesis
that at the close of the sixth day “ God
saw every thing that he had made, and,
behold, it was very good.” Not merely
good, but very good. Yet how few of us
appreciate the beautiful world in which we
live 1
In preceding chapters I have incident
ally, though only incidentally, referred to
the Beauties of Nature ; but any attempt,
however imperfect, to sketch the blessings
of life must contain some special reference
to this lovely world itself, which the Greeks
happily called /cocr/ws—beauty.
Hamerton, in his charming work on
Landscape, says, “ There are, I believe,
four new experiences for which no de
scription ever adequately prepares us, the
first sight of the sea, the first journey in
the desert, the sight of flowing molten lava,
79
and a walk on a great glacier. We feel in
each case that the strange thing is pure
nature, as much nature as a familiar
English moor, yet so extraordinary that
we might be in another planet.” But it
would, I think, be easier to enumerate the
Wonders of Nature for which description
can prepare us, than those which are
beyond the power of language.
Many of us, however, walk through
the world like ghosts, as if we were in it,
but not of it. We have “ eyes and see
not, ears and hear not.” We must look
before wre can expect to see. To look is
indeed much less easy than to overlook,
and to be able to see what we do see, is a
great gift. Ruskin maintains that “ The
greatest thing a human soul ever does in
this world is to see something, and tell
what it saw in a plain way.” . I do not
suppose that his eyes are better than ours,
but how much more he sees with them !
“ To the attentive eye,” says Emerson,
“ each moment of the year has its own
beauty ; and in the same field it beholds
every hour a picture that was never seen
before, and shall never be seen again.
The heavens change every moment and
reflect their glory or gloom on the plains
beneath.”
The love of Nature is a great gift, and
if it is frozen or crushed out, the character
can hardly fail to suffer from the loss.
I will not, indeed, say that a person
who does not love Nature is necessarily
bad ; or that one who does, is necessarily
good; but it is to most minds a great
help. Many, as Miss Cobbe says, enter
the Temple through the gate called
Beautiful.
There are doubtless some to whom none
of the beautiful wonders of Nature; neither
the glories of the rising or setting sun ; the
magnificent spectacle of the boundless
ocean, sometimes so grand in its peaceful
tranquillity, at others so majestic in its
mighty power ; the forests agitated by the
storm, or alive with the song of birds;
nor the glaciers and mountains—there
are doubtless some whom none of these
magnificent spectacles can move, w’hom
�So
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
l’ART II
“ all the glories of heaven and earth else is illusion, or mere endurance. To
may pass in daily succession without be beautiful and to be calm, without
touching their hearts or elevating their mental fear, is the ideal of Nature.”
minds.” 1
I must not, however, enlarge on the
Such men are indeed pitiable. But, contrast and variety of the seasons, each
happily, they are exceptions. If we can of which has its own special charm and
noire of us as yet fully appreciate the i interest, as
beauties of Nature, we are beginning to
“ The daughters of the year
do so more and more.
Dance into light and die into the shade.” 1
For most of us the early summer has a
Our countrymen derive great pleasure
special charm. The very life is luxury.
The air is full of scent, and sound, and from the animal kingdom, in hunting,
sunshine, of the song of birds and the shooting, and fishing, thus obtaining fresh
murmur of insects ; the meadows gleam 1 air and exercise, and being led into much
with golden buttercups ; one can almost varied and beautiful scenery. Still it
see the grass grow and the buds open ; will probably ere long be recognised that
the bees hum for very joy, and the air even from a purely selfish point of view,
is full of a thousand scents, above all killing animals is not the way to get
the greatest enjoyment from them. How
perhaps that of new-mown hay.
The exquisite beauty and delight of much more interesting would every walk
a fine summer’s day in the country has in the country be, if Man would but treat
never perhaps been more truly, and there-I other animals with kindness, so that they
fore more beautifully, described, than by might approach us without fear, and we
Jefferies in his “Pageant of Summer.” I might have the constant pleasure of
Their
“ I linger,” he says, “ in the midst of the watching their winning ways.
long grass, the luxury of the leaves, and origin and history, structure and habits,
the song in the very air. I seem as if I senses and intelligence, offer an endless
could feel all the glowing life the sunshine field of interest and wonder.
The richness of life is marvellous. Any
gives and the south wind calls to being.
The endless grass, the endless leaves, the one who will sit down quietly on the
immense strength of the oak expanding, grass and watch a little, will be indeed
the unalloyed joy of finch and blackbird ; surprised at the number and variety of
from all of them I receive a little. . . . living beings, every one with a special
In the blackbird’s melody one note is history of its own, every one offering
mine ; in the dance of the leaf shadows ' endless problems of great interest.
“ If indeed thy heart were right, then
the formed maze is for me, though the
motion is theirs ; the flowers with a thou would every creature be to thee a rnirrox'
sand faces have collected the kisses of the of life, and a book of holy doctrine.” 2
The study of Natural History has the
morning. Feeling with them, I receive
some, at least, of their fulness of life. special advantage of carrying us into the
Never could I have enough ; never stay country and the open air.
Not but what towns are beautiful too.
long enough. . . . The hours when the
mind is absorbed by beauty are the only They teem with human interest and his
hours when we really live, so that the torical associations.
Wordsworth was an intense lover of
longer we can stay among these things
so much the more is snatched from nature ; yet does he not tell us, in lines
inevitable Time. . . . These are the which every Londoner will appreciate,
only hours that are not wasted—these that he knew nothing in nature more
hours that absorb the soul and fill it fair, no calm more deep, than the city of
with beauty. This is real life, and all London at early dawn ?
1 Beattie.
1 Tennyson.
Thomas a Kempis.
�THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE
CHAP. VIII
“Earth has not anything to show more fair ;
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the igorning ; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky ;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air..
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep !
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ;
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! ”
Milton also described London as
81
mountain-side up to the very edge of the
eternal snow.
And what an infinite variety they
present.
“Daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim.
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,
Or Cytherea’s breath ; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady
Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips and
The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one.”1
Nor are they mere delights to the eye ;
they are full of mystery and suggestions.
Some of our streets indeed are lines of They almost seem like enchanted prin
cesses waiting for some princely deliverer.
loveliness, but yet, after being some time
Wordsworth tells us that
in a great city, one longs for the country.
“Too blest abode, no loveliness we see
In all the earth, but it abounds in thee.”
“The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.”1
“ To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
Here Gray justly places flowers in the
first place, for whenever in any great
town we think of the country, flowers
seem first to suggest themselves.
“ Flowers,” says Ruskin, “ seem in
tended for the solace of ordinary humanity.
Children love them; quiet, tender, con
tented, ordinary people love them as they
grow ; luxurious and disorderly people
rejoice in them gathered. They are the
cottager’s treasure ; and in the crowded
town, mark, as with a little broken frag
ment of rainbow, the windows of the
workers in whose heart rests the covenant
of peace.” But in the crowded street, or
even in the formal garden, flowers always
seem, to me at least, as if they were pining
for the freedom of the woods and fields,
where they can live and grow as they
please.
There are flowers for almost all seasons
and all places,—flowers for spring,
summer, and autumn ; while even in the
very depth of winter here and there one
makes its appearance. There are flowers
of the fields and woods and hedgerows, of
the seashore and the lake’s margin, of the
Every color again, every variety of form,
has some purpose and explanation.
And yet, lovely as Flowers are, Leaves
add even more to the Beauty of Nature.
Trees in our northern latitudes seldom
own large flowers; and though of course
there are notable exceptions, such as the
Horse-chestnut, still even in these cases
the flowers live only a few days, while
the leaves last for months.
Every tree indeed is a picture in itself:
The gnarled and rugged Oak, the symbol
and source of our navy, sacred to the
memory of the Druids, the type of
strength, is the sovereign of British trees :
the Chestnut has beautiful, tapering, and
rich green, glossy leaves, delicious fruit,
and wood so durable that to it we owe
the grand and historic roof of Westminster
Hall.
The Birch is the queen of trees, with
her feathery foliage, scarcely visible in
spring but turning to gold in autumn;
the pendulous twigs tinged with purple,
and silver stems so brilliantly marked
with black and white.
The Beech enlivens the country by its
tender green in spring, rich tints in
summer, and glorious gold and orange in
1 Gray.
1 Shakespeare.
G
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
82
autumn, set off by the graceful gray
stem ; and has, moreover, such a wealth
of leaves that, as we see in autumn, there
are enough not only to clothe the tree
itself but to cover the grass underneath.
If the Beech owes much to its delicate
gray stem, quite as beautiful is the reddish
crimson of the Scotch Pine, in such
charming contrast with the rich green of
the foliage, by which it is shown off
rather than hidden. Pines, moreover,
with the green spires of the Firs, keep the
woods warm in winter.
The Elm forms grand masses of foliage
which turn a beautiful golden yellow in
autumn ; and the Black Poplar with its
perpendicular leaves, rustling and trem
bling with every breath of wind, towers
over most of our other forest trees.
Nor must I overlook the smaller trees :
the Yew with its thick green foliage ; the
wild Guelder rose, which lights up the
woods in autumn with translucent glossy
berries and many-tinted leaves ; or the
Bryonies, the Briar, the Traveller’s Joy,
and many another plant, even humbler
perhaps, and yet each with some exquisite
beauty and grace of its own, so that we
must all have sometimes felt our hearts
overflowing with gladness and gratitude,
as if the woods were full of music—as if
“ The woods were filled so full with song
There seemed no room for sense of wrong.”1
On the whole, no doubt, woodlands are
most beautiful in the summer ; yet even
in winter the delicate tracery of the
branches, which cannot be so well seen
when they are clothed with leaves, has a
special beauty of its own ; while every
now and then hoar frost or snow settles
like silver on every branch and twig,
lighting up the forest as if by enchant
ment in preparation for some fairy
festival.
I feel with Jefferies that “by day or
by night, summer or winter, beneath
trees the heart feels nearer to that depth
of life which the far sky means. The
rest of spirit found only in beauty, ideal
,
1 Tennyson.
TART II
and pure, comes there because the distance
seems within touch of thought.”
The general effect of forests in tropical
regions must be very different from that
of those in our latitudes.
Kingsley
describes it as one of helplessness, con
fusion, awe, all but terror. The trunks
are lofty and straight, rising to a great
height without a branch, so that the wood
seems at first comparatively open. In
Brazilian forests, for instance, the trees
struggle upwards, and the foliage forms
an unbroken canopy, perhaps a hundred
feet overheard. Here, indeed, high up in
the air is the real life of the forest.
Everything seems to climb to the light.
The quadrupeds climb, birds climb,
reptiles climb, and tlie variety of climb
ing plants is far greater than anything to
which we are accustomed.
Many savage nations worship trees,
and I really think my first feeling would
be one of delight and interest rather than
of surprise, if some day when I am alone
in a wood one of the trees were to speak
to me. Even by day there is something
mysterious in a forest, and this is much
more the case at night.
With wood, Water seems to be natur
ally associated. Without water no land
scape is complete, while overhead the
clouds add beauty to the heavens them
selves. The spring and the rivulet, the
brook, the river, and the lake, seem to
give life to Nature, and were indeed re
garded by our ancestors as living entities
themselves.
Water is beautiful in the
morning mist, in the broad lake, in the
glancing stream, in tlie river pool, or the
wide ocean, beautiful in all its varied
moods. Water nourishes vegetation ; it
clothes the lowlands with green and the
mountains with snow. It sculptures the
rocks and excavates the valleys, in most
cases acting mainly through the soft rain,
though our harder rocks are still grooved
by the ice-chisel of bygone ages.
The refreshing power of water upon
the earth is scarcely greater than that
which it exercises on the mind of man.
After a long spell of work how delightful
�CHAP. VIII
THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE
83
it is to sit by a lake or river, or on the and quarries and lines of stratification
seashore, and enjoy the fresh air, the began to show themselves, though the
glancing sunshine on the water, and the cliffs were still in shadow, and the more
ripple of the waves upon sand.
distant headlands still a mere succession
Every Englishman loves the sight of of ghosts, each one fainter than the one
the Sea. We feel that it is to us a second before it. As the morning advances the
home. It seems to vivify the very at sea becomes blue, the dark woods, green
mosphere, so that Sea air is proverbial as meadows, and golden cornfields of the
a tonic, and the very thought of it makes opposite coast more distinct, the details
the blood dance in our veins. The Ocean of the cliffs come gradually into view,
gives an impression of freedom and and fishing-boats with dark sails begin to
grandeur more intense perhaps even than appear.
the aspect of the heavens themselves. A
Gradually as the sun rises higher, a
poor woman from Manchester, on being yellow line of shore appears under the
taken to the seaside, is said to have ex opposite cliffs, and the sea changes its
pressed her delight on seeing for the first color, mapping itself out as it were, the
time something of which there was enough shallower parts turquoise blue, almost
for everybody. The sea coast is always green ; the deeper ones violet.
interesting. When we think of the cliff
This does not last long—a thunderstorm
sections with their histories of bygone comes up. The wind mutters overhead,
ages ; the shore itself teeming with sea the rain patters on the leaves, the coast
weeds and animals, waiting for the return opposite seems to shrink into itself, as if
of the tide, or thrown up from deeper it would fly from the storm. The sea
water by the waves; the weird cries of grows dark and rough, and white horses
seabirds ; the delightful feeling that, with appear here and there.
every breath, we are laying in a store of
But the storm is soon over. The clouds
fresh life, and health, and energy, it is break, the rain stops, the sun shines once
impossible to over-estimate all we owe to more, the hills opposite come out again.
the Sea.
They are divided now not only into fields
It is, moreover, always changing. We and woods, but into sunshine and shadow.
went for our holiday last year to Lyme The sky clears, and as the sun begins to
Regis. Let me attempt to describe the descend westwards the sea becomes one
changes in the view from our windows beautiful clear uniform azure, changing
during a single day. Our sitting-room again soon to pale blue in front and dark
opened on to a little lawn, beyond which violet beyond; and once more, as clouds
the ground dropped suddenly to the sea, begin to gather again, into an archipelago
while over about two miles of water were of bright blue sea and islands of deep
the hills of the Dorsetshire coast—-Golden ultramarine. As the sun travels west
Cap, with its bright crest of yellow sand, ward, the opposite hills change again.
and the dark blue Lias Cliff of Black Ven, They scarcely seem like the same country.
When I came down early in the morning What was in sun is now in shade, and
the sun was rising opposite, shining into what was in shade now lies bright in the
the room over a calm sea, along an avenue sunshine. The sea once more becomes a
of light; by degrees, as it rose, the whole uniform solid blue, only flecked in places
sea glowed in the sunshine while the hills by scuds of wind, and becoming paler
were bathed in a violet mist. By break towards evening as the sun sinks, the cliffs
fast-time all color had faded from the which catch his setting rays losing their
sea—it was like silver passing on each deep color and in some places looking
side into gray ; the sky blue, flecked with almost as white as chalk ; while at sunset
fleecy clouds ; while, on the gentler slopes they light up again for a moment with a
of the coast opposite, fields and woods, | golden glow, the sea at the same time
�84
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
sinking to a cold gray. But soon the
hills grow cold too, Golden Cap holding
out bravely to the last, and the shades of
evening settle over cliff and wood, corn
field and meadow.
These are but a part, and a very small
part, of the changes of a single day. And
scarcely any two days are alike. At
times a sea-fog covers everything. Again
the sea which sleeps to-day so peacefully,
sometimes rages, and the very existence of
the bay itself bears witness to its force.
The night, again, varies like the day.
Sometimes shrouded by a canopy of dark
ness, sometimes lit up by millions of
brilliant worlds, sometimes bathed in the
light of a moon, which never retains the
same form for two nights together.
If Lakes are less grand than the sea,
they are in some respects even more
lovely. The seashore is comparatively
bare. The banks of Lakes are often
richly clothed with vegetation which
comes close down to the water’s edge,
sometimes hanging even into the water
itself. They are often studded with wellwooded islands. They are sometimes
fringed with green meadows, sometimes
bounded by rocky promontories rising
directly from comparatively deep water ;
while the calm bright surface is often
fretted by a delicate pattern of interlacing
ripples ; or reflects a second, softened, and
inverted landscape.
To water again we owe the marvellous
spectacle of the rainbow—“ God’s bow in
the clouds.” It is indeed truly a heavenly
messenger, and so unlike anything else that
it scarcely seems to belong to this world.
Many things are colored, but the rain
bow seems to be color itself.
“ First the flaming red
Sprang vivid forth ; the tawny orange next,
And next delicious yellow ; by whose side
Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing green.
Then the pure blue that swells autumnal skies.
Ethereal play’d ; and then, of sadder hue
Emerged the deeper indigo (as when
The heavy-skirted evening droops with frost),
While the last gleamings of refracted light
Died in the fainting violet away.”1
1 Thomson.
PART II
We do not, I think, sufficiently realise
how wonderful is the blessing of color.
It would have been possible, it would
even seem more probable, that though
light might have enabled us to perceive
objects, this would only have been by
shade and form. How we perceive color
is not yet understood ; and yet when we
speak of beauty, among the ideas which
come to us most naturally are those of
birds and butterflies, flowers and shells,
precious stones, skies, and rainbows.
Our minds might have been constituted
exactly as they are, we might have been
capable of comprehending the highest and
sublimest truths, and yet, but for a small
organ in the head, the world of sound
would have been shut out from us ; we
should have lost all the varied melody of
nature, the charms of music, the conversa
tion of friends, and have been condemned
to perpetual silence: a slight alteration
in the retina, which is not thicker than a
sheet of paper, not larger than a finger
nail,—and the glorious spectacle of this
beautiful world, the exquisite variety of
form, the glow and play of color, the
variety of scenery, of woods and fields,
and lakes and hills, seas and mountains,
the beauty of the sky alike by day and
night, would all have been lost to us.
Mountains, again, “ seem to have been
built for the human race, as at once their
schools and cathedrals ; full of treasures
of illuminated manuscript for the scholar,
kindly in simple lessons for the worker,
quiet in pale cloisters for the thinker,
glorious in holiness for the worshipper.”
They are “great cathedrals of the earth,
with their gates of rock, pavements of
cloud, choirs of stream and stone, altars of
snow, and vaults of purple traversed by
the continual stars.” 1
All these beauties are comprised in
Tennyson’s exquisite description of (Enone’s
vale—the city, flowers, trees, river, and
mountains.
“ There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.
1 Ruskin.
�CHAP. VIII
THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE
The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars
The long brook falling thro’ the clov’n ravine
In cataract after cataract to the sea.
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus
Stands up and takes the morning; but in front
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal
Troas and Ilion’s column’d citadel,
The crown of Troas.”
85
The evening colors indeed soon fade
away, but as night comes on,
“ how glows the firmament
With living sapphires ! Hesperus that led
The starry host, rode brightest ; till the moon
Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
And o’er the dark her silver mantle threw.” 1
We generally speak of a beautiful night
when it is calm and clear, and the stars
shine brightly overhead ; but how grand
And when we raise our eyes from earth, also are the wild ways of Nature, how
who has not sometimes felt “ the witchery magnificent when the lightning flashes,
of the soft blue sky ” ? who has not “ between gloom and glory ” ; when
watched a cloud floating upwards as if on ‘ ‘ From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
its way to heaven ?
Leaps the live thunder. ” 2
And yet “if, in our moments of utter
In the words of Ossian—
idleness and insipidity, we turn to the sky
“ Ghosts ride in the tempest to-night;
as a last resource, which of its phenomena
Sweet is their voice between the gusts of wind,
do we speak of? One says, it has been
Their songs are of other worlds.”
wet; and another, it has been w'indy;
Nor are the -wonders and beauties of the
and another, it has been warm. Who,
heavens limited by the clouds and the blue
among the whole chattering crowd, can
sky, lovely as they are. In the heavenly
tell me of the forms and the precipices
bodies we have before us the perpetual
of the chain of tall white mountains that
presence of the sublime. They-are so im
girded the horizon at noon yesterday 1
mense and so far away, and yet on soft
Who saw the narrow sunbeam that came
summer nights “they seem leaning down
out of the south, and smote upon their
to whisper in the ear of our souls.” 3
summits until they melted and mouldered
“ A man can hardly lift up his eyes to
away in a dust of blue rain ? Who saw
wards the heavens,” says Seneca, “ without
the dance of the dead clouds when the sun
wonder and veneration, to see so many
light left them last night, and the west
millions of radiant lights, and to observe
wind blew them before it like withered
their courses and revolutions, even with
leaves ? All has passed, unregretted as
out any respect to the common good of the
unseen ; or if the apathy be ever shaken
Universe.”
off, even for an instant, it is only by -what
Who does not sympathise with the
is gross, or what is extraordinary ; and
feelings of Dante as he rose from his visit
yet it is not in the broad and fierce mani
to the lower regions, until, he says,
festations of the elemental energies, not in
the clash of the hail, nor the drift of the “ On our view the beautiful lights of heaven
Dawned through a circular opening in the cave,
whirlwind, that the highest characters of
Thence issuing, we again beheld the stars.”
the sublime are developed.” 1
As we watch the stars at night they
But exquisitely lovely as is the blue
arch of the midday sky, with its inexhaust seem so still and motionless that we can
ible variety of clouds, “ there is yet a light hardly realise that all the time they are
which the eye invariably seeks with a rushing on with a velocity far far exceed
deeper feeling of the beautiful, the light ing any that man has ever accomplished.
Like the sands of the sea, the stars of
of the declining or breaking day, and
the flakes of scarlet cloud burning like heaven have ever been used as an appro
watch-fires in thegreen sky ofthe horizon.” 2 priate symbol of number, and we know
that therfe are more than 100,000,000 ;
1 Ruskin.
2 Ibid.
1 Milton.
2 Byron.
3 Symonds.
�86
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
many, no doubt, with planets of their own.
But this is by no means all. The floor of
heaven is not only “ thick inlaid with
patines of bright gold,” but is studded also
with extinct stars, once probably as bril
liant as our own sun, but now dead and
cold, as Helmholtz thinks that our own
sun will be some seventeen millions of
years hence. Then, again, there are the
comets, which, though but few are visible
to the unaided eye, are even more numerous
than the stars ; there are the nebulae, and
the countless minor bodies circulating in
space, and occasionally visible as meteors.
Nor is it only the number of the
heavenly bodies which is so overwhelm
ing ; their magnitude and distances are
almost more impressive. The ocean is
so deep and broad as to be almost infinite,
and indeed in so far as our imagination
is the limit, so it may be. Yet what is
the ocean compared to the sky ? Our
globe is little compared to the giant orbs
of Jupiter and Saturn, which again sink
into insignificance by the side of the Sun.
The Sun itself is almost as nothing com-,
pared with the dimensions of the solar
system. Sirius is a thousand times as
great as the Sun, and a million times as
far away. The solar system itself travels
in one region of space, sailing between
worlds and worlds ; and is surrounded by
many other systems at least as great and
complex; while we know that even then
we have not reached the limits of the
Universe itself.
There are stars so distant that their
light, though travelling 180,000 miles in
a second, yet takes years to reach us ; and
beyond all these are other systems of stars
which are so far away that they cannot
be perceived singly, but even in our most
powerful telescopes appear only as minute
clouds or nebulae.
The velocities of the Heavenly bodies
are equally astounding. We ourselves
make our annual journey round the Sun
at the rate of 1000 miles a minute ; of
the so-called “ fixed ” stars Sirius moves
at the same rate, and Arcturus no less
than 22,000 miles a minute. And yet
PART II
the distances of the stars are so great
that 1000 years makes hardly any differ
ence in the appearance of the Heavens.
It is, indeed, but a feeble expression
of the truth to say that the infinities re
vealed to us by Science,—the infinitely
great in the one direction, and the in
finitely small in the other,—go far beyond
anything which had occurred to the un
aided imagination of Man, and are not
only a never-failing source of pleasure
and interest, but lift us above the petty
troubles, and help us to bear the greater
sorrows, of life.
CHAPTER IX
THE TROUBLES OF LIFE
“ Count each affliction, whether light or grave,
God’s messenger sent down to thee ;
Grief should be
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate ;
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free ;
Strong to consume small troubles ; to commend
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts
lasting to the end.”
Aubrey be Vere.
We have in life many troubles, and
troubles are of many kinds. Some
sorrows, alas, are real enough, especially
those we bring on ourselves, but others,
and by no means the least numerous, are
mere ghosts of troubles : if we face them
boldly, we find that they have no sub
stance or reality, but are mere creations
of our own morbid imagination, and that
it is as true now as in the time of David
that “ Man disquieteth himself in a vain
shadow.”
Some, indeed, of our troubles are evils,
but not real; while others are real, but
not evils.
“ And yet, into how unfathomable a
gulf the mind rushes when the troubles
of this world agitate it. If it then forget
its own light, which is eternal joy, and
rush into the outer darkness, which are the
�CHAP. IX
THE TROUBLES OF LIFE
cares of this world, as the mind now does,
it knows nothing else but lamentations.” 1
“Athens,” said Epictetus, “is a good
place,—but happiness is much better ; to
be free from passions, free from dis
turbance.”
We should endeavour to maintain our
selves in
“ that blessed mood
In which the burden of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight,
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightened.” 2
87
happen equally to good men and bad,
being things which make us neither
better nor worse.”
“ The greatest evils,” observes Jeremy
Taylor, “ are from within us ; and from
ourselves also we must look for our
greatest good.”
“ The mind,” says Milton,
“ is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”
Milton indeed in his blindness saw
more beautiful visions, and Beethoven in
his deafness heard more heavenly music,
So shall we fear “neither the exile of than most of us can ever hope to enjoy.
Aristides, nor the prison of Anaxagoras,
We are all apt, when we know not
nor the poverty of Socrates, nor the con what may happen, to fear the worst.
demnation of Phocion, but think virtue When we know the full extent of any
worthy our love even under such trials.” 3 : danger, it is half over. Hence, we dread
We should then be, to a great extent, in-1 ghosts more than robbers, not only with
dependent of external circumstanced, for out reason, but against reason ; for even
if ghosts existed, how could they hurt us ?
“ Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage,
and in ghost stories, few, even of those
Minds innocent and quiet take
who say that they have seen ,a ghost, ever
That for an hermitage.
profess or pretend to have felt one.
“ If I have freedom in my love,
Milton, in his description of death,
And in my soul am free ;
dwells on this characteristic of obscurity :
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.” 4
In the wise words of Shakespeare,
“ All places that the eye of Heaven visits
Are to the wise man ports and happy havens.”
“ The other shape—
If shape it might be call’d that shape had none
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ;
Or substance might be call’d that shadow
seem’d,
For each seem’d either—black he stood as
night,
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell.
And shook a dreadful dart. What seem’d
his head
The likeness of a kingly crown had on.”
Happiness indeed depends much more
on what is within than without us.
When Hamlet says that the world is “ a
goodly prison ; in which there are many
confines, wards, and dungeons; Denmark
The effect of darkness and night in
being one of the worst,” and Rosencrantz enhancing terrors is dwelt on in one of
differs from him, he rejoins wisely, “ Why the sublimest passages in Job—
then, ’tis none to you : for there is
“ In thoughts from the visions of the night,
nothing either good or bad, but thinking
When deep sleep falleth on men,
makes it so : to me it is a prison.”
Fear came upon me, and trembling,
Which made all my bones to shake.
“All is opinion,” said Marcus Aurelius.
Then a spirit passed before my face ;
“ That which does not make a man worse,
The hair of my flesh stood up :
how can it make his life worse ? But
It stood still, but I could not discern the form
death certainly, and life, honor and dis
thereof:
An image was before mine eyes,
honor, pain and pleasure, all these things
1 King Alfred’s translation of the Consola
tions of Boethius.
2 Wordsworth.
3 Plutarch.
4 Lovelace.
There was silence, and I heard a voice, saying,
Shall mortal man be more just than God ? ”
Thus was the terror turned into a lesson
of comfort and of mercy.
�88
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
We often magnify troubles and diffi
culties, and look at them till they seein
much greater than they really are.
Dangers are often “ light, if they once
seem light; and more dangers have
deceived men than forced them: nay,
it were better to meet some dangers
half way, though they come nothing
near, than to keep too long a watch
upon their approaches ; for if a man
watch too long, it is odds he will fall
asleep.” 1
Foresight is wise, but fore-sorrow is
foolish ; and castles are at any rate better
than dungeons, in the air.
It happens, unfortunately too often,
that by some false step, intentional or
unintentional, we have missed the right
road, and gone astray. Can we then
retrace our steps ? can we recover what
is lost ? This may be done. It is too
gloomy a view to affirm that
“ A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,
And there comes a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.” 2
There are two noble sayings of Socrates,
that to do evil is more to be avoided
than to suffer it; and that when a man
has done evil, it is better for him to be
punished than to be unpunished.
We generally speak of selfishness as
a fault, and as if it interfered with the
general happiness. But this is not alto
gether correct. The pity is that so many
people are foolishly selfish ; that they
pursue a course of action which neither
makes themselves nor any one else happy.
Is there not some truth in Goethe’s
saying, though I do not altogether agree
with him, that “ every man ought to begin
with himself, and make his own happiness
first, from which the happiness of the
whole world would at last unquestionably
follow” ? This is perhaps too broadly
stated, and of course exceptions might be
pointed out : but assuredly if every one
would avoid excess, and take care of his
own health ; would keep himself strong
and cheerful; would make his home
1 Bacon.
2 G. Macdonald.
PART II
happy, and’give no cause for the petty
vexations which often embitter domestic
life ; would attend to his own affairs and
keep himself sober and solvent; would,
in the words of the Chinese proverb,
“sweep away the snow from before his
own door, and never mind the frost upon
his neighbour’s tiles”: even though it
were not from the nobler motives, still,
how well it would be for his family,
relations, and friends. But, unfortunately,
“ Look round the habitable world, how few
Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue.”1
It would be a great thing if people
could be brought to realise that they can
never add to the sum of their happiness
by doing wrong. In the case of children,
indeed, we recognise this ; we perceive
that a spoilt child is not a happy one;
that it would have been far better for
him to have been punished at first and
thus saved from greater suffering in after
life.
The beautiful idea that every man has
with him a Guardian Angel is true in
deed : for Conscience is ever on the watch,
| ever ready to warn us of danger.
No doubt we often feel disposed to
complain, and yet it is most ungrateful:
‘‘ For who would lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Those thoughts that wander through Eternity ;
To perish rather, swallowed up, and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated thought! ” 2
But perhaps it will be said that we are
sent here in preparation for another and
a better world. Well, then, why should
we complain of what is but a preparation
for future happiness ?
We ought to
“ Count each affliction, whether light or grave,
God’s messenger sent down to thee ; do thou
With courtesy receive him ; rise and bow ;
And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave
Permission first his heavenly feet to lave ;
Then lay before him all thou hast; allow
No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow,
Or mar thy hospitality ; no wave
Of mortal tumult to obliterate
1 Dryden.
2 Milton.
�LABOUR AND REST
CHAP. X
and joy”; and if properly understood,
would enable us “ to acquiesce in the
present without repining, to remember
the past with thankfulness, and to meet
the future hopefully and cheerfully with
out fear or suspicion.”
The soul’s marmoreal calmness : Grief should
be
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate ;
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free ;
Strong to consume small troubles ; to commend
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts
lasting to the end.” 1
Some persons are like the waters of
Bethesda, and require to be troubled
before they can exercise their virtue.
“We shall get more contentedness,”
CHAPTER X
says Plutarch, “ from the presence of all
LABOUR AND REST
these blessings if we fancy them as absent,
and remember from time to time how
“ Through labour to rest, through combat to
people when ill yearn for health, and victory.”
Thomas a Kempis.
people in war for peace, and strangers
and unknown in a great city for reputa Among the troubles of life I do not, of
tion and friends, and how painful it is to course, reckon the necessity of labour.
Work indeed, and hard work too, if
be deprived of all these when one has
once had them. For then each of these only it be in moderation, is in itself a
blessings will not appear to us only great rich source of happiness. We all know
and valuable when it is lost, and of no how quickly time passes when we are
value when we have it. . . . And yet it well employed, while the moments hang
makes much for contentedness of mind to heavily on the hands of the idle. Occupa
look for the most part at home and to our tion drives away care and all the small
own condition ; or if not, to look at the troubles of life. The busy man has no
case of people worse off than ourselves, time to brood or to fret.
and not, as people do, to compare our
“ From toil he wins his spirits light,
selves with those who are better off. . . .
From busy day the peaceful night ;
But you will find others, Chians, or
Rich, from the very want of wealth,
Galatians, or Bithynians, not content
In Heaven’s best treasures, peace, and
health.” 1
with the share of glory or power they
have among their fellow-citizens, but
This applies especially to t^e labour of
weeping because they do not wear sena the field and the workshop. Humble it
tors’ shoes ; or, if they have them, that may be, but if it does not dazzle with the
they cannot be praetors at Rome; or if promise of fame, it gives the satisfaction
they get that office, that they are not of duty fulfilled, and the inestimable
consuls ; or if they are consuls, that they blessing of health. As Emerson reminds
are only proclaimed second and not first. those entering life, “ The angels that live
. . . Whenever, then, you admire any one with them, and are weaving laurels of life
carried by in his litter as a greater man for their youthful brows, are toil and truth
than yourself, lower your eyes and look and mutual faith.”
at those that bear the litter.” And again,
Labour was truly said by the ancients
“ I am very taken with Diogenes’ remark to be the price which the gods set upon
to a stranger at Lacedaemon, who was everything worth having. We all admit,
dressing with much display for a feast. though we often forget, the marvellous
‘ Does not a good man consider every day power of perseverance; and yet all Nature,
a feast ? ’ . . . Seeing then that life is down to Bruce’s spider, is continually
the most complete initiation into all these | impressing this lesson on us.
things, it ought to be full of ease of mind J Hard writing makes easy reading ;
1 Aubrey de Vere.
.
1 Gray.
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
9°
Plato is said to have rewritten the first
page of the Aepit&Zic thirteen times ; and
Carlo Maratti, we are told, made three
hundred sketches of the head of Antinous
before he brought it to his satisfaction.
It is better to wear out than to rust
out, and there is “ a dust which settles on
the heart, as well as that which rests upon
the ledge.”1
At the present time, though there may
be some special drawbacks, we come to
our work with many advantages which
were not enjoyed in olden times. We
live in much greater security ourselves,
and are less liable to have the fruits of
our labour torn violently from us.
But though labour is good for man,
it may be, and unfortunately often is,
carried to excess.
Many are wearily
asking themselves
“ All why
Should life all labour be ? ” 2
There is a time for all things, says
Solomon, a time to work and a time to
play : we shall work all the better for
reasonable change, and one reward of
work is to secure leisure.
It is a good saying that where there’s
a will there’s a way ; but while it is all
very well to wish, wishes must not take
the place of work.
In whatever sphere his duty lies, every
man must rely mainly on himself. Others
can help us, but we must make ourselves.
No one else can see for us. To profit by
our advantages we must learn to use for
ourselves
“The dark lantern of the spirit
Which none can see by, but he who bears it. ”
It is hardly an exaggeration to say that
honest work is never thrown away. If
we do not find the imaginary treasure, at
any rate we enrich the vineyard.
“Work,” says Nature to man, “in
every hour, paid or unpaid; see only
that thou work, and thou canst not
escape the reward : whether thy work be
fine or coarse, planting corn or writing
1 Jefferies.
2 Tennyson.
part II
epics, so only it be honest work, done to
thine own approbation, it shall earn a
reward to the senses as well as to the
thought: no matter how often defeated,
you are born to victory. The reward
of a thing well done is to have done
it.” 1
Nor can any work, however persever
ing, or any success, however great, exhaust
the prizes of life.
The most studious, the most successful,
must recognise that there yet remain
“ So much to do that is not e’en begun,
So much to hope for that we cannot see,
So much to win, so many things to be.”2
In olden times the difficulties of study
were far greater than they are now.
Books were expensive and cumbersome,
in many cases moreover chained to the
desks on which they were kept. The
greatest scholars have often been very
poor. Erasmus used to read by moonlight
because he could not afford a candle, and
“ begged a penny, not for the love of
charity, but for the love of learning.” 3
Want of time is no excuse for idleness.
“ Our life,” says Jeremy Taylor, “ is too
short to serve the ambition of a haughty
prince or a usurping rebel; too little
time to purchase great wealth, to satisfy
the pride of a vainglorious fool, to
trample upon all the enemies of our just
or unjust interest: but for the obtaining
virtue, for the purchase of sobriety and
modesty, for the actions of religion, God
gives us time sufficient, if we make the
outgoings of the morning and evening,
that is our infancy and old age, to be
taken into the computations of a man.”
Work is so much a necessity of exist
ence, that it is less a question whether,
than how, w’e shall work. An old saying
tells us that the Devil finds work for those
who do not make it for themselves and
there is a Turkish proverb that the Devil
tempts the busy man, but the idle man
tempts the Devil.
If we Englishmen have succeeded as a
2 W. Morris.
1 Emerson.
3 Coleridge.
�LABOUR AND REST
CHAP. X
race, it has been due in no small measure
to the fact that we have worked hard.
Not only so, but we have induced the
forces of Nature to work for us. “ Steam,”
says Emerson, “ is almost an Englishman.”
The power of work has especially
characterised our greatest men. Cecil
said of Sir W. Raleigh that he “ could
toil terribly.”
We are most of us proud of belonging
to the greatest Empire the world has ever
seen. It may be said of us with especial
truth in Wordsworth’s words that
“ The world is too much with us ; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.”
Yes, but what world ? The world will be
with us sure enough, and whether we
please or not. But what sort of world it
will be for us, will depend greatly on
ourselves.
We are told to pray not to be taken
out of the world, but to be kept from the
evil.
There are various ways of working.
Quickness may be good, but haste is bad.
“Wie das Gestirn
Ohne Hast
. Ohne Rast
Drehe sich Jeder
Um die eigne Last.”1
“Like a star, without haste, without rest,
let every one fulfil his own best.”
Lastly, work secures the rich reward of
rest ; we must rest to be able to work
well, and work to be able to enjoy rest.
“We must no doubt beware that our
rest become not the rest of stones, which
so long as they are torrent-tossed and
thunder-stricken maintain their majesty ;
but when the stream is silent, and the
storm past, suffer the grass to cover them,
and the lichen to feed on them, and are
ploughed down into the dust. . . . The
rest which is glorious is of the chamois
couched breathless in its granite bed, not
of the stalled ox over his fodder.” 2
When we have done our best we may
wait the result without anxiety.
“ What hinders a man, who has clearly
1 Goethe.
2 Ruskin.
9i
comprehended these things, from living
with a light heart and bearing easily the
reins ; quietly expecting everything which
can happen, and enduring that which has
already happened ? Would you have me
to bear poverty ? Come and you will
know what poverty is when it has found
one who can act well the part of a poor
man. Would you have me to possess
power1? Let me have power, and also
the trouble of it. Well, banishment ?
Wherever I shall go, there it will be well
with me.” 1
“We complain,” says Ruskin, “of the
want of many things—-we want votes, we
want liberty, we want amusement, we
want money. Which of us feels, or
knows, that he wants peace ?
“ There are two ways of getting it, if
you do want it. The first is wholly in
your own power; to make yourselves
nests of pleasant thoughts. . . . None of
us yet know, for none of us have yet been
taught in early youth, what fairy palaces
we may build of beautiful thought—proof
against all adversity. Bright fancies,
satisfied memories, noble histories, faith
ful sayings, treasure-houses of precious
and restful thoughts ; which care cannot
disturb, nor pain make gloomy, nor
poverty take away from us—houses built
without hands, for our souls to live in.”
The Buddhists believe in many forms
of future punishment; but the highest
reward of virtue is Nirvana—the final
and eternal rest.
Very touching is the appeal of Ashmanezer to be left in peace, which was
engraved on his Sarcophagus at Sidon.2
“ In the month of Bui, the fourteenth
year of my reign, I, King Ashmanezer,
King of the Sidonians, son of King
Tabuith, King of the Sidonians, spake,
saying : ‘ I have been stolen away before
my time—a son of the flood of days.
The whilom great is dumb ; the son of
gods is dead. And I rest in this grave,
even in this tomb, in the place which I
have built. My adjuration to all the
Ruling Powers and all men : Let no one
1 Epictetus.
2 Now in Paris.
�9*
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
open this resting-place, nor search for
treasure, for there is no treasure with us ;
and let him not bear away the couch of
my rest, and not trouble us in this
resting-place by disturbing the couch of
my slumbers. . . . For all men who
should open the tomb of my rest, or any
man who should carry away the couch of
my rest, or any one who trouble me on
this couch : unto them there shall be no
rest with the departed : they shall not be
buried in a grave, and there shall be to
them neither son nor seed. . . . There
shall be to them neither root below nor
fruit above, nor honour among the living
under the sun.’ ” 1
The idle man does not know what it is
to enjoy rest, for he has not earned it.
Hard work, moreover, tends not only to
give us rest for the body, but, what is
even more important, peace to the mind.
If we have done our best to do, and to
be, we can rest in peace.
“ En la sua voluntade e nostra pace.” 2
In His will is our peace ; and in such
peace the mind will find its truest delight,
for
“When, care sleeps, the soul wakes.”
In youth, as is right enough, the idea
of exertion, and of struggles, is inspiriting
and delightful; but as years advance the
hope and prospect of peace and of rest
gain ground gradually, and
“ When the last dawns are fallen on gray,
And all life’s toils and ease complete,
They know who work, not they who play
If rest is sweet.” 3
1 From Sir M. E. Grant Duff’s A Winter in
Syria.
2 Dante.
3 Symonds.
PART II
CHAPTER XT
RELIGION
“ And what doth the Lord require of thee,
but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk
humbly with thy God ? ”—Micah.
“Pure religion and undefiled before God and
the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and
widows in their affliction, and to keep himself
unspotted from the world.”—James i.
“The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.”
2 Corinthians.
It would be quite out of place here to
enter into any discussion of theological
problems or to advocate any particular
doctrines. Nevertheless I could not omit
what is to most so great a comfort and
support in sorrow and suffering, and a
source of the purest happiness.
We commonly, however, bring together
under the name of Religion two things
which are yet very different: the religion
of the heart, and that of the head. The
first deals with conduct, and the duties of
Man ; the second with the nature of the
supernatural and the future of the Soul,
being in fact a branch of knowledge.
Religion should be a strength, guide,
and comfort, not a source of intellectual
anxiety or angry argument. To persecute
for religion’s sake implies belief in a
jealous, cruel, and unjust Deity. If we
have done our best to arrive at the truth,
to torment oneself about the result is to
doubt the goodness of God, and, in the
words of Bacon, “ to bring down the Holy
Ghost, instead of the likeness of a dove,
in the shape of a raven.” “ The letter
killeth, but the spirit giveth life,” and it
is a primary duty to form the highest
possible conception of God.
Many, however, and especially many
women, render themselves miserable on
entering life by theological doubts and
difficulties. These have reference, in
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, not
to what we should do, but to what we
should think. As regards action, con-
�RELIGION
CHAP. XI
science is generally a ready guide; to
follow it is the real difficulty. Theology,
on the other hand, is a most abstruse
science ; but as long as we honestly wish
to arrive at truth we need not fear that
we shall be punished for unintentional
error. “For what,” says Micah, “doth
the Lord require of thee, but to do justly,
to love mercy, and to walk humbly with
thy God.” There is very little theology
in the Sermon on the Mount, or indeed
in any part of the first three Gospels ; and
the differences which keep us apart have
their origin rather in the study than the
Church. Religion was intended to bring
peace on earth and goodwill towards men,
and whatever tends to hatred and perse
cution, however correct in the letter, must
be utterly wrong in the spirit.
How much misery would have been
saved to Europe if Christians had been
satisfied with the Sermon on the Mount!
Bokhara is said to have contained more
than three hundred colleges, all occupied
with theology, but ignorant of everything
else, and it was probably one of the most
bigoted and uncharitable cities in the world.
“ Knowledge puffeth up, but charity edifieth.”
We must not forget that
“ He prayeth best who lovetli best
All things both great and small.” 1
Theologians too often appear to agree that
“ The awful shadow of some unseen power
Floats, though unseen, among us ” ; 2
and in the days of the Inquisition many
must have sighed for the cheerful childlike
religion of the Greeks, if they could but
have had the Nymphs and Nereids, the
Fays and Faeries, with Destiny and Fate,
but without Jupiter and Mars.
Sects are the work of Sectarians. No
truly great religious teacher, as Carlyle
said, ever intended to found a new Sect.
Diversity of worship, says a Persian
proverb, “ has divided the human race
into seventy-two nations. From among
all their dogmas I have selected one—‘ Di
vine Love.’ ” And again, “ He needs no
1 Coleridge.
2 Shelley.
93
other rosary whose thread of life is struug
with the beads of love and thought.”
There is more true Christianity in some
pagan Philosophers than in certain Chris
tian theologians. Take, for instance,
Plato, Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, and
Plutarch.
“ Now I, Callicles,” says Socrates, “ am
persuaded of the truth of these things,
and I consider how I shall present my
soul whole and undefiled before the judge
in that day. Renouncing the honours at
which the world aims, I desire only to
know the truth, and to live as well as I
can, and, when the time comes, to die.
And, to the utmost of my power, I exhort
all other men to do the same. And in
return for your exhortation of me, I
exhort you also to take part in the great
combat, which is the combat of life, and
greater than every other earthly conflict.”
“As to piety towards the Gods,” says
Epictetus, “you must know that this is
the chief thing, to have right opinions
about them, to think that they exist, and
that they administer the All well and
justly; and you must fix yourself in this
principle (duty), to obey them, and to
yield to them in everything which
happens, and voluntarily to follow it
as being accomplished by the wisest
intelligence.”
“ Do not act,” says Marcus Aurelius,
“ as if thou wert going to live ten
thousand years. Death hangs over thee.
While thou livest, while it is in thy
power, be good. . . .
“ Since it is possible that thou mayest
depart from life this very moment, regu
late every act and thought accordingly.
But to go away from among men, if there
be Gods, is not a thing to be afraid of,
for the Gods will not involve thee in
evil; but if indeed they do not exist, or
if they have no concern about human
affairs, what is it to me to live in a
universe devoid of Gods, or without a
Providence. But in truth they do exist,
and they do care for human things, and
they have put all the means in man’s
power to enable him not to fall into real
�94
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
evils. And as for the rest, if there was
anything evil, they would have provided
for this also, that it should be altogether
in a man’s power not to fall into it.”
And Plutarch : “ The Godhead is not
blessed by reason of his silver and gold,
nor yet Almighty through his thunder
and lightnings, but on account of know
ledge and intelligence.”
It is no doubt very difficult to arrive
at the exact teaching of Eastern Moralists,
but the same spirit runs through Oriental
Literature.
For instance, in the Toy
Cart of King Sudraka, the earliest
Sanskrit drama with which we are ac
quainted, when the wicked Prince tempts
Vita to murder the Heroine, and says
that no one would see him, Vita declares
“ All nature would behold the crime—
the Genii of the Grove, the Sun, the
Moon, the Winds, the Vault of Heaven,
the firm - set Earth, the mighty Yama
who judges the dead, and the conscious
Soul.”
There is indeed a tone of doubting sad
ness in Roman moralists, as in Hadrian’s
dying lines to his soul—
“Animula, vagula, blandula
Hospes, comesque corporis
Qua nunc abibis in loca :
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.”
PART II
than to say that Plutarch is a man in
constant, fickle, easily moved to anger,
revengeful for trifling provocations, vexed
at small things.”
Many things have been mistaken for
religion ; selfishness especially, but also
fear, hope, love of music, of art, of pomp ;
scruples often take the place of love, and
the glory of heaven is sometimes made to
depend upon precious stones and jewellery.
Many, as has been well said, run after
Christ, not for the miracles, but for the
loaves.
In many cases religious differences are
mainly verbal. There is an Eastern tale
of four men, an Arab, a Persian, a Turk,
and a Greek, who agreed to club together
for an evening meal, but when they had
done so they quarrelled as to what it
should be. The Turk proposed Azum,
the Arab Aneb, the Persian Anghur,
while the Greek insisted on Staphylion.
While they were disputing
“ Before their eyes did pass
Laden with grapes, a gardener’s ass.
Sprang to his feet each man, and showed,
With eager hand, that purple load.
‘ See Azum,’ said the Turk ; and ‘ see
Anghur,’ the Persian ; 1 what should be
Better.’ ‘Nay Aneb, Aneb ’tis, ’
The Arab cried. The Greek said, 'This
Is my Staphylion.’ Then they bought
Their grapes in peace.
Hence be ye taught.” 1
The same spirit is expressed in the
It is said that on one occasion, when
epitaph on the tomb of the Duke of Dean Stanley had been explaining his
Buckingham in Westminster Abbey—
views to Lord Beaconsfield, the latter
replied, “ Ah 1 Mr. Dean, that is all very
“ Dubins non improbus vixi
Incertus morior, non perturbatus ;
well, but you must remember,—No dog
Humanum est nescire et errare,
mas, no Deans.” To lose such Deans as
Deo confido
Stanley would indeed be a great misfor
Omnipotent! benevolentissimo :
tune ; but does it follow ? Religions, far
Ens entium miserere mei.”
from being really built on Dogmas, are
Take even the most extreme type of too often weighed down and crushed by
difference. Is the man, says Plutarch, them. No one can doubt that Stanley
“ a criminal who holds there are no gods ; has done much to strengthen the Church
and is not he that holds them to be such of England.
as the superstitious believe them, is he
We may not always agree with Spinoza,
not possessed with notions infinitely more but is he not right when he says, “ The
atrocious 1 I for my part would much first precept of the divine law, therefore,
rather have men say of me that there indeed its sum and substance, is to love
never was a Plutarch at all, nor is now,
1 Arnold. Pearls of the Faith.
�RELIGION
CHAP. XI
God unconditionally as the supreme good
—unconditionally, I say, and not from
any love or fear of aught besides ” ? And
again, that the very essence of religion is
belief in “ a Supreme Being who delights
in justice and mercy, whom all who would
be saved are bound to obey, and whose
worship consists in the practice of justice
and charity towards our neighbours ” ?
“ Theology,” says the Master of Balliol,
“is full of undefined terms which have
distracted the human mind for ages.
Mankind have reasoned from them, but
not to them; they have drawn out the
conclusions without proving the premises ;
they have asserted the premises without
examining the terms. The passions of
religious parties have been roused to the
utmost about words of which they could
have given no explanation, and which
had really no distinct meaning.” 1
Doubt is of two natures, and we often
confuse a wise suspension of judgment
with the weakness of hesitation. To pro
fess an opinion for which we have no
sufficient reason is clearly illogical, but
when it is necessary to act we must do so
on the best evidence available, however
slight that may be.
Why should we expect Religion to
solve questions with reference to the origin
and destiny of the universe ? We do not
expect the most elaborate treatise to tell
us as yet the origin of electricity or of
heat. Natural History throws no light
on the origin of life. Has Biology ever
professed to explain existence ?
Simonides was asked at Syracuse by
Hiero, who or what God was, when he
requested a day’s time to think of his
answer. On subsequent days he always
doubled the period required for deliber
ation ; and when Hiero inquired the reason,
he replied that the longer he considered
the subject, the more obscure it appeared.
The Vedas say, “In the midst of the
sun is the light, in the midst of light is
truth, and in the midst of truth is the
imperishable being.” Deity has been
defined as a circle whose centre is every1 Jowett’s Plato,
95
where, and whose circumference is no
where ; but the “ God is love ” of St.
John appeals more forcibly to the human
soul.
“ Love suffereth long, and is kind ;
Love envieth not;
Love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,
Doth not behave itself unseemly,
Seeketh not her own,
Is not easily provoked,
Thinketh no evil;
Rejoieeth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the
truth ;
Beareth all things, believeth all things,
Hopeth all things, endureth all things.
Love never faileth ; but whether there be pro
phecies, they shall fail : whether there be tongues,
they shall cease ; whether there be knowledge,
it shall vanish away. ... Now abideth Faith,
Hope, Love, these three ; but the greatest of
these is Love.” 1
The Church is not a place for study or
speculation. Few but can sympathise
with Eugenie de Guerin in her tender
affection for the little Chapel at Cahuzac,
where she tells us she freed herself from
“ tant de miseres.”
Doubt does not exclude faith.
“ Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,
At last he beat his music out.
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.” 2
Unfortunately many have attempted
to compound for wickedness of life by
purity of belief; a vain and fruitless
effort. To do right is the sure ladder
which leads up to Heaven, though the
true faith will help us to find and to
climb it.
“ It was my duty to have loved the highest,
It surely was my profit had I known,
It would have been my pleasure had I seen.” 3
But though religious truth can justify no
bitterness, it is well worth any amount of
thought and study.
If we must admit that many points are
still, and probably long will be, involved
in obscurity, we may be pardoned if we
indulge ourselves in various speculations
both as to our beginning and our end.
1 St. Paul,
2 Tennyson.
3 Ibid.
�&
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
‘ ‘ Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar :
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.” 1
I hope I shall not be supposed to
depreciate any honest effort to arrive at
truth, or to undervalue the devotion of
those who have died for their religion.
But surely it is a mistake to regard
martyrdom as a merit, when from their
own point of view it was in reality a
privilege.
Let every man be persuaded in his own
mind
“Truth is the highest thing that man may
keep.” 2
It is impossible to overvalue the power
“ which the soul has of loving truth and
doing all things for the sake of truth. ” 3
To arrive at truth we should spare our
selves no pains, but certainly inflict none
on others.
We may be sure that quarrels will
never advance religion, and that to per
secute is no way to convert. No doubt
those who consider that all who do not
agree with them will suffer eternal tor
ments, seem logically justified in persecu
tion even unto death. Such a course, if
carried out consistently, might stamp out
a particular sect, and any sufferings which
could be inflicted here would on this
hypothesis be as nothing in comparison
with the pains of Hell. Only it must be
admitted that such a view of religion is
quite irreconcilable with the teaching of
Christ, and incompatible with any faith
in the goodness of God.
Moreover, the Inquisition has even
from its own point of view proved gener
ally a failure. The blood of the martyrs
is the seed of the Church.
“ In obedience to the order of the
Council of Constance (1415) the remains
of Wickliffe were exhumed and burnt to
1 Wordsworth.
2 Chaucer.
3 Plato.
TART II
ashes, and these cast into the Swift, a
neighbouring brook running hard by, and
thus this brook hath conveyed his ashes
into Avon ; Avon into Severn ; Severn
into the narrow seas ; they into the main
ocean. And thus the ashes of Wickliffe
are the emblem of his doctrine, which
now is dispersed all the world over?’1
The Talmud says that when a man
once asked Shamai to teach him the Law
in one lesson, Shamai drove him away in
anger. He then went to Hillel with the
same request. Hillel said, “Do unto
others as you would have others do unto
you. This is the whole Law ; the rest,
merely Commentaries upon it.”
Collect from the Bible all that Christ
thought necessary for His disciples, and
how little Dogma there is. Christianity
is based, not on Dogma, but on Charity
and Love.
“ By this shall all men
know that ye are my disciples, if ye have
love one to another.” “ Suffer little
children to come unto me.” And one
lesson which little children have to teach
us is that religion is an affair of the heart
and not of the mind only. St. James
sums up as the teaching of Christ that
“Pure religion and undefiled is this, to
visit the fatherless and widows in their
affliction, and to keep himself unspotted
from the world.”
The Religion of the lower races is
almost as a rule one of terror and of
dread. Their deities are jealous and
revengeful, cruel, merciless, and selfish,
hateful and yet childish. They require
to be propitiated by feasts and offerings,
often even by human sacrifices. They are
not only exacting, but so capricious that,
with the best intentions, it is often
impossible to be sure of pleasing them.
From the dread of such evil beings
Sorcerers and Witches derived their
hellish powers. No one was safe. No
one knew where danger lurked. Actions
apparently the most trifling might be
fraught with serious risk : objects ap
parently the most innocent might be fatal.
In many cases there were supposed to
1 Fuller.
�RELIGION
CHAP. XI
97
be deities of Crime, of Misfortunes, of we were to show them a near, visible,
Disease. These wicked Spirits naturally inevitable, but all-beneficent Deity, whose
encouraged evil rather than good. An presence makes the earth itself a heaven,
energetic friend of mine was sent to a I think there would be fewer deaf children
district in India where smallpox was sitting in the market-place.”
specially prevalent, and where one of the
But it must not be supposed that those
principal Temples was dedicated to the who doubt whether the ultimate truths of
Goddess of that disease. He had the the Universe can be expressed in human
people vaccinated, in spite of some opposi , words, or whether, even if they could,
tion, and the disease disappeared, much we should be able to comprehend them,
to the astonishment of the natives. But undervalue the importance of religious
the priests of the Deity of Smallpox were ' study. Quite the contrary. Their doubts
not disconcerted ; only they deposed the , arise not from pride, but from humility :
Image of their discomfited Goddess, and ! not because they do not appreciate divine
petitioned my friend for some emblem of . truth, but on the contrary because they
himself which they might install in her doubt whether we can appreciate it
stead.
' sufficiently, and are sceptical whether the
We who are fortunate enough to live (infinite can be reduced to the finite.
in this comparatively enlightened century
We may be sure that whatever may be
hardly realise how our ancestors suffered ■ right about religion, to quarrel over it
from their belief in the existence of must be wrong. “ Let others wrangle,”
mysterious and malevolent beings; how said St. Augustine, “I will wonder.”
their life was embittered and overshadowed
Those who suspend their judgment are
by these awful apprehensions.
not on that account sceptics, and it is
As men, however, have risen in civilisa often those who think they know most,
tion, their religion has risen with them; who are especially troubled by doubts
they have by degrees acquired higher and anxiety.
and purer conceptions of divine power.
It was Wordsworth who wrote
We are only just beginning to realise
“ Great God, I had rather
that a loving and merciful Father would A Pagan suckled in some ereed outworn ;he
not resent honest error, not even perhaps So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
the attribution to him of such odious Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn.”
injustice. Yet what can be clearer than
In religion, as with children at night, it
Christ’s teaching on this point.
He
is darkness and ignorance which create
impressed over and over again on his
disciples, that, as St. Paul expresses it, dread ; light and love cast out fear.
In looking forward to the future we
“ The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth
may fairly hope with Ruskin that “the
life.”1
“If,” says Ruskin, “for every rebuke charities of more and more widely ex
that we utter of men’s vices, we put forth tended peace are preparing the way for
a claim upon their hearts; if, for every a Christian Church which shall depend
assertion of God’s demands from them, neither on ignorance for its continuance,
we should substitute a display of His nor on controversy for its progress, but
kindness to them; if side by side, with shall reign at once in light and love.”
every warning of death, we could exhibit
proofs and promises of immortality ; if,
in fine, instead of assuming the being of
an awful Deity, which men, though they
cannot and dare not deny, are always
unwilling, sometimes unable, to conceive :
1 2 Cor. in. 6.
H
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART II
because they fancied that pain was ordained
under certain circumstances.
CHAPTER XII
We are told that in early Saxon days
Edwin, King of Northumbria, called his
THE HOPE OF PROGRESS
nobles and his priests around him, to dis
cuss whether a certain missionary should
“ To what then may we not look forward, when
a spirit of scientific inquiry shall have spread be heard or not. The result was doubtful.
through those vast regions in which the progress But at last there rose an old chief, and said
of civilisation, its sure precursor, is actually —“You know, 0 King, how, on a winter
commenced and in active progress ? And what evening, when you are sitting at supper
may we not expect from the exertions of powerful
minds called into action under circumstances in your hall, with your company around
totally different from any which have yet existed you, when the night is dark and dreary,
in the world, and over an extent of territory far when the rain and the snow rage outside,
surpassing that which has hitherto produced the when the hall inside is lighted and warm
whole harvest of human intellect ?”
with a blazing fire, sometimes it happens
Herschel,
that a sparrow flies into the bright hall
There are two lines, if not more, in out of the dark night, flies through the
which we may look forward with hope to hall and then out at the other end
progress in the future. In the first place, into the dark night again. We see him
increased knowledge of nature, of the for a few moments, but we know not
properties of matter, and of the pheno whence he came nor whither he goes in
mena which surround us, may afford to the blackness of the storm outside. So is
our children advantages far greater even the life of man. It appears for a short
than those which we ourselves enjoy. space in the warmth and brightness of
Secondly, the extension and improvement this life, but what came before this life,
of education, the increasing influence of or what is to follow this life, we know not.
Science and Art, of Poetry and Music, If, therefore, these new teachers can en
of Literature and Religion,—of all the lighten us as to the darkness that went
powers which are tending to good, will, we before, and the darkness that is to come
may reasonably hope, raise man and make after, let us hear what they have to teach
him more master of himself, more able us.”
It is often said, however, that great
to appreciate and enjoy his advantages,
and to realise the truth of the Italian and unexpected as recent discoveries
proverb, that wherever light is, there is have been, there are certain ultimate
problems which must ever remain un
joy.
One consideration which has greatly solved. For my part, I would prefer to
tended to retard progress has been the abstain from laying down any such limita
floating idea that there was some sort of tions. When Park asked the Arabs what
ingratitude, and even impiety, in attempt became of the sun at night, and whether
ing to improve on what Divine Providence the sun was always the same, or new each
had arranged for us. Thus Prometheus day, they replied that such a question was
was said to have incurred the wrath of foolish, being entirely beyond the reach
Jove for bestowing on mortals the use of of human investigation.
M. Comte, in his Cours de Philosophic
fire ; and other discoveries only escaped
similar punishment when the ingenuity of Positive, as recently as 1842, laid it down
priests attributed them to the special as an axiom regarding the heavenly bodies,
favour of some particular deity. This that’“we may hope to determine their
feeling has not even yet quite died out. forms, distances, magnitude, and move
Even I can remember tlie time when ments, but we shall never by any means be
many excellent persons had a scruple or able to study their chemical composition
prejudice against the use of chloroform, or mineralogical structure.” Yet within a
�CHAP. XII
THE HOPE OF PROGRESS
few years this supposed impossibility has
been actually accomplished, showing how
unsafe it is to limit the possibilities of
science.1
It is, indeed, as true now as in the time
of Newton, that the great ocean of truth
lies undiscovered before us. I often wish
that some President of the Royal Society,
or of the British Association, would take
for the theme of his annual address “ The
things we do not know.” Who can say
on the verge of what discoveries we are
perhaps even now standing ! It is extra
ordinary how slight a barrier may stand
for years between Man and some import
ant improvement. Take the case of the
electric light, for instance. It had been
known for years that if a carbon rod be
placed in an exhausted glass receiver, and
a current of electricity be passed through
it, the carbon glowed with an intense
light, but on the other hand it became so
hot that the glass burst. The light, there
fore, was useless, because the lamp burst
as soon as it was lit. Edison hit on
the idea that if you made the carbon
filament fine enough, you would get rid
of the heat and yet have abundance
of light.
His right to a patent has
been contested on this very ground. It
has been said that the mere introduction
of so small a difference as the replacement
of a thin rod by a fine filament was so
slight a change thaf it could not be
patented. The improvements by LaneFox, Swan, and others, though so import
ant as a whole, have been made step by
step.
Or take again the discovery of anaes
thetics. At the beginning of the century
Sir Humphry Davy discovered laughing
gas, as it was then called. He found that
it produced complete insensibility to pain
and yet did not injure health. A tooth
was actually taken out under its influence,
and of course without suffering. These
facts were known to our chemists, they
were explained to the students in our
jreat hospitals, and yet for half a century
1 Lubbock.
Fifty Years of Science.
99
the obvious application occurred to no
one. Operations continued to be per
formed as before, patients suffered the
same horrible tortures, and yet the bene
ficent element was in our hands, its divine
properties were known, but it never oc
curred to any one to make use of it.
I will only give one more illustration.
Printing is generally said to have been
discovered in the fifteenth century ; and
so it was for all practical purposes. But
in fact printing was known long before.
The Romans used stamps; on the monu
ments of the Assyrian kings the name of
the reigning monarch may be found duly
printed. What then is the difference ?
One little, but all-important step. The
real inventor of printing was the man
into whose mind flashed the fruitful
idea of having separate stamps for each
letter, instead of for separate words.
How slight seems the difference, and
yet for 3000 years the thought occurred
to no one. Who can tell what other
discoveries, as simple and yet as farreaching, lie at this moment under our
very eyes !
Archimedes said that if he had room
to stand on, he would move the earth.
One truth leads to another; each dis
covery renders possible another, and,
what is more, a higher.
We are but beginning to realise the
marvellous range and complexity of Na
ture. I have elsewhere called attention
to this with special reference to the prob
lematical organs of sense possessed by
many animals.1
There is every reason .to hope that
future studies will throw much light on
these interesting structures. We may,
no doubt, expect much from the improve
ment in our microscopes, the use of new
reagents, and of mechanical appliances ;
but the ultimate atoms of which matter is
composed are so infinitesimally minute,
that it is as yet difficult to foresee any
manner in which we may hope for a final
solution of these problems.
1 The Senses of A nimals.
�ICO
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
Loschmidt, who has since been con
firmed by Stoney and Sir W. Thomson,
calculates that each of the ultimate atoms
of matter is at most •y0';b 00,000 °f an
inch in diameter. Under these circum
stances we cannot, it would seem, hope
at present for any great increase of our
knowledge of atoms by improvements in
the microscope. With our present in
struments we can perceive lines ruled on
glass which are 90,000' °f an inch apart ;
but owing to the properties of light itself,
it would appear that we cannot hope to
be able to perceive objects which are
much less than y 0 q*0 0 0 °f an inch in
diameter.
Our microscopes may, no
doubt, be improved, but the limitation
lies not merely in the imperfection of
our optical appliances, but in the nature
of light itself.
Now it has been calculated that a
particle of albumen son) 00
an inch
in diameter contains no less than
125,000,000 of molecules. In a simpler
compound the number would be much
greater ; in water, for instance, no less
than 8,000,000,000. Even then, if wre
could construct microscopes far more
powerful than any which we now possess,
they could not enable us to obtain by
direct vision any idea of the ultimate
organisation of matter. The smallest
sphere of organic matter which could be
clearly defined with our most powerful
microscopes may be, and in all proba
bility is, very complex ; it is built up of
many millions of molecules, and it follows
that there may be an almost infinite
number of structural characters in organic
tissues which we can at present foresee
no mode of examining.1
Again, it has been shown that animals
hear sounds which are beyond the range
of our hearing, and I have proved that
they can perceive the ultra-violet rays,
which are invisible to our eyes.2
Now, as every ray of homogeneous
1 Lubbock. Fifty Years of Science.
2 Ants, Bees, and Wasps.
PART II
light which we can perceive at all, appears
to us as a distinct color, it becomes
probable that these ultra-violet rays must
make themselves apparent to animals as
a distinct and separate color (of which we
can form no idea), but as different from
the rest as red is from yellow, or green
from violet. The question also arises
whether white light to these creatures
would differ from our white light in con
taining this additional color.
These considerations cannot but raise
the reflection how different the world
may—I was going to say must—appear
to other animals from what it does to us.
Sound is the sensation produced on us
when the vibrations of the air strike on
the drum of our ear. When they are
few, the sound is deep; as they increase
in number, it becomes shriller and shriller ;
but before they reach 40,000 in a second,
they cease to be audible. Light is the
effect produced on us when waves of
light strike on the eye. When 400
millions of millions of vibrations of ether
strike the retina in a second, they give
the sensation of red, and as the number
increases the color passes into orange,
then yellow, green, blue, and violet. But
between 40,000 vibrations in a second
and 400 millions of millions we have no
organ of sense capable of receiving an
impression.
Yet between these limits
any number of sensations may exist. We
have five senses, and sometimes fancy
that no others are possible. But it is
obvious that we cannot measure the in
finite by our own narrow limitations.
Moreover, looking at the question from
the other side, we find in animals complex
organs of sense, richly supplied with
nerves, but the function of which we are
as yet powerless to explain. There may
be fifty other senses as different from ours
as sound is from sight; and even within
the boundaries of our own senses there
may be endless sounds which we cannot
hear, and colors, as different as red from
green, of which we have no conception.
These and a thousand other questions
remain for solution. The familiar world
�CHAP. XII
THE HOPE OF PROGRESS
which surrounds us may be a totally
different place to other animals. To them
it may be full of music which we cannot
hear, of color which we cannot see, of
sensations which we cannot conceive. To
place stuffed birds and beasts in glass
cases, to arrange insects in cabinets, and
dried plants in drawers, is merely the
drudgery and preliminary of study ; to
watch their habits, to understand their
relations to one another, to study their
instincts and intelligence, to ascertain
their adaptations and their relations to
the forces of Nature, to realise what the
world appears to them ; these constitute,
as it seems to me at least, the true interest
of natural history, and may even give us
the clue to senses and perceptions of which
at present we have no conception.1
From this point of view the possi
bilities of progress seem to me to be
almost unlimited.
So far again as the actual condition of
man is concerned, the fact that there has
been some advance cannot, I think, be
questioned.
In the Middle Ages, for instance,
culture and refinement scarcely existed
beyond the limits of courts, and by no
means always there. The life in English,
French, and German castles was rough
and almost barbarous. Mr. Galton has
expressed the opinion, which I am not
prepared to question, that the population
of Athens, taken as a whole, was as
superior to us as we are to Australian
savages. But even if that be so, our
civilisation, such as it is, is more diffused,
so that unquestionably the general Euro
pean level is much higher.
Much, no doubt, is owing to the greater
facility of access to the literature of our
country, to that literature, in the words
of Macaulay, “ the brightest, the purest,
the most durable of all the glories of our
country ; to that Literature, so rich in
precious truth and precious fiction; to
that Literature which boasts of the prince
of all poets, and of the prince of all
1 Lubbock.
The, Senses of Animals.
IOI
philosophers; to that Literature which
has exercised an influence wider than
that of our commerce, and mightier than
that of our arms.”
Few of us, however, make the most of
our minds. The body ceases to grow in
a few years ; but the mind, if we will let
it, may grow almost as long as life lasts.
The onward progress of the future will
not, we may be sure, be confined to mere
material discoveries. We feel that we
are on the road to higher mental powers ;
that problems which now seem to us
beyond the range of human thought will
receive their solution, and open the way
to still further advance. Progress, more
over, wre may hope, will be not merely
material, not merely mental, but moral
also.
It is natural that we should feel a
pride in the beauty of England, in the
size of our cities, the magnitude of our
commerce, the wealth of our country, the
vastness of our Empire. But the true
glory of a nation does not consist in the
extent of its dominion, in the fertility of
the soil, or the beauty of Nature, but
rather in the moral and intellectual pre
eminence of the people.
And yet how few of us, rich or poor,
have made ourselves all we might be. If
he does his best, as Shakespeare says,
“ What a piece of work is man ! How
noble in reason ! How infinite in faculty !
in form and movement, how express and
admirable ! ” Few indeed, as yet, can be
said to reach this high ideal.
The Hindoos have a theory that after
death animals live again in a different
form ; those that have done well in a
higher, those that have done ill in a lower
grade. To realise this is, they find, a
powerful incentive to a virtuous life.
But whether it be true of a future life or
not, it is certainly true of our present
existence. If we do our best for a day,
the next morning we shall rise to a higher
life ; while if we give way to our passions
and temptations, we take with equal
certainty a step downwards towards a
lower nature.
�y -y. #;■ '
u? UV ' “■ ■
ZAL? PLEASURES OF LIFE
102
It is an. interesting illustration, of the
Unity of Man, and an encouragement to
those of us who have no claims to genius,
that, though of course there have been
exceptions, still on the whole, periods of
progress have generally been those when
a nation has worked and felt together ;
the advance has been due not entirely to
the efforts of a few great men, but of their
countrymen generally; not to a single
genius, but to a national effort.
Think, indeed, what might be.
“All ! when shall all men’s good
Be each man’s rule, and universal Peace
Lie like a shaft of light across the land,
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea,
Thro’ all the circle of the golden year ? ”1
Our life is surrounded with mystery,
our very world is a speck in boundless
space ; and not only the period of our
own individual life, but that of the whole
human race is, as it were, but a moment
in the eternity of time.
We cannot
imagine any origin, nor foresee the con
clusion.
But though we may not as yet perceive
any line of research which can give us a
clue to the solution, in another sense we
may hold that every addition to our
knowledge is one small step towards the
great revelation.
Progress may be more slow, or more
rapid. It may come to others and not to
us. It will not come to us if we do not
strive to deserve it. But come it surely
will.
“ Yet one thing is there that ye shall not slay,
Even thought, that fire nor iron can affright?’2
The future of man is full of hope, and I
who can foresee the limits of his destiny ?'
1 Tennyson.
2 Swinburne.
PART II
CHAPTER XIII
THE DESTINY OF MAN
“For I reckon that the sufferings of this
present time are not worthy to be compared
with the glory which shall be revealed in us.”—
Romans viii. 18.
But though we have thus a sure and
certain hope of progress for the race, still,
as far as man is individually concerned,
with advancing years we gradually care
less and less for many things which gave
us the keenest pleasure in youth. On the
other hand, if our time has been well
used, if we have warmed both hands
wisely before the fire of life, we may gain
even more than we lose. As our strength
becomes less, we feel also the less necessity
for exertion. Hope is gradually replaced
by memory : and whether this adds to
our happiness or not depends on what our
life has been.
There are of course some lives which
diminish in value as old age advances ; in
which one pleasure fades after another,
and even those which remain gradually
lose their zest; but there are others which
gain in richness and in peace all, and
more than, that of which time robs them.
The pleasures of youth may excel in
keenness and in zest, but they have at the
best a tinge of anxiety and unrest ; they
cannot have the fulness and depth which
may accompany the consolations of age,
and are amongst the richest rewards of
an unselfish life.
For as with the close of the day, so
with that of life ; there may be clouds,
and yet if the horizon is clear, the evening
may be beautiful.
Old age has a rich store of memories.
Life is full of
“Joys too exquisite to last,
And yet more exquisite when past.” 1
Swedenborg imagines that in heaven
the angels are advancing continually to
1 Montgomery.
�CHAP. XIII
THE DESTINY OF MAN
103
Is it not extraordinary that many men
will deliberately take a road which they
, know is, to say the least, not that of
happiness ? That they prefer to make
others miserable, rather than themselves
happy ?
Plato, in the Phsedrus, explains this
by describing Man as a Composite Being,
“ Age cannot wither nor custom stale
Their infinite variety.”
having three natures, and compares him
“ When I consider old age,” says Cicero, to a pair of winged horses and a charioteer.
“I find four causes why it is thought “ Of the two horses one is noble and of
miserable : one, that it calls us away from noble origin, the other ignoble and of
the transaction of, affairs ; the second, ignoble origin ; and the driving, as might
that it renders the body more feeble ; the be expected, is no easy matter.” The
third, that it deprives us of almost all noble steed endeavours to raise the
passions j the fourth, that it is not very chariot, but the ignoble one struggles to
far from death. Of these causes let us drag it down. As time goes on, if the
see, if you please, how great and how charioteer be wise and firm, the noble
part of our nature will raise us more
reasonable each of them is.”
To be released from the absorbing and more.
“Man,” says Shelley, “is an instru
affairs of life, to feel that one has earned
a claim to leisure and repose, is surely in ment over which a series of external and
internal impressions are driven, like the
itself no evil.
To the second complaint against old alternations of an ever-changing wind
age, I have already referred in speaking over an JEolian lyre, which move it by
their motion to ever-changing melody.”
of Health.
The third is that it has no passions.
Lastly, Cicero mentions the approach
“ 0 noble privilege of age I if indeed it of death as the fourth drawback of old
takes from us that which is in youth our age. To many minds the shadow of the
greatest defect.” But our higher aspira end is ever present, like the coffin in the
tions are not necessarily weakened ; or Egyptian feast, and overclouds all the
rather, they may become all the brighter, sunshine of life.
being purified from the grosser elements
But ought we to regard death as an
of our lower nature.
evil ? Shelley’s beautiful lines,
“Single,” says Manu, “is each man
born into the world; single he dies j
“ Life, like a Dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity ;
single he receives the reward of his good
Until death tramples it to fragments,”
deeds ; and single the punishment of his
sins. When he dies his body lies like a
fallen tree upon the earth, but his virtue contain, as it seems to me at least, a
accompanies his soul. Wherefore let Man double error. Life need not stain the
harvest and garner Virtue, that so he white radiance of eternity ; nor does
may have an inseparable companion in death necessarily trample it to fragments.
Man has, says Coleridge,
that gloom which all must pass through,
and which it is so hard to traverse.”
“Three treasures,—love and light
Then, indeed, it might be said that
And calm thoughts, regular as infants’ breath ;
“ Man is the sun of the world ; more And three firm friends, more sure than day and
than the real sun. The fire of his
night,
wonderful heart is the only light and Himself, his Maker, and the Angel Death.’
heat worth gauge or measure.” 1
Death is “the end of all, the remedy
1 Emerson.
the spring-time of their youth, so that
those who have lived longest are really
the youngest; and have we not all had
friends who seem to fulfil this idea ? who
are in reality—that is in mind—as fresh
as a child : of whom it may be said with
more truth than of Cleopatra that
�THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
104
of many, the wish of divers men, deserv
ing better of no men than of those to
whom she came before she was called.” 1
After a stormy life, with death comes
peace.
‘ ‘ Duncan is in his grave ;
After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.”'2
If death be final, then no one will
ever know that he is dead.
It is often, however, assumed that the
journey to
‘ ‘ The undiscovered country from whose bourne
No traveller returns ”
must be one of pain and suffering. But
this is not so. Death is often peaceful
and almost painless.
Bede during his last illness was trans
lating St. John’s Gospel into AngloSaxon, and the morning of his death his
secretary, observing his weakness, said,
“ There remains now only one chapter,
and it seems difficult to you to speak.”
“It is easy,” said Bede ; “take your pen
and write as fast as you can.” At the
close of the chapter the scribe said, “ It
is finished,” to which he replied, “ Thou
hast said the truth, consummatum est.”
He asked to be placed opposite to the
place where he usually prayed, said
“Glory be to the Father, and to the
Son, and to the Holy Ghost,” and as he
pronounced the last word he expired.
Goethe died without any apparent
suffering, having just prepared himself
to write, and expressed his delight at
the return of spring.
We are told of Mozart’s death that
“ the unfinished requiem lay upon the
bed, and his last efforts were to imitate
some peculiar instrumental effects, as he
breathed out his life in the arms of his
Wife and their friend Sussmaier.”
Plato died in the act of writing;
Lucan while reciting part of his book on
the war of Pharsalus ; Blake died sing
1 Seneca.
Shakespeare.
PART II
ing ; Wagner in sleep with his head on
his wife’s shoulder. Many have passed
away in their sleep. Various high
medical authorities have expressed their
surprise that the dying seldom feel either
dismay or regret. And even those who
perish by violence, as for instance in
battle, feel, it is probable, but little
suffering.
But what of the future 1 There may
be said to be now two principal views.
Some believe in the immortality of the
soul, but not of the individual soul: that
our life is continued in that of our
children would seem indeed to be the
natural deduction from the simile of St.
Paul, as that of the grain of wheat is
carried on in the plant of the following
year.
So long as happiness exists, it is selfish
to dwell too much on our own share in
it. Admit that the soul is immortal, but
that in the future state of existence there
is a break in the continuity of memory,
that one does not remember the present
life ; will it in that case matter to us
more what happens to the soul inhabiting
our body, than what happens to any
other soul ? And from this point of
view is not the importance of identity
involved in that of continuous memory ?
But however this may be, according to
the general view, the soul, though de
tached from the body, will retain its
conscious identity, and will awake from
death, as it does from sleep ; so that if
we cannot affirm that
“ Millions of spiritual creatures walk the Earth,
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we
sleep,” 1
at any rate they exist somewhere else in
space, and we are indeed looking at them
when we gaze at the stars, though to our
eyes they are as yet invisible.
In neither case, however, can death be
regarded as an evil. To wish that health
and strength were unaffected by time
might be a different matter.
1 Milton.
�THE DESTINY OF MAN
CHAP. XIII
“But if we are not destined to be
immortal, yet it is a desirable thing for a
man to expire at his fit time. For, as
nature prescribes a boundary to all other
things, so does she also to life. Now old
age is the consummation of life, just as of
a play : from the fatigue of which we
ought to escape, especially when satiety is
superadded.” 1
From this point of view, then, we need
“ Weep not for death,
’Tis but a fever stilled,
A pain suppressed,—a fear at rest,
A solemn hope fulfilled.
The moonshine on the slumbering deep
Is scarcely calmer. Wherefore weep ?
105
“ We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.” 1
According to the more general view
death frees the soul from the encumbrance
of the body, and summons us to the seat
of judgment. In fact,
“ There is no Death ! What seems so is transi
tion ;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of that life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.” 2
We have bodies, we are spirits. “ I am
a soul,” said Epictetus, “ dragging about
a corpse.” The body is the mere perish
able form of the immortal essence. Plato
“ Weep not for death !
! concluded that if the ways of God are to
The fount of tears is sealed,
be justified, there must be a future life.
Who knows how bright the inward light
To those closed eyes revealed ?
To the aged in either case death is a
Who knows what holy love may fill
release. The Bible dwells most forcibly
The heart that seems so cold and still.”
on the blessing of peace. “ My peace I
Many a weary soul will have recurred give unto you : not as the ■world giveth,
give I unto you.” Heaven is described
with comfort to the thought that
I as a place where the wicked cease from
“ A few more years shall roll,
| troubling, and the weary are at rest.
A few more seasons come,
But I suppose every one must have
And we shall be with those that rest
asked himself in what can the pleasures
Asleep within the tomb.
of heaven consist.
“ A few more struggles here.
A few more partings o’er,
A few more toils, a few more tears,
And we shall weep no more.”
“ For all we know
Of what the blessed do above
Is that they sing, and that they love.” 3
By no one has this, however, been
It would indeed accord with few men’s
more grandly expressed than by Shelley. ideal that there should be any “struggle
for existence ” in heaven. We should then
“ Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not be little better off than we are now. This
sleep 1
world is very beautiful, if we would only
He hath awakened from the dream of life.
enjoy it in peace. And yet mere passive
’Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
existence—mere vegetation—would in
He has outsoared the shadows of our night.
itself offer few attractions.
It would
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
indeed be almost intolerable.
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Again, the anxiety of change seems
Can touch him not and torture not again.
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain inconsistent with .perfect happiness ; and
He is secure, and now can never mourn
I yet a wearisome, interminable monotony,
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray, in
1 the same thing over and over again for
vain—”
ever and ever without relief or variety,
Most men, however, decline to believe I suggests dulness rather than delight.
that
1 Cicero.
1 Shakespeare.
2 Longfellow.
3 Waller.
�106
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART II
“For still the doubt came back,—Can God misconceiving us, or being harassed by us :
provide
—of glorious work to do, and adequate
For the large heart of man what shall not
faculties to do it—-a world of solved
pall,
problems, as well as of realised ideals.”
Nor through eternal ages’ endless tide
On tired spirits fall ?
| Cicero surely did not exaggerate when
he said, “ 0 glorious day ! when I shall
depart to that divine company and assem
blage of spirits, and quit this troubled and
polluted scene. For I shall go not only
to those great men of whom I have spoken
“ What shall the eyes that wait for him survey
When his own presence gloriously appears before, but also to my dear Cato, than
whom never was better man born, nor
In worlds that were not founded for a day,
But for eternal years ? ” 1
more distinguished for pious affection;
whose body was burned by me, whereas,
Here Science seems to suggest a on the contrary, it was fitting that mine
possible answer : the solution of problems should be burned by him. But his soul
which have puzzled us here; the acqui not deserting me, but oft looking back, no
sition of new ideas ; the unrolling the doubt departed to these regions whither it
history of the past; the world of animals saw that I myself was destined to come.
and plants; the secrets of space; the Which, though a distress to me, I seemed
wonders of the stars and of the regions patiently to endure : not that I bore it
beyond the stars. To become acquainted with indifference, but I comforted myself
with all the beautiful and interesting spots with the recollection that the separation
of our own world would indeed be some and distance between us would not con
thing to look forward to—and our world tinue long. For these reasons, O Scipio
is but one of many millions. I some (since you said that you with Laelius were
times ■wonder as I look away to the stars accustomed to wonder at this), old age is
at night whether it will ever be my tolerable to me, and not only not irksome,
privilege as a disembodied spirit to visit but even delightful. And if I am wrong
and explore them. When we had made in this, that I believe the souls of men to
the great tour fresh interests would have be immortal, I willingly delude myself:
arisen, and we might well begin again.
nor do I desire that this mistake, in
Here then is an infinity of interest which I take pleasure, should be wrested
without anxiety. So that at last the only from me as long as I live ; but if I, when
doubt may be
dead, shall have no consciousness, as some
narrow-minded philosophers imagine, I do
“ Lest an eternity should not suffice
To take the measure and the breadth and not fear lest dead philosophers should
height
ridicule this my delusion.”
Of what there is reserved in Paradise
Nor can I omit the striking passage
Its ever-new delight.”2
in the Apology, when, defending himself
I feel that to me, said Greg, “ God has before the people of Athens, Socrates says,
promised not the heaven of the ascetic “ Let us reflect in another way, and we
temper, or the dogmatic theologian, or of shall see that there is great reason to hope
the subtle mystic, or of the stern martyr that death is a good ; for one of two
ready alike to inflict and bear ; but a things—either death is a state of nothing
heaven of purified and permanent affec ness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men
tions—of a book of knowledge with eternal say, there is a change and migration of
leaves, and unbounded capacities to read the soul from this world to another.
it—of those we love ever round us, never Now if you suppose that there is no con
sciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of
him who is undisturbed even by dreams,
1 Trench.
2 Ibid.
“ These make him say,—If God has so arrayed
A fading world that quickly passes by,
Such rich provision of delight has made
For every human eye,
�CHAP. XIII
THE DESTINY OF MAN
107
death will be an unspeakable gain. For' to death for asking questions1; assuredly
if a person were to select the night in not. For besides being happier in that
which his sleep was undisturbed by world than in this, they will be immortal,
dreams, and were to compare with this if what is said be true.
the other days and nights of his life, and ’ “ Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer
then were to tell us how many days and about death, and know of a certainty
nights he had passed in the course of his that no evil can happen to a good man,
life better and more pleasantly than this either in life or after death. He and his
one, I think that no man, I will not say a are not neglected by the gods ; nor has
private man, but not even the Great my own approaching end happened by
King, will find many such days or nights, mere chance. But I see clearly that to
when compared with the others. Now, die and be released was better for me;
if death is like this, I say that to die is and therefore the oracle gave no sign.
gain ; for eternity is then only a single For which reason, also, I am not angry
night. But if death is the journey to with my condemners, or with my accusers ;
another place, and there, as men say, they have done me no harm, although
all the dead are, what good, 0 my they did not mean to do me any good ;
friends and judges, can be greater than and for this I may gently blame them.
The hour of departure has arrived, and
this ?
“ If, indeed, when the pilgrim arrives in we go our ways—I to die and you to
the world below, he is delivered from the live. Which is better God only knows.’’
professors of justice in this world, and , In the Wisdom of Solomon we are
finds the true judges, who are said to promised that—
give judgment there,—Minos, and Rhada“ The souls of the righteous are in the
manthus, and yEacus, and Triptolemus, hand of God, and there shall no torment
and other sons of God who were righteous touch them.
in their own life,—that pilgrimage will
“ In the sight of the unwise they
indeed be worth making. What would seemed to die ; and their departure is
not a man give if he might converse with taken for misery.
Orpheus, and Musseus, and Hesiod, and
“ And their going from us to be utter
Homer ? Nay, if this be true, let me die destruction ; but they are in peace.
again and again. I myself, too, shall have
“ For though they be punished in the
a wonderful interest in there meeting and sight of men, yet is their hope full of
conversing with Palamedes, and Ajax the immortality.
son of Telamon, and other heroes of old,
“ And having been a little chastised,
who have suffered death through an unjust they shall be greatly rewarded : for God
judgment ; and there will be no small proved them, and found them worthy for
pleasure, as I think, in comparing my own himself.”
sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall
And assuredly, if in the hour of death
then be able to continue my search into the conscience is at peace, the mind need
true and false knowledge ; as in this I not be troubled. The future is full of
world, so also in that ; and I shall find doubt, indeed, but fuller still of hope.
out who is wise, and who pretends to be
If we are entering upon a rest after the
wise, and is not. What would not a man struggles of life,
give, O judges, to be able to examine the ,
leader of the great Trojan expedition; |
“ Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest,”
or Odysseus or Sisyphus, or numberless ;
others, men and women too 1 What in
that to many a weary soul will be a
finite delight would there be in conversing
with them and asking them questions.
1 Referring to the cause of his own condemna
In another world they do not put a man tion.
�108
THE PLEASURES OF LIFE
PART II
welcome bourne, and even then we may read and enjoyed, but those also whom
say,
we have loved and lost; when we shall
“ 0 Death ! where is thy sting ?
leave behind us the bonds of the flesh and
0 Grave ! where is thy victory ? ”
the limitations of our earthly existence ;
On the other hand, if, trusting humbly when we shall join the Angels, the Arch
but confidently in the goodness of an angels, and all the company of Heaven,—
Almighty and loving Father, we are then, indeed, we may cherish a sure and
entering on a new sphere of existence, certain hope that the interests and
where we may look forward to meet not pleasures of this world are as nothing,
only those Great Men of whom we have compared to those of the life that awaits
heard so much, those whose works we have us in our Eternal Home.
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
The pleasures of life
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 108, [4] p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: Publisher's list and advertisements on unnumbered pages at the begining and end. Paper covers. Pictorial cover - portrait of author. Includes bibliographical references. Printed in double columns. Advertisements on preliminary pages and unnumbered pages at the end.
Contents: Part 1: The duty of happiness -- The happiness of duty -- A song of books -- The choice of books -- The blessing of friends -- The value of time -- The pleasures of travel -- The pleasures of home -- Science -- Education. Part 2: Ambition -- Wealth -- Health -- Love -- Art -- Poetry -- Music -- The beauties of nature -- The troubles of life -- Labour and rest -- Religion -- The hope of progress -- The destiny of man.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Lubbock, John
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1899
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Macmillan and Co. Limited
Subject
The topic of the resource
Philosophy
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br /><span>This work (The pleasures of life), identified by </span><span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk">Humanist Library and Archives</a></span><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
G2829
Format
The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource
application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Conduct of life
Education
Health
Life
Work