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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f3e6ae4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52356 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52356) diff --git a/old/52356-0.txt b/old/52356-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 53e205c..0000000 --- a/old/52356-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8486 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Essays and Dialogues, by Giacomo Leopardi - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Essays and Dialogues - -Author: Giacomo Leopardi - -Translator: Charles Edwardes - -Release Date: June 17, 2016 [eBook #52356] -[Most recently updated: January 19, 2021] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Marc D'Hooghe - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES *** - - - - -ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES - -OF - -GIACOMO LEOPARDI. - -_TRANSLATED_ - -BY - -CHARLES EDWARDES. - -_With Biographical Sketch._ - -LONDON: - -TR‹BNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL. - -1882. - - - -CONTENTS. - - - BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH - - HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE - DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH - PRIZE COMPETITION OF THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME - DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO - DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL - DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON - THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN - DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT - DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER - PARINI ON GLORY - DIALOGUE BETWEEN RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES - REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI - DIALOGUE BETWEEN COLUMBUS AND GUTIERREZ - PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS - THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK - DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO - COPERNICUS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY - DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS - COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND - - - -BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. - - -"Manure with Despair, but let it be genuine, and you will have a noble -harvest."--RAHEL. - - -The name of Giacomo Leopardi is not yet a household word in the mouths -of Englishmen. Few of us have heard of him; still fewer have read -any of his writings. If known at all, he is probably coupled, in a -semi-contemptuous manner, with other foreign representatives of a phase -of poetic thought, the influence of which has passed its zenith. As -a contemporary of Byron, Leopardi is perhaps credited with a certain -amount of psychological plagiarism, and possibly disregarded as a mere -satellite of the greater planet. But if this be so, it is unjust. His -fame is his own, and time makes his isolation and grand individuality -more and more prominent. What Byron and Shelley, Millevoye, Baudelaire -and Gautier, Heine and Platen, Pouchkine and Lermontoff, are to -England, France, Germany, and Russia respectively, Leopardi is, in a -measure, to Italy. But he is more than this. The jewel of his renown -is triple-faceted. Philology, poetry, and philosophy were each in turn -cultivated by him, and he was of too brilliant an intellect not to -excel in them all. As a philologist he astonished Niebuhr and delighted -Creuzer; as a poet he has been compared with Dante; as a philosopher -he takes high rank among the greatest and most original men of modern -times. One of his biographers (Dovari: "Studio di G. Leopardi," Ancona, -1877) has termed him "the greatest philosopher, poet, and prose-writer -of the nineteenth century." Though such eulogy may be, and doubtless -is, excessive, the fact that it has been given testifies to the -extraordinary nature of the man who is its subject. - -In Germany and France, Leopardi is perhaps as well known and highly -appreciated as in Italy. His poems have been translated into the -languages of those countries; and in France, within the last year, two -more or less complete versions of his prose writings have appeared. -Biographies, reviews, and lighter notices of the celebrated Italian -are of repeated and increasing occurrence on the Continent. England, -however, knows little of him, and hitherto none of his writings have -been made accessible to the English reading public. The following brief -outline of his life may in part help to explain the peculiarly sombre -philosophical views which he held, and of which his works are chiefly -an elaboration. - -Giacomo Leopardi was born at Recanati, a small town about fifteen miles -from Ancona, on the 29th June 1798. He was of noble birth, equally on -the side of his father and mother. Provided with a tutor at an early -age, he soon left him far behind in knowledge; and when only eight -years old, he discarded the Greek grammar he had hitherto used, and -deliberately set himself the task of reading in chronological order the -Greek authors of his father's library. It was due to his own industry, -and his father's care, that later he acquired a perfect acquaintance -with classical literature. In 1810 he received his first tonsure, in -token of his dedication to the Church; but this early promise was not -destined to be fulfilled. Before he was eighteen years of age Leopardi -had attained recognised distinction for the amount and matter of his -erudition. The mere catalogue of his writings--chiefly philological--by -that time is of sufficient length to excite wonder, and their -nature is still more surprising. Latin commentaries and classical -annotations were apparently child's play to him. Writing in 1815 to -the Roman scholar Cancellieri, who had noticed one of these classical -productions, Leopardi says: "I see myself secured to posterity in -your writings.... Commerce with the learned is not only useful, but -necessary for me." He was only seventeen when he completed a task -which represented the sum of all his early study. This was an "Essay -on the Popular Errors of the Ancients," of considerable length (first -published posthumously), in the course of which he cites more than four -hundred authors, ancient and modern. A single extract will suffice to -show that his youthful powers of expression were as precocious as his -learning, though his judgment was doubtless at fault. He thus reviews -the wisdom of the Greeks: - - "The philosophy of the ancients was the science of - differences; and their academies were the seats of confusion - and disorder. Aristotle condemned what Plato had taught. - Socrates mocked Antisthenes; and Zeno scandalised Epicurus. - Pythagoreans, Platonians, Peripatetics, Stoics, Cynics, - Epicureans, Sceptics, Cyrenaics, Megarics, Eclectics - scuffled with and ridiculed one another; while the truly - wise laughed at them all. The people, left to themselves - during this hubbub, were not idle, but laboured silently to - increase the vast mound of human errors." - -He ends this Essay with a eulogy of the Christian religion: "To live -in the true Church is the only way to combat superstition." Shortly -afterwards, increasing knowledge, which Goethe has called "the -antipodes of faith," enabled him to perceive that Roman Catholicism, -the antidote which he then prescribed for superstition, was itself full -charged with the poison he sought to destroy. - -In 1817 Leopardi made acquaintance by letter with Pietro Giordani, one -of the leading literary men of the day, and a man of varied experience -and knowledge. In his first letter Leopardi opens his heart to his new -friend: - - "I have very greatly, perhaps immoderately, yearned for - glory ... I burn with love for Italy, and thank Heaven that - I am an Italian. If I live, I will live for literature; for - aught else, I would not live if I could." (21st March 1817.) - -A month later, from the same source we are able to discern traces -of that characteristic of Leopardi's temperament which by certain -critics is thought to explain his philosophy. Writing to Giordani, -he expatiates on the discomforts of Recanati and its climate; and -proceeds:-- - - "Added to all this is the obstinate, black, and barbarous - melancholy which devours and destroys me, which is nourished - by study, and yet increases when I forego study. I have in - past times had much experience of that sweet sadness which - generates fine sentiments, and which, better than joy, may - be said to resemble the twilight; but my condition now is - like an eternal and horrible night. A poison saps my powers - of body and mind."-- - -In the same letter he gives his opinion on the relative nature of prose -and poetry. - - "Poetry requires infinite study and application, and its art - is so profound, that the more you advance in proficiency, so - much the further does perfection seem to recede.... To be a - good prose writer first, and a poet later, seems to me to be - contrary to nature, which first creates the poet, and then - by the cooling operation of age concedes the maturity and - tranquillity necessary for prose." - - (30th April 1817.) - -The correspondence between Leopardi and Giordani lasted for five years, -and it is from their published letters that we are able to form the -best possible estimate of Leopardi's character and aspirations. His own -letters serve as the index of his physical and mental state. In them -we trace the gradual failure of his health, the growth of sombreness -in his disposition, and the change which his religious convictions -underwent. During his twentieth year he suffered severely in mind and -body. Forced to lay aside his studies, he was constantly a prey to -ennui, with all its attendant discomforts. He thus writes to Giordani -of his condition, in August 1817: - - "My ill-health makes me unhappy, because I am not a - philosopher who is careless of life, and because I am - compelled to stand aloof from my beloved studies.... Another - thing that makes me unhappy, is thought. I believe you know, - but I hope you have not experienced, how thought can crucify - and martyrise any one who thinks somewhat differently from - others. I have for a long time suffered such torments, - simply because thought has always had me entirely in its - power; and it will kill me unless I change my condition. - Solitude is not made for those who burn and are consumed in - themselves." (1st August 1817.) - -His mental activity was numbed by his physical incapacity; the two -combined reduced him to a state of despair. There is a noble fortitude -in the following words of another letter addressed to Giordani:-- - - "I have for a long time firmly believed that I must die - within two or three years, because I have so ruined myself - by seven years of immoderate and incessant study.... I am - conscious that my life cannot be other than unhappy, yet I - am not frightened; and if I could in any way be useful, I - would endeavour to bear my condition without losing heart. - I have passed years so full of bitterness, that it seems - impossible for worse to succeed them; nevertheless I will - not despair even if my sufferings do increase ... I am born - for endurance." - - (2d March 1818.) - -Leopardi was now of age, and at the time of life when mans aspirations -are keenest. He had repeatedly tried to induce his father to let him go -forth into the world, and take his place in the school of intellect; -but all his endeavours were in vain. Though seconded by Giordani, who -some months before had become personally acquainted with his young -correspondent during a visit of a few days to Casa Leopardi, the Count -was resolute in refusing to grant his son permission to leave Recanati. -Giacomo, driven to desperation, conceived a plan by which he hoped to -fulfil his desire in spite of the paternal prohibition. The following -extract from the Count's diary furnishes the gist of the matter, and -also gives us some small insight into his own character:-- - - "Giacomo, wishing to leave the country, and seeing that I - was opposed to his doing so, thought to obtain my consent by - a trick. He requested Count Broglio to procure a passport - for Milan, so that I might be alarmed on hearing of it, - and thus let him go. I knew about it, because Solari wrote - unwittingly to Antici, wishing Giacomo a pleasant journey. I - immediately asked Broglio to send me the passport, which he - did with an accompanying letter. I showed all to my son, and - deposited the passport in an open cupboard, telling him he - could take it at his leisure. So all ended." - -Thus the plot failed, and Giacomo was constrained to resign himself, -as best he could, to a continuance of the "life worse than death" -which he lived in Recanati. Two letters written in anticipation of the -success of his scheme, one to his father, and the other to Carlo, his -brother, are of most painful interest. They suggest unfilial conduct -on his part, and unfatherly treatment of his son on the part of Count -Monaldo. - - "I am weary of prudence," he writes in the letter to Carlo, - "which serves only as a clog to the enjoyment of youth ... - How thankful I should be if the step I am taking might act - as a warning to our parents, as far as you and our brothers - are concerned! I heartily trust you will be less unhappy - than myself. I care little for the opinion of the world; - nevertheless, exonerate me if you have any opportunity of - doing so.... What am I? a mere good-for-nothing creature. - I realise this most intensely, and the knowledge of - it has determined me to take this step, to escape the - self-contemplation which so disgusts me. So long as I - possessed self-esteem I was prudent; but now that I despise - myself, I can only find relief by casting myself on fortune, - and seeking dangers, worthless thing that I am.... It were - better (humanly speaking) for my parents and myself that I - had never been born, or had died ere now. Farewell, dear - brother." - -The letter to his father is in a different key. It is stern and severe, -and contains reproofs, direct and inferential, for his apparent -indifference to his sons' future prospects. Giacomo upbraids him with -intentional blindness to the necessities of his position as a youth of -generally acknowledged ability, for whom Recanati could offer no scope, -or chance of renown. He goes on to say: - - "Now that the law has made me my own master, I have - determined to delay no longer in taking my destiny on my - own shoulders. I know that man's felicity consists in - contentment, and that I shall therefore have more chance - of happiness in begging my bread than through whatever - bodily comforts I may enjoy here.... I know that I shall be - deemed mad; and I also know that all great men have been - so regarded. And because the career of almost every great - genius has begun with despair, I am not disheartened at - the same commencement in mine. I would rather be unhappy - than insignificant, and suffer than endure tedium.... - Fathers usually have a better opinion of their sons than - other people; but you, on the contrary, judge no one so - unfavourably, and therefore never imagined we might be born - for greatness.... It has pleased Heaven, as a punishment, - to ordain that the only youths of this town with somewhat - loftier aspirations than the Recanatese should belong to - you, as a trial of patience, and that the only father who - would regard such sons as a misfortune should be ours." - -The relationship between Giacomo and his parents has been a vexed -question with all his biographers, who, for the most part, are of the -opinion that they had little sympathy with him in the mental sufferings -he underwent. The Count has been called "despota sistematico" in the -administration of his household; and the most favourably disposed -writers have agreed to regard him as somewhat of a Roman father. But -there does not seem to be sufficient evidence to support the theory -that he was intentionally harsh and repressive to the extent of cruelty -in his treatment of his children. He was an Italian of the old school, -and as such his conduct was probably different from that of more -modern Italian fathers; but that was all. - -In 1819, when his whole being was in a turmoil of disquiet, Leopardi -made his dÈbut as a poet, with two Odes--the one addressed to Italy, -and the other on the monument to Dante, then recently erected in -Florence. The following literal translation of the first stanza of the -Ode to Italy gives but a faint echo of the original verse:-- - - "O my country, I see the walls and arches, the columns, - the statues, and the deserted towers of our ancestors; but - their glory I see not, nor do I see the laurel and the iron - which girt our forefathers. To-day, unarmed, thou showest a - naked brow and naked breast. Alas! how thou art wounded! How - pale thou art, and bleeding! That I should see thee thus! - O queen of beauty! I call on heaven and earth, and ask who - thus has humbled thee. And as a crowning ill, her arms are - weighed with chains; her hair dishevelled and unveiled; and - on the ground she sits disconsolate and neglected, her face - hid in her knees, and weeping. Weep, Italia mine, for thou - hast cause, since thou wert born to conquer 'neath Fortune's - smiles and frowns. - - O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archi - E le colonne e i simulacri e l' erme - Torri degli avi nostri, - Ma la gloria non vedo, - Non vedo il lauro e il ferro ond' eran carchi - I nostri padri antichi. Or fatta inerme, - Nuda la fronte e nudo il petto mostri. - OimË quante ferite, - Che lividor, che sangue! oh qual ti veggio, - Formosissima donna! Io chiedo al cielo, - E al mondo: dite, dite: - Chi la ridusse a tale? E questo Ë peggio, - Che di catene ha carene ambe le braccia. - Si che sparte le chiome e senza velo - Siede in terra negletta e sconsolata, - Nascondendo la faccia - Tra le ginocchia, e piange. - Piangi, che ben hai donde, Italia mia, - Le genti a vincer nata - Et nella fausta sorte e nella ria." - -These odes, which represent the first fruits of his muse, ring with -enthusiasm. They are the expression of a soul fired with its own flame, -which serves to illumine and vivify a theme then only too real in his -country's experience, the sufferings of Italy. Patriotism pervades -his earliest verse; sadness and hopelessness that of later times. For -these two odes Giordani bestowed unsparing eulogy on his young protÈgÈ. -Before their appearance he had begun to regard Leopardi as the rising -genius of Italy, and had not hesitated to say to him, "Inveni hominem!" -Now, however, his admiration was unbounded; he thus apostrophised him: -"O nobilissima, e altissima, e fortissima anima!" He referred to the -reception of his poems at Piacenza in these terms: "They speak of you -as a god." - -In 1822 Leopardi first left home. Repeatedly, year after year, he -had besought his father to permit him to see something of the world. -He longed to associate with the men who represented the intellect of -his country. With his own fellow-townsmen he had little sympathy, and -they on their part regarded him as a phenomenon, eccentric rather than -remarkable. They gave him the titles of "little pedant," "philosopher," -"hermit," &c., in half ironical appreciation of his learning. As he -was naturally very sensitive, these petty vexations became intensified -to him, and were doubtless one of the chief reasons of his unfailing -dislike for his native place. In one of his essays, that of "Parini -on Glory," we discover a reference to Leopardi's life at Recanati, -which place is really identical with the Bosisio of the essay. Yet the -prophet who is not a prophet in his own country when living, seldom -fails of recognition after death. A statue is now raised to Leopardi -in the place that refused to honour him in life. The appreciative -recognition he failed to attract in Recanati, he hoped to obtain at -Rome. But Count Monaldo, his father, long maintained his resistance to -his son's wishes. Himself of a comparatively unaspiring mind, content -with the fame he could acquire in his own province, he saw no necessity -why his son should be more ambitious. Probably also his paternal love -made him fearful of the dangers of the world, to which his son would -be exposed. Of these hazards he knew nothing from experience; and -they were doubtless magnified to him by his imagination. Yet, though -naturally a man rather deficient in character than otherwise, Count -Monaldo was, as we have seen, in his own household, a stern not to -say unreasonable disciplinarian. Only after repeated solicitations -from his son, and remonstrances from his friends, did he give Giacomo -the desired permission, chiefly in the hope that at Rome he might be -induced to enter the Church, towards which he had latterly manifested -some signs of repugnance. The five months spent by Leopardi in Rome -sufficed to disenchant him of his ideas of the world of life. A day or -two after his arrival he writes to Carlo his brother: - - "I do not derive the least pleasure from the great things I - see, because I know that they are wonderful, without feeling - that they are so. I assure you their multitude and grandeur - wearied me the first day." - - (25th November 1822.) - -Again, to Paulina his sister: "The world is not beautiful; rather it is -insupportable, unless seen from a distance." - -Ever prone to regard the real through the medium of the ideal, he was -bitterly disappointed with his first experience of men. The scholar, -whom he was prepared to revere, proved on acquaintance to be-- - - "a blockhead, a torrent of small talk, the most wearisome - and afflicting man on earth. He talks about the merest - trifles with the deepest interest, of the greatest things - with an infinite imperturbability. He drowns you in - compliments and exaggerated praises, and does both in so - freezing a manner, and with such nonchalance, that to hear - him one would think an extraordinary man the most ordinary - thing in the world." (25th November 1822.) - -The stupidest Recanatese he termed wiser and more sensible than the -wisest Roman. Again, to his father he complains of the superficiality -of the so-called scholars of Rome. - - "They all strive to reach immortality in a coach, as bad - Christians would fain enter Paradise. According to them, the - sum of human wisdom, indeed the only true science of man, - is antiquity. Hitherto I have not encountered a lettered - Eoman who understands the term literature as meaning - anything except archÊology. Philosophy, ethics, politics, - eloquence, poetry, philology, are unknown things in Rome, - and are regarded as childish playthings compared to the - discovery of some bit of copper or stone of the time of Mark - Antony or Agrippa. The best of it is that one cannot find - a single Eoman who really knows Latin or Greek; without a - perfect acquaintance with which languages, it is clear that - antiquity Cannot be Studied." (9th December 1822.) - -He was disheartened by the depraved condition of Roman literature. -Everywhere he saw merit disregarded or trodden under foot. The city was -full of professional poets and poetesses, and literary cliques formed -for the purpose of the self-laudation of their members. Illustrious -names of the past were insulted by the pseudo-great men of the day, -whose fame was founded on writings of the most contemptible nature. -These circumstances made Leopardi confess, in a letter to his brother, -that had he not - - "the harbour of posterity, and the conviction that in time - all would take its proper place (illusory hope, but the - only, and most necessary one for the true scholar)," (16th - December 1822.) - -he would abandon literature once for all. But it was only during -moments of depression that such words as these escaped him. He -loved study for its own sake; fame was, after all, but a secondary -consideration. Nor were men of genuine worth entirely wanting in Rome. -Niebuhr, then Prussian ambassador at the Papal Court, Reinhold, the -Dutch ambassador, Mai, subsequently a cardinal, were noble exceptions -to the general inferiority. By them Leopardi was highly esteemed. -Niebuhr especially was profoundly struck with his genius. "I have at -last seen a modern Italian worthy of the old Italians and the ancient -Romans," was his remark to De Bunsen after his first interview with the -young scholar. Both he and De Bunsen became firm friends with Leopardi. -They endeavoured their utmost to procure for him some official -appointment from Cardinal Consalvi, then Secretary of State, and his -successor; but owing to the intrigues, prejudices, and disturbances of -the Papal Court they were unable to effect anything on his behalf. It -was an unfulfilled intention of De Bunsen's, later in life, to write -a memoir of Leopardi, for whom he always felt the highest esteem and -admiration. - -Count Monaldo's wish that his son should become an ecclesiastic was -never realised. Leopardi was of too honest a nature to profess what was -not in accordance with his convictions. The secular employment that he -sought, he could not obtain, so perforce he seems to have turned his -mind towards literary work--the drudgery of letters as distinct from -the free, untrammelled pursuit of literature. He obtained the charge -of cataloguing the Greek manuscripts of the Barberine Library, and his -spirits rose in anticipation of some discovery he hoped to make which -might render him famous. "In due time we will astonish the world," he -writes to his father. He was indeed successful in finding a fragment -of Libanius hitherto unpublished; but the glory seems to have been -stolen from him, since the manuscript was ushered forth to the world by -alien hands. Poor Leopardi! all his hopes seemed destined to be proved -illusive. It was time for him to leave a place that could furnish him -with no other pleasure than that of tears. "I visited Tasso's grave, -and wept there. This is the first and only pleasure I have experienced -in Rome" (Letter to Carlo, February 15, 1823). Already he had begun -to steel himself to the shocks of fortune; suffering and misfortune -he could bear; mental agony and despair were too strong for him. In a -long letter to his sister Paulina, he tries to impart to her a little -of the philosophy of Stoicism which he had taken to himself. She was -distressed about the rupture of a matrimonial arrangement contracted -by the Count between her and a certain Roman gentleman of position and -fortune. Leopardi thus consoles her: - - "Hope is a very wild passion, because it necessarily carries - with it very great fear.... I assure you, I Paolina mia,' - that unless we can acquire a little indifference towards - ourselves, life is scarcely possible, much less can it be - happy. You must resign yourself to fortune, and not hope too - deeply.... I recommend this philosophy to you, because I - think you resemble me in mind and disposition." (19th April - 1823.) - -Four years later Leopardi confesses the insufficiency of his own -remedies. Writing to Dr. Puccinotti in 1827, he says: - - "I am weary of life, and weary of the philosophy of - indifference which is the only cure for misfortune and - ennui, but which at length becomes an ennui itself. I look - and hope for nothing but death." - - (16th August 1827.) - -In May 1823, he left Rome, and returned to Recanati. - -The succeeding ten years of Leopardi's life were, during his intervals -of health, devoted to poetry and literature. He had passed the Rubicon -of his hopes; henceforth he studied to expound to the world the -uselessness of its own anticipations, and its essential unhappiness. -His bodily infirmities increased with years. His frame, naturally -weak, suffered from the effects of early over-application; his eyes -and nerves were a constant trouble to him. To obtain what relief was -possible from change of air, and to remove himself from Recanati, -which he detested increasingly, Leopardi went to Bologna, Florence, -Milan, and Pisa, wintering now at one place, now at another. From -family reasons, his father was unable to supply him with sufficient -money to secure his independence. Consequently he was obliged to -turn to literature for a livelihood. The publisher Stella, of Milan, -willingly engaged his services, and for several years Leopardi was -in receipt of a small but regular payment for his literary labours. -He compiled Chrestomathies of Italian prose and poetry, and made -numerous fragmentary translations from the classics. A commentary on -Petrarch, to which he devoted much time and care, is, in the words -of Sainte-Beuve, "the best possible guide through such a charming -labyrinth." As he said of himself, "mediocrity is not for me," so in -all that he undertook the mark of his genius appeared. At Florence -Leopardi was honoured by the representatives of Italian literature and -culture, who there formed a brilliant coterie. Colletta was desirous -of his co-operation in the "History of Naples," with which he was -occupying the last years of his life. The "Antologia" and "Nuove -Ricoglitore" reviews were open to contributions from his pen. Giordani, -Niccolini, Capponi, and Gioberti, amongst others, welcomed him with -open arms. To these his Tuscan friends he dedicated his "Canti" in -1830, with the following touching letter:-- - - "MY DEAR FRIENDS,--Accept the dedication of this book. - Herein I have striven, as is often done in poetry, to hallow - my sufferings. This is my farewell (I cannot but weep in - saying it) to literature and studies. Once I hoped these - dear resources would have been the support of my old age: - pleasures of childhood and youth might vanish, I thought, - and their loss would be supportable if I were thus cherished - and strengthened. But ere I was twenty years of age, my - physical infirmities deprived me of half my powers; my life - was taken, yet death was not bestowed on me. Eight years - later I became totally incapacitated; this, it seems, will - be my future state. Even to read these letters you know - that I make use of other eyes than mine. Dear friends, my - sufferings are incapable of increase; already my misfortune - is too great for tears. I have lost everything, and am but a - trunk that feels and suffers." ... - -It is scarcely wonderful that, under such circumstances, his philosophy -should fail him. A code of ethics, however admirable intrinsically, has -but cold consolation to offer to one whose life is prolonged pain. -Leopardi at one time allowed the idea of suicide to rest, and almost -take root, in his mind. He describes the incident: "A great desire -comes into my mind to terminate once for all these wretched years of -mine, and to make myself more completely motionless." But he was of a -nature noble and strong enough to resist such temptation. - -He left Recanati for the last time in 1830. The next two years were -passed in Florence, Rome, and Pisa. Whilst in Rome, Leopardi received -substantial proof of his fame in being elected an Academician of the -Crusca. At length the doctors recommended him to try Naples, from the -mild air and general salubrity of which place they anticipated much -improvement in his condition. Thither he went in company with a young -friend, Antonio Ranieri, whose acquaintance he had made in Florence. -In the house of Ranieri he stayed from 1833 until his death in 1837, -tended by him and his sister Paulina (his _second_ Paulina, as he used -to call her) with a devotedness and affection as rare as it was noble. -Posterity will couple together the names of Ranieri and Leopardi as -naturally as we associate together those of Severn and Keats. All that -could be done for the unfortunate poet, Ranieri did. His condition was -a singular one. Before he left Florence for Naples, the doctor said of -him that his frame did not possess sufficient vitality to generate a -mortal illness; yet he was seldom, if ever, free from suffering. He -died on the 14th June 1837, as he and his friend were on the point of -setting out from Naples to a little villa that Ranieri possessed on one -of the slopes of Vesuvius. On the night of the 15th he was buried, in -the church of St. Vitale, near the reputed grave of Virgil. His tomb is -marked by a stone erected at the expense of Ranieri, bearing the signs -of the cross, and the owl of Minerva, together with an inscription from -the pen of Giordani. The few following lines from his own verse would -form a suitable epitaph for one whose life was spent in bodily and -mental disquietude:-- - - "O weary heart, for ever shalt thou rest - Henceforth. Perished is the great delusion - That I thought would ne'er have left me. Perished! - Nought now is left of all those dear deceits; - Desire is dead, and not a hope remains. - Rest then for ever. Thou hast throbbed enough; - Nothing here is worth such palpitations. - Our life is valueless, for it consists - Of nought but ennui, bitterness, and pain. - This world of clay deserveth not a sigh. - Now calm thyself; conceive thy last despair, - And wait for death, the only gift of Fate." - - (Poem "A Se Stesso.") - -These words might have been an echo of «‚kyamuni's utterance beneath -the sacred fig-tree of BÙdhimanda, when, according to the legend, he -was in process of transformation from man to Buddha: the resemblance is -at any rate a remarkable one. - -In 1846, the Jesuits made an impudent attempt to convince the public -that Leopardi died repenting of his philosophical views, and that he -had previously expressed a desire to enter the Society of Jesus. A -long letter from a certain Francesco Scarpa to his Superior, giving -a number of pretended details of Leopardi's history, conversion, and -death, appeared in a Neapolitan publication, entitled "Science and -Faith." Ranieri came forward to show the entire falsity of these -statements; and to give a more authoritative denial to them, he engaged -the willing help of Vicenzo Gioberti. The latter in his "Modern Jesuit" -contested their truth in every respect. He said: "The story put forward -in this letter is a tissue of lies and deliberate inventions; it is -sheer romance from beginning to end." It is thought by some people -that Leopardi's father was concerned in this Jesuit manifesto. But, -although the Count was doubtless shocked beyond measure that his son -did not hold the same beliefs as himself, it is scarcely credible that -he should concoct a series of such absurdities as were contained in -Scarpa's letter. - -Leopardi anticipated that posterity, and even his contemporaries, would -endeavour to explain the pessimism of his philosophy by his personal -misfortunes and sufferings. Accordingly, in a letter to the philologist -Sinner, he entered a protest against such a supposition: - - "However great my sufferings may have been, I do not seek - to diminish them by comforting myself with vain hopes, - and thoughts of a future and unknown happiness. This same - courage of my convictions has led me to a philosophy - of despair, which I do not hesitate to accept. It is - the cowardice of men, who would fain regard existence - as something very valuable, that instigates them to - consider my philosophical opinions as the result of my - sufferings, and that makes them persist in charging to my - material circumstances that which is due to nothing but my - understanding. Before I die, I wish to make protest against - this imputation of weakness and trifling; and I would beg of - my readers to burn my writings rather than attribute them to - my sufferings." - - (24th May 1832.) - -Ranieri thus describes Leopardi's personal appearance: - - "He was of middle height, inclined to stoop, and fragile; - his complexion was pale; his head was large, and his brow - expansive; his eyes were blue and languid; his nose was well - formed (slightly aquiline), and his other features were very - delicately chiselled; his voice was soft and rather weak; - and he had an ineffable and almost celestial smile." - -His friend here scarcely even suggests what others have perhaps unduly -emphasised, that is, Leopardi's deformity. He was slightly humpbacked; -doubtless the consequence of those studies which simultaneously ruined -him and made him famous. - -It were an omission not to refer to the influence which love exerted -over Leopardi's life. So strong was this, in the opinion of one of his -critics, that he even ascribes his philosophy to an "infelicissimo -amore." Another writer says of him that "his ideal was a woman." -Ranieri asserts that he died unmarried, after having twice felt the -passion of love as violently as it was ever realised by any man. His -poems also testify how omnipotent at one time was this bitter-sweet -sensation. - - "I recall to mind the day when love first assaulted me; when - I said, Alas! if this be love, how it pains me!" - - (The First Love.) - -Again: - - "It was morning, the time when a light and sweeter sleep - presses our rested lids. The sun's first grey light began to - gleam across the balcony, through the closed windows into - my still darkened chamber. Then it was that I saw close by, - regarding me with fixed eyes, the phantom form of her who - first taught me to love, and left me Weeping." (The Dream.) - -His poem to Aspasia is a frank confession of love, and the humiliation -he suffered in its rejection. It is a noble, yet a terrible poem. -Opening with a description of the scene that met his eye as he entered -the room where his charmer sat, "robed in the hue of the melancholy -violet, and surrounded by a wondrous luxury," pressing "tender and -burning kisses on the round lipsÈ" of her children, and displaying "her -snowy neck," he saw as it were "a new heaven, and a new earth, and the -lustre of a celestial light." - - "Like a divine ray, O woman, thy beauty dazzled my thought. - Beauty is like such music as seems to open out to us an - unknown Elysium. He who loves is filled with the ecstasy - of the phantom love conceived by his imagination. In the - woman of his love he seeks to discover the beauties of - his inspired vision; in his words and actions he tries - to recognise the personality of his dreams. Thus when he - strains her to his bosom, it is not the woman, but the - phantom of his dream that he embraces." - -Then comes the awakening. He vituperates the reality for not attaining -to the standard of his ideal. - - "Rarely the woman's nature is comparable with that of the - dream image. No thought like ours can dwell beneath those - narrow brows. Vain is the hope that man forges in the fire - of those sparkling eyes. He errs in seeking profound and - lofty thoughts in one who is by nature inferior to man in - all things. As her members are frailer and softer, so is her - mind more feeble and confined." - -He betrays his position, and gives the key to his unjust censure of -woman's powers. - - "Now, boast thyself, for thou canst do so. Tell how thou art - the only one of thy sex to whom I have bent my proud head, - and offered my invincible heart. Tell how thou hast seen me - with beseeching brows, timid and trembling before thee (I - burn with indignation and shame in the avowal), watching - thy every sign and gesture, beside myself in adoration of - thee, and changing expression and colour at the slightest of - thy looks. The charm is broken; my yoke is on the ground, - sundered at a single blow." (Aspasia.) - -Who were the real objects of Leopardi's affection, is not at all clear. -Certain village girls of Recanati, immortalised in his verse as Nerina -and Silvia, were the inspirers of his first love; but his brother Carlo -bears witness to the superficial nature of his affection in their -cases. They merely served as the awakeners of the sensation; his own -mind and imagination magnified it into a passion. True it is that his -nature was one that yearned and craved for love in no ordinary degree. -When at Rome, isolated from his family, he wrote to Carlo: "Love me, -for God's sake. I need love, love, love, fire, enthusiasm, life." He -addressed similar demands to Giordani and others with whom he was -on the most intimate terms. Indeed we are tempted to conjectures as -to what might have been the fruit of Leopardi's life had he found a -helpmate and a consoler in his troubles. - -A brief consideration of the general nature of Leopardi's poetry and -prose may not be out of place in this short summary. - -His poems are masterpieces of conception and execution. Their matter -may be open to criticism; but their manner is beyond praise. His odes -are of the nobler kind. Full of fire and vigour, they reach the sublime -where he stimulates his fellow-countrymen to action, and urges them -to aspire to a freedom, happily now obtained. His elegies breathe out -an inspired sorrow. They are the pro-duct of a mind filled with the -sense of the misery that abounds on earth, and unable, though desirous, -to discern a single ray of light in the gloom of existence. His -lyrical pieces are the most beautiful and emotional of his poems. The -following, entitled "The Setting of the Moon," though pervaded with the -spirit of sadness that is so predominant a characteristic of Leopardi's -verse, contains some charming imagery:-- - - "As in the lonely night, over the silvered fields and the - waters where the zephyrs play, where the far-off shades take - a thousand vague appearances and deceitful forms, amid the - tranquil waves, the foliage and the hedges, the hill-slopes - and the villages, the moon arrived at heaven's boundary - descends behind the Alps and Apennines into the infinite - bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea; whilst the world grows pale, - and the shadows disappear, and a mantle of darkness shrouds - the valley and the hills; night alone remains, and the - carter singing on his way salutes with a sad melody the last - reflection of that fleeing light which hitherto had led his - steps: So vanishes our youth, and leaves us solitary with - life. So flee away the shadows which veiled illusive joys; - and so die too the distant hopes on which our mortal nature - rested. Life is left desolate and dark, and the traveller, - trying to pierce the gloom, looks here and there, but seeks - in vain to know the way, or what the journey yet before him; - he sees that all on earth is strange, and he a stranger - dwelling there.... You little hills and strands, when falls - the light which silvers in the west the veil of night, shall - not for long be orphaned. On the other side of heaven the - first grey light of dawn shall soon be followed by the sun, - whose fiery rays shall flood you and the ethereal fields - with a luminous stream. But mortal life, when cherished - youth has gone, has no new dawn, nor ever gains new light; - widowed to the end it stays, and on life's other shore, made - dark by night, the gods have set the tomb's dark seal." - -In his interpretation of nature he is literal, but withal truly poetic: -he worships her in the concrete, but vituperates her in the abstract, -as representative to him of omnipresent Deity, creative, but also -destructive. The two or three poems that may be termed satirical, -are at the same time half elegiac. In them he ridicules and censures -the folly of his contemporaries, and mourns over the mystery of -things. To these, however, there is one exception, the longest of all -his poems. This is known as the "Continuation of the Battle of the -Frogs and Mice," It consists of eight cantos, comprising about three -thousand lines, and was first published posthumously. The abruptness -of its ending gives the idea, erroneous or not, of incompleteness. -Leopardi had, several years before, translated and versified Homer's -"Batrachomyomachia," and this satire takes up the story where Homer -ends. It is exclusively a ridicule of the times, with especial -reference to his own country and her national enemy, Austria. In style -and treatment it has been compared with Byron's "Don Juan," from which, -however, it totally differs in its intrinsic character. It abounds in -beauties of description, sentiment, and expression, and well deserves -to be considered his _chef d'oeuvre_. Leopardi thus describes his -method of poetic composition:-- - - "I compose only when under an inspiration, yielding to - which, in two minutes, I have designed and organised - the poem. This done, I wait for a recurrence of such - inspiration, which seldom happens until several weeks have - elapsed. Then I set to work at composition, bub so slowly - that I cannot complete a poem, however short, in less than - two or three weeks. Such is my method; without inspiration - it were easier to draw water from a stone than a single - verse from my brain." - -Leopardi's reputation was firmly established by the appearance of his -"Operette morali," as his prose writings were termed. Monti classed -them as the best Italian prose compositions of the century. Gioberti -compared them to the writing of Machiavelli. Giordani, with his usual -tendency to extravagance, gives his friend the following pompous -panegyric:--"His style possesses the conciseness of Speroni, the -grandiloquence of Tasso, the smoothness of Paruta, the purity of Gelli, -the wit of Firenzuola, the solidity and magnificence of Pallavicino, -the imagination of Plato, and the elegance of Cicero." Leopardi has -been aptly termed an aristocrat in his writing. Too much of a reasoner -to be very popular with the masses, who do not care for the exertion of -sustained thought, his logic is strikingly clear to the intelligent. -His periods are occasionally as long as those of Machiavelli or -Guicciardini, but their continuity and signification are never obscure. -Ranieri bears witness to the fact that his prose was the fruit of very -great labour. - -The subject and tendency of Leopardi's writings will be evident to -the reader of the following dialogues. Framed on the model of Lucian, -they will compare favourably with the writings of the Greek satirist -in subtlety and wit, in spite of their sombre tone. They cannot be -said to possess much originality, save in treatment. The subjects -discussed, and even the arguments introduced, are mostly old. Every -acute moraliser since the world began has, in more or less degree -commensurate with his ability, debated within himself the problems -here considered. Facts, beliefs, opinions, theories, may be marshalled -to produce an infinite number of diverse harmonies; but no one such -combination formed by the mind of man may be put forward as the true -and ultimate explanation of the mystery of life. Leibnitz, with his -harmony of universal good, is as fallible as Leopardi or Schopenhauer -with their harmonies of evil. In either case the real is sacrificed -to the ideal, whether of good or evil. Either from temperament or -circumstances, these philosophers were predisposed to give judgment on -life, favourably or adversely, without duly considering the attributes -of existence. As M. Dapples, in his French version of Leopardi, has -remarked, he early withdrew from actual life, _i.e._, life with all -those manifold sensations which he himself defines to be the only -constituents of pleasure in existence. His body proved little else than -the sensation of suffering. All his vitality was concentrated in his -mind; so that he was scarcely a competent and impartial judge of the -ordinary pleasures and ills of life. He could not be otherwise than -prejudiced by his own experiences, or rather lack of experiences. Yet, -though Leopardi was physically incapable of many of life's pleasures, -he none the less passionately yearned for them. Strength and desire -struggled within him, and the former only too frequently proved weaker -than the latter. Thus he was innately adapted for pessimism. - -We consider Leopardi to have been a man of the grandest intellectual -powers, capable originally of almost anything to which the human mind -could attain; but that his reason, later in life, became somewhat -perverted by his sufferings. Were human life as absolutely miserable -a thing as he represents it to be, it would be insupportable. That -he should so regard it does not seem remarkable when we consider his -circumstances; he was poor, seldom free from pain, and unsupported by -a creed. For the sufferings of his life, he could see no shadow of -atonement or compensation: a future state was incomprehensible to him. -He bestows much gratuitous pity on the human race, which we, though -revering his genius, may return to him as more deserving of it than -ourselves. His heart was naturally full of the most lively affection; -but he could never sufficiently satisfy the yearnings of his nature. -Like Ottonieri, whose portrait is his own to a great extent, his -instincts were noble; like him also he died without effecting much in -proportion to his powers. - -The conclusions of Leopardi's philosophy may be thus summed up. The -universe is an enigma, totally insoluble. The sufferings of mankind -exceed all good that men experience, estimating the latter in -compensation for the former. Progress, or, as we call it, civilisation, -instead of lightening man's sufferings, increases them; since it -enlarges his capacity for suffering, without proportionately augmenting -his means of enjoyment. - -How far are these conclusions refutable? It may be regarded as -indubitable that the first two cannot be refuted without the aid -of revelation. Science is incompetent to explain the "why" and the -"wherefore" of the universe; it is yet groping to discover the "how." -Still less can any satisfactory explanation be given of the purpose -for which suffering exists, unless we rely on revelation. Religion, -which modern philosophers somewhat contemptuously designate as "popular -metaphysics," can alone afford an explanation of these problems. -«‚kyamuni, nearly 2500 years ago, asked, "What is the cause of all the -miseries and sufferings with which man is afflicted?" He himself gave -what he considered to be the correct answer: "Existence;" and then he -traced existence to the passions and desires innate in man. These last -were to be conquered in the condition of insensibility to all material -things called "Nirvana," Truly his remedy was a radical one, and had -he succeeded in procuring universal acceptance for his doctrines, the -human race would have become extinct a few generations later than his -own time. But "Nirvana" is unnatural if it be nothing else; unnatural -in itself and in the steps that lead up to it. And although it is -due to Schopenhauer, and his more or less heterodox disciples, that -this Buddhistic dogma is regarded theoretically by some people with a -certain amount of favour, we think the instincts of life are strong -enough within them all to resist any decided inclination on their part -to carry it into effect. - -As for the third conclusion, it must be admitted that man's -susceptibilities of suffering are enlarged with increasing culture. -Leopardi has shown us that the more vividly we realise the evils that -surround and affect us, so much the more keenly do they arouse in us -sensations of pain. Knowledge of them makes us suffer from them. The -bliss of ignorance is rudely dispelled by the cold hand of science. But -must this necessarily continue? May not the same progress which exposes -the wound find the salve to heal it? We trust and think so, in spite -of all assertions to the contrary. There is nothing in the near future -of humanity that need alarm us: men will not work less because they -think more; nor is there any sufficient reason to show that increasing -knowledge must represent increasing sorrow. As Johnson has said: -"The cure for the greatest part of human miseries is not radical but -palliative." For the material means of palliation we look to science. -We hope and think that there is good to be gained from these writings -of Leopardi, in spite of the tone of despair that rings throughout -them. His theory of the "infelicit‡" of things, cheerless though it -be, often suggests ideas, sublime in themselves and noble in their -effect; and the very essence of his philosophy resolves itself into a -recommendation to act, rather than by contemplation to lose the power -of action; for, as he says, "A life must be active and vigorous, else -it is not true life, and death is preferable to it." - -A brief reference to the most recent publications on Leopardi may be -interesting as tending to throw light on his domestic relationships, -and as giving us an idea of his own habits in private life. Antonio -Ranieri (now in his seventy-sixth year) in a book[1] published at -Naples in 1880 gives many interesting details of the poet's life. -He first met him at Florence, and was touched with compassion for -his unfortunate state. Ill and helpless, he was incapable of doing -anything but weep in despair at the thought of being obliged to return -to his native place. "Recanati and death are to me one and the same -thing," he exclaimed through his tears. Ranieri in a generous moment -replied: "Leopardi, you shall not return to Recanati. The little that -I possess is enough for two. As a benefit to me, not to yourself, we -will henceforth live together." This was the beginning of what Ranieri -calls his "vita nuova." He conducted Leopardi from Florence to Rome; -thence back to Florence; and finally from Florence to Naples. The -doctors everywhere shrugged their shoulders at his case, and suggested, -as delicately as possible, the mortal nature of his maladies. At Naples -Ranieri and his sister Paulina did all they could for Leopardi, and -from 1833 to his death in 1837 supplied all his wants. He could seldom -see to read or write. "We used to read to him constantly and regularly, -and were fortunately conversant with the languages he knew," says -Ranieri. Occasionally he was able to go to the theatre, and enjoyed -it greatly. In his habits he seems to have tried his friend's temper -and patience considerably. He was wont to turn night into day, and -day into night. Ranieri and his sister often did the same in order to -read, work, and talk with him. He breakfasted between three and five -o'clock in the afternoon, and dined about midnight. Like Schopenhauer, -he delighted in after-dinner conversation, which he termed "one of -the greatest pleasures of life." He was very obstinate in personal -matters, disobeying the doctors in his diet and everything else. His -fondness for his old clothes was remarkable; he loved them for their -associations. Ranieri mentions "a certain very ancient overcoat which -for seven years" had tormented him, and which he used to entreat -Leopardi to lay aside, but which he clung to with an incredible -affection, preferring it to a new one that he allowed the moths to -destroy. The mere names of wind, cold, and snow were enough to pale -him. He could not bear fire, and formerly used to pass the winters -three parts submerged in a sack of feathers, reading and writing thus -the greater part of the day. He was very terrified when the cholera -appeared at Naples, to avoid which he and Ranieri went to a country -house of the latter's on one of the slopes of Vesuvius. Here Leopardi -wrote his poem "La Ginestra," inspired by the desolate scenes at the -foot of the mountain. He died suddenly at Naples, as he and Ranieri's -household were about to set off again for the country. The Neapolitan -Journal "Il Progresso," in an article on Lis death, remarked of him -that "such brilliancy is not allowed to illumine the earth for long." - -"Notes Biographiques sur Leopardi et sa Famille" (Paris, 1881). This -is a book of considerable value. Written by the widow of Count Carlo -Leopardi, Giacomo's younger brother, and his "other self," it is -most valuable as delineating the characters of Leopardi's father and -mother. A softer light is shed on the character of Leopardi's mother. -We learn that she was not passionless, hard, and unsympathetic, as we -had previously supposed her to be. On the contrary, she was a good -woman, of deep affection, who made it the aim of her married life -to work for the welfare of the family of which she became a member. -Weighted with debt almost to the point of exhaustion, the estates of -Casa Leopardi needed a skilful and vigorous administrator, if they were -to continue in the hands of their old owners. Count Monaldo Leopardi -was not such an administrator. He was a man devoted "tout entier ‡ -science," and occupying himself more with bibliology and archÊology -than with the finances of his estate. The Jews of Perousa, Milan, and -the March towns would, sooner or later, have tightened their hold on -the Leopardi patrimony to such a degree that the ancient family could -only have continued to exist as proprietors on sufferance. But, in the -words of the authoress of this book, Providence watched over the house -"en lui envoyant dans la jeune marquise Adelaide Antici l'ange qui -devait la sauver." The young bride accepted her position with an entire -knowledge of the responsibilities that would accompany it. She took -the reins of the neglected administration, and set herself the task -of restoring the fortunes of Casa Leopardi. By her exertions the Pope -was made acquainted with their difficulties, and by his intervention -an arrangement was made between the creditors and the Leopardi family, -whereby the former were restrained from demanding the amount of their -debt for forty years, receiving thereon in the mean time interest at -8 per cent, per annum. This was the life-work of Countess Leopardi. -During forty years she administered the finances of Casa Leopardi, and -by the end of that time succeeded in freeing the family from the burden -with which it had been long encumbered. She died in 1857, ten years -after her husband, and twenty years later than her eldest son, Giacomo. - -ST. MARK'S PLACE, WOLVERHAMPTON, - -_December_, 1881. - - -[Footnote 1: _Sette anni di Sodalizio con Giacomo Leopardi._] - - -The following works, amongst others, have been made use of in the -preparation of this volume:-- - - Opere Leopardi. 6 vols. Firenze, 1845. - - Opere inedite Leopardi. Cugnoni: Halle, 1878. - - Studio di Leopardi. A. Baragiola: Strasburg, 1876. - - Traduction complËte de Leopardi. F. A. Aulard: Paris, 1880. - - Opuscules et PensÈes de Leopardi. A. Dapples: Paris, 1880. - - G. Leopardi: sa Vie et ses Oeuvres. BouchÈ Leclercq: Paris, - 1874. - - Le Pessimisme. E. Caro: Paris, 1878. - - Pessimism. Jas. Sully: London, 1877. - - La Philosophie de Schopenhauer. Th. Ribot: Paris, 1874. - - Il Buddha, Confucio, e Lao-Tse. C. Puini: Firenze, 1878. - - Artide in Quarterly Review on Leopardi. 1850. - - Artide in Fraser's Magazine, Leopardi and his Father: a - Study, by L. Villari. November 1881. - - - - -_HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE._ - - -It is said that the first inhabitants of the earth were everywhere -created simultaneously. Whilst children they were fed by bees, goats, -and doves, as the poets say the infant Jove was nourished. The earth -was much smaller than it is at present, and devoid of mountains and -hills. The sky was starless. There was no sea; and the world as a whole -was far less varied and beautiful than it now is. - -Yet men were never weary of looking at the sky and the earth, which -excited within them feelings of wonder and admiration. They considered -them both to be of infinite extent, majesty, and magnificence. Their -souls were filled with joyous hopes, and every sensation of life gave -them inexpressible pleasure. Their contentment daily increased, so that -they at length thought themselves supremely happy. In this peaceful -state of mind they passed their infancy and youth. - -Arrived at a mature age, their feelings began to experience some -alteration. As their early hopes, to which they had perseveringly -adhered, failed of realisation, they no longer put faith in them. But, -on the other hand, present happiness isolated from anticipation of -the future, did not suffice them; especially seeing that, either from -habit or because the charm of a first acquaintanceship had worn off, -nature and all the incidents of life gave them much less pleasure than -at first. They travelled over the earth, and visited the most distant -lands. This they could easily do, because there were neither seas, -mountains, nor obstacles of any kind to oppose them. After a few years, -most men had proved the finite nature of the earth, the boundaries of -which were by no means so remote as to be unattainable. They found -too, that all countries of the world, and all men, with but slight -differences, were alike. These discoveries I so greatly increased their -discontent, that a weariness of life became prevalent among men even -before they had passed the threshold of manhood. And as men grew older, -this feeling gradually transformed itself into a hatred of existence, -so that at length, seized by despair, they in one way or another -hesitated not to abandon the light and life once so beloved. - -It seemed to the gods a shocking thing that living creatures should -prefer death to life, and should destroy themselves for no other -reason than that they were weary of existence. It also amazed them -beyond measure to find their gifts held in such contempt, and so -unequivocally rejected by men. They thought the world had been endowed -with sufficient beauty, goodness, and harmony to make it not merely -a bearable, but even a highly enjoyable place of residence for every -living thing, and especially for man, whom they had fabricated with -peculiar care, and a marvellous perfection. At the same time, touched -with a deep feeling of compassion for the distress men exhibited, they -began to fear lest the renewal and increase of these deplorable actions -might not soon result in the extinction of the human race, contrary -to destiny, and they would thus lose the most perfect work of their -creation, and be deprived of the honours they received from men. - -Jove determined therefore to improve the condition of men, since it -seemed necessary, and to increase the means whereby they might obtain -happiness. They complained of the deceitfulness of things; which were -neither as great, beautiful, perfect, nor varied as they at first -imagined them to be; but were, on the contrary, small, imperfect, and -monotonous. They derived no pleasure from their youth; still less -were they satisfied with the times of maturity, and old age. Their -infancy alone gave them pleasure, and yearning for the sweetness of -their early days, they besought Jove to make their condition one of -perpetual childhood. But the god could not satisfy them in this matter; -for it was contrary to the laws of nature, and the divine decrees and -intentions. Neither could he communicate his own infinity to mortal -creatures, nor the world itself, any more than he could bestow infinite -happiness and perfection on men and things. It seemed best to him to -extend the limits of creation, at the same time increasing the world's -diversity and beauty. In fulfilment of this intention, he enlarged -the earth on all sides; and made the sea to flow as a separation -between inhabited places, so that it might vary the aspect of things, -and by severing their roads, prevent men from easily discovering the -confines of the world. He also designed the sea to serve as a vivid -representation of the infinity which they desired. Then it was that the -waters covered the island Atlantis, as well as many other vast tracts -of country; but the remembrance of this island alone has survived the -multitude of centuries that have passed since that time. - -Jove formed valleys by lowering certain places; and by exalting others -he created hills and mountains. He bespread the night with stars; -purified the atmosphere; increased the brilliancy and light of day; -intensified the colours of the sky and the country, and gave them -more variety. He also mixed the generations of men, so that the aged -of one generation were contemporaneous with the children of another. -Above all, Jove determined to multiply resemblances of that infinity -for which men so eagerly craved. He could not really satisfy them, but -wishing to soothe and appease their imagination, which he knew had -been the chief source of their happiness in childhood, he employed many -expedients like that of the sea. He created the echo, and hid it in -valleys and caverns, and gave to the forests a dull deep whispering, -conjoined with a mysterious undulation of their tree-tops. He created -also the gorgeous land of dreams, and gave men power to visit it in -their sleep. There they could experience such perfect happiness as -could not in reality be accorded to them. This served as a substitute -for the vague unrealisable conception of felicity formed by men within -themselves, and to which Jove himself could not have given any real -expression, had he desired to do so. - -By these means the god infused new strength and vigour into the minds -of men, and endeared life to them again, so that they were full of -admiration for the beauty and immensity of nature. This happy state -lasted longer than the previous one. Its duration was chiefly due to -the diversity of ages among men, whereby those who were chilled and -wearied with their experience of the world, were comforted by the -society of others full of the ardency and hopefulness of youth. - -But in process of time this novelty wore off, and men again became -discontented and wearied with life. So despondent did they become, -that then is said to have originated the custom attributed by history -to certain ancient nations; the birth of a child was celebrated with -tears, and the death of a parent was the occasion of rejoicing for his -deliverance.[1] At length wickedness became universal. This was either -because men thought that Jove disregarded them, or because it is the -nature of misfortune to debase even the noblest minds. - -It is a popular error to imagine that man's misfortunes are the result -of his impiety and iniquity. On the contrary, his wickedness is the -consequence of his misfortunes. - -The gods avenged themselves for their injuries, and punished mortals -for their renewed perverseness, by the deluge of Deucalion. There were -only two survivors of this shipwreck of the human race, Deucalion -and Pyrrha. These unhappy ones were filled with the sense of their -wretchedness, and far from regretting the loss of all their fellows, -themselves loudly invoked death from the summit of a rock. But Jove -commanded them to remedy the depopulation of the earth, and seeing that -they had not the heart to beget a new generation, directed them to take -stones from the hill-sides, and cast them over their shoulders. From -these stones men were created, and the earth was again peopled. - -The history of the past had enlightened Jove as to the nature of men, -and had shown him that it is not sufficient for them, as for other -animals, merely to live in a state of freedom from sorrow and physical -discomfort. He knew that whatever their condition of life, they would -seek the impossible, and if unpossessed of genuine evils, would -torment themselves with imaginary ones. The god resolved therefore -to employ new means for the preservation of the miserable race. For -this purpose he used two especial artifices. In the first place, he -strewed life with veritable evils; and secondly, instituted a thousand -kinds of business and labour, to distract men as much as possible from -self-contemplation, and their desires for an unknown and imaginary -happiness. - -He began by sending a multitude of diseases, and an infinite number -of other calamities among them, with the intention of varying the -conditions of life so as to obviate the feeling of satiety which had -resulted before, and to induce men to esteem the good things they -possessed so much the more by contrast with these new evils. The -god hoped that men would be better able to bear the absence of the -happiness they longed for, when occupied and under the discipline of -suffering. He also determined by means of these physical infirmities -and exertions, to reduce the vigour of men's minds, to humble their -pride, to make them bow the head to necessity, and be more contented -with their lot. He knew that disease and misfortune would operate as a -preventive to the committal of those acts of suicide which had formerly -been rife; for they would not only make men cowardly and weak, but -would help to attach them to life by the hope of an existence free from -such sufferings. For it is a characteristic of the unfortunate that -they imagine happiness will wait on them as soon as the immediate cause -of their present misfortune is removed. - -Jove then created the winds and the rain-clouds, prepared the thunder -and lightning, gave the trident to Neptune, launched comets, and -arranged eclipses. By means of these and other terrible signs, he -resolved to frighten mortals from time to time, knowing that fear -and actual danger would temporarily reconcile to life, not only the -unhappy, but even those who most detested and were most disposed to put -an end to their existence. - -As a cure for the idleness of the past, Jove gave to men a taste and -desire for new foods and drinks, unprocurable, however, without the -greatest exertions. Previous to the deluge men had lived on water, -herbs, and such fruits as were yielded by the earth and the trees, -just as certain people of California and other places live even in the -present day. He assigned different climates to different countries, -and appointed the seasons of the year. Hitherto there had been no -diversity of temperature in any place, but the atmosphere was uniformly -so equable and mild that men were ignorant of the use of clothing. Now, -however, they were obliged to exert themselves industriously to remedy -the inclemency and changeability of the weather. - -Jove gave Mercury command to lay the foundations of the first cities, -and to divide men into different races, nations, and languages, -separated by feelings of rivalry and discord. He was also commissioned -to teach them music and those other arts, which, owing to their nature -and origin, are still called divine. Jove himself distributed laws and -constitutions to the new nations. Finally, as a supreme gift, he sent -among men certain sublime and superhuman Phantoms, to whom he committed -very great influence and control over the people of the earth. They -were called Justice, Virtue, Glory, Patriotism, &c. Among these -Phantoms was one named Love, which then first entered the world. For -previous to the introduction of clothes, the sexes were drawn towards -one another by merely a brute instinct, far different from love. The -feeling was comparable to that which we experience towards articles of -food and such things, that we desire, but do not love. - -By these divine decrees the condition of man was infinitely -ameliorated, and rendered easier and pleasanter than before; in spite -of the fatigues, sufferings, and terrors which were now inseparable -from humanity. And this result was chiefly due to the wonderful -chimeras, whom some men regarded as genii, others as gods, and whom -they followed with an intense veneration and enthusiasm for a very long -time. To such a pitch was their ardour excited by the poets and artists -of the times, that numbers of men did not hesitate to sacrifice their -lives to one or other of these Phantoms. Far from displeasing Jove, -this fact gratified him exceedingly, for he judged that if men esteemed -their life a gift worthy of sacrifice to these fine and glorious -illusions, they would be less likely to repudiate it as before. This -happy state of affairs was of longer duration than the preceding -ages. And even when after the lapse of many centuries, a tendency to -decline became apparent, existence, thanks to these bright illusions, -was still easy and bearable enough, up to a time not very far distant -from the present. This decline was chiefly due to the facility with -which men were able to satisfy their wants and desires; the growing -inequality between men in their social and other conditions, as -they receded farther and farther from the republican models founded -by Jove; the reappearance of vanity and idleness as a consequence of -this retrocession; the diminishing interest with which the variety of -life's incidents inspired them; and many other well-known and important -causes. Again men were filled with the old feeling of disgust for their -existence, and again their minds clamoured for an unknown happiness, -inconsistent with the order of nature. - -But the total revolution of the fortunes of men, and the end of that -epoch which we nowadays designate as the "old world," was due to one -especial influence. It was this. Among the Phantoms so appreciated -by the ancients was a certain one called Wisdom. This Phantom had -duly contributed to the prosperity of the times, and like the others -received high honour from men, a number of whom consecrated themselves -to her service. She had frequently promised her disciples to show -them her mistress, the Truth, a superior spirit who associated with -the gods in heaven, whence she had never yet descended. The Phantom -assured them that she would bring Truth among men, and that this spirit -would exercise so marvellous an influence over their life, that in -knowledge, perfection, and happiness they would almost rival the gods -themselves. But how could a shadow fulfil any promise, much less induce -the Truth to descend to earth? So after a long confiding expectancy, -men perceived the falseness of Wisdom. At the same time, greedy of -novelty because of the idleness of their life, and stimulated partly -by ambition of equalling the gods, and partly by the intensity of -their yearning for the happiness they imagined would ensue from the -possession of Truth, they presumptuously requested Jove to lend them -this noble spirit for a time, and reproached him for having so long -jealously withheld from men the great advantages that would follow from -the presence of Truth. They with one accord expressed dissatisfaction -with their lot, and renewed their former hateful whinings about the -meanness and misery of human things. The Phantoms, once so dear to -them, were now almost entirely abandoned, not that men had discerned -the unreality of their nature, but because they were so debased in -mind and manners as to have no sympathy with even the appearance of -goodness. Thus they wickedly rejected the greatest gift of gods to -men, and excused themselves by saying that none but inferior genii had -been sent on earth, the nobler ones, whom they would willingly have -worshipped, being retained in heaven. - -Many things long before this had contributed to lessen the goodwill -of Jove towards men, especially the magnitude and number of their -vices and crimes, which were far in advance of those punished by the -deluge. He was out of patience with the human race, the restless -and unreasonable nature of which exasperated him. He recognised the -futility of all effort on his part to make men happy and contented. -Had he not enlarged the world, multiplied its pleasures, and increased -its diversity? Yet all things were soon regarded by men (desirous and -at the same time incapable of infinity) as equally restricted and -valueless. Jove determined therefore to make a perpetual example of the -human race. He resolved to punish men unsparingly, and reduce them to -a state of misery far surpassing their former condition. Towards the -attainment of this end, he purposed sending Truth among men, not for -a time only as they desired, but for eternity, and giving her supreme -control and dominion over the human race, instead of the Phantoms that -were now so greatly despised. - -The other gods marvelled at this decision of Jove, as likely to -exalt the human race to a degree prejudicial to their own dignity. -But he explained to them that all genii are not beneficial, and that -apart from this, it was not of the nature of Truth to produce the -same results among men as with the gods. For whereas to the gods -she unveiled the eternity of their joy, to mortals she would expose -the immensity of their unhappiness, representing it to them not as a -matter of chance, but as an inevitable and perpetual necessity. And -since human evils are great in proportion as they are believed to -be so by their victims, it may be imagined how acute an affliction -Truth will prove to men. The vanity of all earthly things will be -apparent to them; they will find that nothing is genuine save their -own unhappiness. Above all, they will lose hope, hitherto the greatest -solace and support of life. Deprived of hope, they will have nothing -to stimulate them to any exertions; consequently work, industry, and -all mental culture will languish, and the life of the living will -partake of the inertness of the grave. Yet in spite of their despair -and inactivity, men will still be tormented by their old longing -for happiness intensified and quickened, because they will be less -distracted by cares, and the stir of action. They will also be deprived -of the power of imagination, which in itself could mysteriously -transport them into a state of happiness comparable to the felicity for -which they long. - -"And," said Jove, "all those representations of infinity which I -designedly placed in the world to deceive and satisfy men, and all the -vague thoughts suggestive of happiness, which I infused into their -minds, will yield to the doctrines of Truth. The earth, which formerly -displeased them for its insignificance, will do so increasedly when its -true dimensions are known, and when all the secrets of nature are made -manifest to them. And finally, with the disappearance of those Phantoms -that alone gave brightness to existence, human life will become aimless -and valueless. Nations and countries will lose even their names, for -with Patriotism will vanish all incentive to national identities. Men -will unite and form one nation and one people (as they will say), and -will profess a universal love for the race. But in reality there will -be the least possible union amongst them; they will be divided into as -many peoples as there are individuals. For having no special country -to love, and no foreigners to hate, every man will hate his neighbour, -and love only himself. The evil consequences of this are incalculable. -Nevertheless, men will not put an end to their unhappiness by depriving -themselves of life, because under the sway of Truth they will become -as cowardly as miserable. Truth will increase the bitterness of their -existence, and at the same time bereave them of sufficient courage to -reject it." - -These words of Jove moved the gods to compassion for the human race. -It seemed to them that so great inflictions were inconsistent with the -divine attribute of mercy. - -But Jove continued: "There will remain to humanity a certain -consolation proceeding from the Phantom Love, which alone I purpose -leaving among men. And even Truth, in spite of her almost omnipotence, -will never quite prevail over Love, nor succeed in chasing this Phantom -from the earth, though the struggle between them will be perpetual. -Thus the life of man, divided betwixt the worship of Truth and Love, -will consist of two epochs, during which these influences will -respectively control his mind and actions. To the aged, instead of -the solace of Love, will be granted a state of contentment with their -existence, similar to that of other animals. They will love life for -its own sake, not for any pleasure or profit they derive from it." - -Accordingly, Jove removed the Phantoms from earth, save only Love, -the least noble of all, and sent Truth among men to exercise over -them perpetual rule. The consequences foreseen by the god were not -long in making themselves manifest. And strange to say, whereas the -spirit before her descent on earth, and when she had no real authority -over men, was honoured by a multitude of temples and sacrifices, her -presence had the effect of cooling their enthusiasm on her behalf. -With the other gods this was not so; the more they made themselves -manifest, the more they were honoured; but Truth saddened men, and -ultimately inspired them with such hatred that they refused to worship -her, and only by constraint rendered her obedience. And whereas -formerly, men who were under the especial influence of any one of -the ancient Phantoms, used to love and revere that Phantom above the -others, Truth was detested and cursed by those over whom she gained -supreme control. So, unable to resist her tyranny, men lived from -that time in the complete state of misery, which is their fate in the -present day, and to which they are eternally doomed. - -But not long ago, pity, which is never exhausted in the minds of -the gods, moved Jove to compassionate the wretchedness of mortals. -He noticed especially the affliction of certain men, remarkable for -their high intellect, and nobility, and purity of life, who were -extraordinarily oppressed by the sway of Truth. Now in former times, -when Justice, Virtue, and the other Phantoms directed humanity, the -gods had been accustomed at times to visit the earth, and sojourn -with men for awhile, always on such occasions benefiting the race, or -particular individuals, in some especial manner. But since men had -become so debased, and sunk in wickedness, they had not deigned to -associate with them. Jove therefore, pitying our condition, asked the -immortals whether any one of them would visit the earth as of old, -and console men under their calamities, especially such as seemed -undeserving of the universal affliction. All the gods were silent. -At length Love, the son of celestial Venus, bearing the same name as -the Phantom Love, but very different in nature and power, and the -most compassionate of the immortals, offered himself for the mission -proposed by Jove. This deity was so beloved by the other gods, that -hitherto they had never allowed him to quit their presence, even for -a moment. The ancients indeed imagined that the god had appeared to -them from time to time; but it was not so. They were deceived by the -subterfuges and transformations of the Phantom Love. The deity of the -same name first visited mankind after they were placed under the empire -of Truth. - -Since that time the god has rarely and briefly descended, because of -the general unworthiness of humanity, and the impatience with which -the celestials await his return. When he comes on earth he chooses the -tender and noble hearts of the most generous and magnanimous persons. -Here he rests for a short time, diffusing in them so strange and -wondrous a sweetness, and inspiring them with affections so lofty and -vigorous, that they then experience what is entirely new to mankind, -the substance rather than the semblance of happiness. Sometimes, though -very rarely, he brings about the union of two hearts, abiding in them -both simultaneously, and exciting within them a reciprocal warmth and -desire. All within whom he dwells beseech him to effect this union; -but Jove forbids him to yield to their entreaties, save in very few -instances, because the happiness of such mutual love approaches too -nearly to the felicity of the immortals. - -The man in whom Love abides is the happiest of mortals. And not only is -he blessed by the presence of the deity, but he is also charmed by the -old mysterious Phantoms, which, though removed from the lot of men, by -Jove's permission follow in the train of Love, in spite of the great -opposition of Truth, their supreme enemy. But Truth, like all the other -genii, is powerless to resist the will of the gods. And, since destiny -has granted to Love a state of eternal youth, the god can partially -give effect to that first desire of men, that they might return to the -happiness of their childhood. In the souls he inhabits, Love awakens -and vivifies, so long as ha stays there, the boundless hopes, and the -sweet and fine illusions of early life. Many persons, ignorant and -incapable of appreciating Love, vituperate and affront the god, even to -his face. But he disregards these insults, and exacts no vengeance for -them, so noble and compassionate is his nature. Nor do the other gods -any longer trouble themselves about the crimes of men, being satisfied -with the vengeance they have already wrought on the human race, and -the incurable misery which is its portion. Consequently, wicked and -blasphemous men suffer no punishment for their offences, except that -they are absolutely excluded from being partakers of the divine favours. - - -[Footnote 1: See Herodotus, Strabo, &c.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS._ - - -_Hercules_. Father Atlas, Jove's compliments, and in case you should be -weary of your burden, I was to relieve you for a few hours, as I did -I don't know how many centuries ago, so that you may take breath, and -rest a little. - -_Atlas_. Thanks, dear Hercules, and I am very much obliged to Jove. -But the world has become so light, that this cloak which I wear as a -protection against the snow, incommodes me more. Indeed, were it not -Jove's will that I should continue to stand here, supporting this ball -on my back, I would put it under my arm, or in my pocket, or suspend it -from a hair of my beard, and go about my own affairs. - -_Hercules_. How has it become so light? I can easily see it has changed -shape, and has become a sort of roll, instead of being round as when I -studied cosmography in preparation for that wonderful voyage with the -Argonauts. But still I cannot see why its weight should have diminished. - -_Atlas_. I am as ignorant of the reason as you are. But take the thing -for a moment in your hand, and satisfy yourself of the truth of my -assertion. - -_Hercules_. Upon my word, without this test, I would not have believed -it. But what is this other novelty that I discover? The last time I -bore it, I felt a strong pulsation on my back, like the beat of an -animal's heart; and I heard a continuous buzzing like a wasp's nest. -But now, it throbs more like a watch with a broken spring, and as for -the buzzing, I don't hear a sound of it. - -_Atlas_. I know nothing of this either, except that long ago, the world -ceased making any motion, or sensible noise. I even had very great -suspicions that it was dead, and expecting daily to be troubled by -its corruption, I considered how and where I should bury it, and what -epitaph I should place on its tomb. But when I saw that it did not -decompose, I came to the conclusion that it had changed from an animal -into a plant, like Daphne and others; and this explained its silence -and immobility. I began to fear lest it should soon wind its roots -round my shoulders, or bury them in my body. - -_Hercules_. I am rather inclined to think it is asleep, and that its -repose is like that of Epimenides,[1] which lasted more than half a -century. Or perhaps it is like Hermotimus,[2] whose soul used to leave -his body when it pleased, and stay away many years, disporting itself -in foreign lands. To put an end to this game, the friends of Hermotimus -burned the body; so that the spirit returning, found its home -destroyed, and was obliged to seek shelter in another body, or an inn. -So, to prevent the world from sleeping for ever, or lest some friend, -thinking it were dead, should set it on fire, let us try to arouse it. - -_Atlas_. I am willing. But how shall we do it? - -_Hercules_. I would give it a good blow with this club, if I were not -afraid of smashing it, and were I not sure that it would crack under -the stroke like an egg. Besides, I fear lest the men, who in my time -used to wrestle with lions, but are now only a match for fleas, should -faint from so sudden a shock. Suppose I lay aside my club, and you your -cloak, and we have a game at ball with the poor little sphere. I wish -I had brought the rackets that Mercury and I use in the celestial -courts, but we can do without them. - -_Atlas_. A likely thing indeed! So that your father seeing our game, -may make a third, and with his thunderbolt precipitate us both I do not -know where, as he did Phaeton into the Po! - -_Hercules_. That might be, if, like Phaeton, I were the son of a poet, -and not his own son; and if there were not this difference between -us, that whereas poets formerly peopled cities by the melody of their -art, I could depopulate heaven and earth by the power of my club. And -as for Jove's bolt, I would kick it hence to the farthest quarter of -the empyrean. Be assured that even if I wished to appropriate five -or six stars for the sake of a game, or to make a sling of a comet, -taking it by the tail, or even to play at ball with the sun, my father -would make no objection. Besides, our intention is to do good to the -world, whereas Phaeton simply wished to show off his fleetness before -the Hours, who held the steps for him when he mounted his chariot. He -also wanted to gain reputation as a skilful coach-man, in the eyes of -Andromeda, Callisto, and the other beautiful constellations, to whom, -it is said, he threw, in passing, lustre bonbons, and comfits of light; -and to make a fine parade of himself before the celestial gods during -his journey that day, which chanced to be a festival. In short, don't -give a thought to the possibility of my father's wrath. In any case, I -will bear all the blame; so throw off your cloak, and send me the ball. - -_Atlas_. Willingly or not, I must do as you wish; since you are strong -and armed, whereas I am old and defenceless. But do take care lest it -fall, in which case it will have fresh swellings, or some new fracture, -like that which separated Sicily from Italy, and Africa from Spain. And -if it should get chipped in any way, there might be a war about what -men would call the detachment of a province or kingdom. - -_Hercules_. Rely on me. - -_Atlas_. Then here goes. See how it quivers on account of its altered -shape! - -_Hercules_. Hit a little harder; your strokes scarcely reach me. - -_Atlas_. It is the fault of the ball. The south-west wind catches it, -because of its lightness. - -_Hercules_. It is its old failing to go with the wind. - -_Atlas_. Suppose we were to inflate the ball, since it has no more -notion of a bounce than a melon. - -_Hercules_. A new shortcoming! Formerly it used to leap and dance like -a young goat. - -_Atlas_. Look out! Run quickly after that. For Jove's sake, take care -lest it fall! Alas! it was an evil hour when you came here. - -_Hercules_. You sent me such a bad stroke that I could not possibly -have caught it in time, even at the risk of breaking my neck. Alas, -poor little one!... How are you? Do you feel bad anywhere? I don't hear -a sigh, nor does a soul move. They are all still asleep. - -_Atlas_. Give it back to me, by all the horns of the Styx, and let me -settle it again on my shoulders. And you, take your club, and hasten -to heaven to excuse me with Jove for this accident, which is entirely -owing to you. - -_Hercules_. I will do so. For many centuries there has been in my -father's house a certain poet, named Horace. He was made court poet -at the suggestion of Augustus, who has been deified by Jove for his -augmentation of the Eoman power. In one of his songs, this poet says -that the just man would stir not, though the world fell. Since the -world has now fallen, and no one has moved, it follows that all men are -just. - -_Atlas_. Who doubts the justice of men? But do not lose time; run -and exculpate me with your father, else I shall momentarily expect a -thunderbolt to transform me from Atlas into Etna. - - -[Footnote 1: See Pliny, Diogenes Laertius, Apollonius, VarrÚ, &c.] - -[Footnote 2: See Apollonius, Pliny, Tertullian, &c.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH._ - - -_Fashion_. Madam Death, Madam Death! - -_Death_. Wait until your time comes, and then I will appear without -being called by you. - -_Fashion_. Madam Death! - -_Death_. Go to the devil. I will come when you least expect me. - -_Fashion_. As if I were not immortal! - -_Death_. Immortal? - -"Already has passed the thousandth year," - -since the age of immortals ended. - -_Fashion_. Madam is as much a Petrarchist as if she were an Italian -poet of the fifteenth or eighteenth century. - -_Death_. I like Petrarch because he composed my triumph, and because he -refers so often to me. But I must be moving. - -_Fashion_. Stay! For the love you bear to the seven cardinal sins, stop -a moment and look at me. - -_Death_. Well. I am looking. - -_Fashion_. Do you not recognise me? - -_Death_. You must know that I have bad sight, and am without -spectacles. The English make none to suit me; and if they did, I should -not know where to put them. - -_Fashion_. I am Fashion, your sister. - -_Death_. My sister? - -_Fashion_. Yes. Do you not remember we are both born of Decay? - -_Death_. As if I, who am the chief enemy of Memory, should recollect it! - -_Fashion_. But I do. I know also that we both equally profit by the -incessant change and destruction of things here below, although you do -so in one way, and I in another. - -_Death_. Unless you are speaking to yourself, or to some one inside -your throat, raise your voice, and pronounce your words more -distinctly. If you go mumbling between your teeth with that thin -spider-voice of yours, I shall never understand you; because you ought -to know that my hearing serves me no better than my sight. - -_Fashion_. Although it be contrary to custom, for in France they do -not speak to be heard, yet, since we are sisters, I will speak as you -wish, for we can dispense with ceremony between ourselves. I say then -that our common nature and custom is to incessantly renew the world. -You attack the life of man, and overthrow all people and nations from -beginning to end; whereas I content myself for the most part with -influencing beards, head-dresses, costumes, furniture, houses, and -the like. It is true, I do some things comparable to your supreme -action. I pierce ears, lips, and noses, and cause them to be torn -by the ornaments I suspend from them. I impress men's skin with hot -iron stamps, under the pretence of adornment. I compress the heads -of children with tight bandages and other contrivances; and make it -customary for all men of a country to have heads of the same shape, as -in parts of America and Asia. I torture and cripple people with small -shoes. I stifle women with stays so tight, that their eyes start from -their heads; and I play a thousand similar pranks. I also frequently -persuade and force men of refinement to bear daily numberless fatigues -and discomforts, and often real sufferings; and some even die -gloriously for love of me. I will say nothing of the headaches, colds, -inflammations of all kinds, fevers--daily, tertian, and quartan--which -men gain by their obedience to me. They are content to shiver with -cold, or melt with heat, simply because it is my will that they cover -their shoulders with wool, and their breasts with cotton. In fact, they -do everything in my way, regardless of their own injury. - -_Death_. In truth, I believe you are my sister; the testimony of a -birth certificate could scarcely make me surer of it. But standing -still paralyses me, so if you can, let us run; only you must not creep, -because I go at a great pace. As we proceed you can tell me what you -want. If you cannot keep up with me, on account of our relationship I -promise when I die to bequeath you all my clothes and effects as a New -Year's gift. - -_Fashion_. If we ran a race together, I hardly know which of us would -win. For if you run, I gallop, and standing still, which paralyses you, -is death to me. So let us run, and we will chat as we go along. - -_Death_. So be it then. Since your mother was mine, you ought to serve -me in some way, and assist me in my business. - -_Fashion_. I have already done so--more than you,--imagine. Above all, -I, who annul and transform other customs unceasingly, have nowhere -changed the custom of death; for this reason it has prevailed from the -beginning of the world until now. - -_Death_. A great miracle forsooth, that you have never done what you -could not do! - -_Fashion_. Why cannot I do it? You show how ignorant you are of the -power of Fashion. - -_Death_. Well, well: time enough to talk of this when you introduce the -custom of not dying. But at present, I want you, like a good sister, -to aid me in rendering my task more easy and expeditious than it has -hitherto been. - -_Fashion_. I have already mentioned some of my labours which are a -source of profit to you. But they are trifling in comparison with those -of which I will now tell you. - -Little by little, and especially in modern times, I have brought into -disuse and discredit those exertions and exercises which promote bodily -health; and have substituted numberless others which enfeeble the -body in a thousand ways, and shorten life. Besides, I have introduced -customs and manners, which render existence a thing more dead than -alive, whether regarded from a physical or mental point of view; -so that this century may be aptly termed the century of death. And -whereas formerly you had no other possessions except graves and vaults, -where you sowed bones and dust, which are but a barren seed, now you -have fine landed properties, and people who are a sort of freehold -possession of yours as soon as they are born, though not then claimed -by you. And more, you, who used formerly to be hated and vituperated, -are in the present day, thanks to me, valued and lauded by all men of -genius. Such an one prefers you to life itself, and holds you in such -high esteem that he invokes you, and looks to you as his greatest hope. - -But this is not all. I perceived that men had some vague idea of an -after-life, which they called immortality. They imagined they lived in -the memory of their fellows, and this remembrance they sought after -eagerly. Of course this was in reality mere fancy, since what could it -matter to them when dead, that they lived in the minds of men? As well -might they dread contamination in the grave! Yet, fearing lest this -chimera might be prejudicial to you, in seeming to diminish your honour -and reputation, I have abolished the fashion of seeking immortality, -and its concession, even when merited. So that now, whoever dies may -assure himself that he is dead altogether, and that every bit of him -goes into the ground, just as a little fish is swallowed, bones and -all. - -These important things my love for you has prompted me to effect. I -have also succeeded in my endeavour to increase your power on earth. I -am more than ever desirous of continuing this work. Indeed, my object -in seeking you to-day was to make a proposal that for the future we -should not separate, but jointly might scheme and execute for the -furtherance of our respective designs. - -_Death_. You speak reasonably, and I am willing to do as you propose. - - - - -_PRIZE COMPETITION ANNOUNCED BY THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS._ - - -The Academy of Sillographs, ardently desiring to advance the common -welfare, and esteeming nothing more conformable to this end than the -promotion of the progress - -"Of the happy century in which we live," - -as says an illustrious poet, has taken in hand the careful -consideration of the nature and tendency of our time. After long and -mature consultation, the Academy has resolved to call our era the -age of machines; not only because the men of to-day live and move -perhaps more mechanically than in past times, but also on account of -the numerous machines now invented and utilised for so many different -purposes. To such an extent indeed is this carried, that machines and -not men may be said to manage human affairs, and conduct the business -of life. This circumstance greatly pleases the said Academy, not so -much because of the manifest convenience of the arrangement, as for two -reasons, which it thinks very important, although ordinarily they are -not so regarded. The one is the possibility that in process of time the -influence and usefulness of machines may extend to spiritual as well -as material things. And as by virtue of these machines and inventions, -we are already protected from lightning, storms, and other such evils -and terrors; similarly there may be discovered some cure for envy, -calumny, perfidy, and trickery; some safety-cord or other invention -to deliver us from egotism, from the prevalence of mediocrity, from -prosperous fools, bad and debased persons, from the universal spirit -of indifference, from the wretchedness peculiar to the wise, the -cultivated, the noble-minded, and from other discomforts which for many -centuries have been more invincible than either lightning or tempests. -The other and chief reason concerns the unhappy condition of the human -race. Most philosophers despair of its improvement, or the cure of its -defects, which probably equal or exceed in number its virtues. They -believe it would be easier to entirely re-create the race in another -way, or to substitute a different "genus" altogether, than to amend -it. The Academy of Sinographs is therefore of opinion that it is very -expedient for men to withdraw from the business of life as much as -possible, and gradually to resign in favour of machines. And being -resolved to support with all its might the progress of this new order -of things, it now begs to offer three prizes for the inventors of the -three following machines. - -The aim of the first machine must be to represent a friend warranted -not to abuse or ridicule his absent friend; nor forsake his friend when -he hears him made the subject of jest; nor to seek the reputation of -acuteness, sarcasm, and the power of exciting men's laughter at his -friend's expense; nor to divulge or boast of secrets confided to him; -nor to take advantage of his friend's intimacy and confidence in order -to supplant and surpass him; nor to envy his friend's good fortune. -But it must be solicitous for his friend's welfare, join issue with -him against his misfortunes, and assist him in deeds as well as words. -Reference to the treatises of Cicero and the Marquise of Lambert on -"Friendship" may be advantageously made for further suggestions as to -the manufacture of this automaton. The Academy thinks the invention -of this machine ought not to be regarded as either impossible, or -even very difficult, seeing that besides the automata of Regiomontano, -Vaucanson, and others, and the one in London which drew figures and -portraits, and wrote from dictation, there are machines that can even -play chess unassisted. Now in the opinion of many "savants," human -life is a game, and some assert it to be a thing even more frivolous. -They say that the game of chess is a more rationally conceived thing, -and its hazards are less uncertain than those of life. Besides, -Pindar has called life a thing of no more substance than the dream of -a shadow; in which case it ought not to be beyond the capacity of a -vigilant automaton. As to speech, there is no reason why men should -not be able to communicate this to machines of their manufacture. For -amongst examples of manufactures so endowed, we may number the statue -of Memnon, and the head formed by Albertus Magnus; this latter was -so loquacious that St. Thomas Aquinas, irritated at its incessant -tittle-tattle, broke it in pieces. And if the parrot of Nevers (though -certainly this was an animal, however small a one) could converse, how -much more credible that a machine, conceived by the mind of man, and -constructed by his hands, should be able to acquire such attainments? -The machine ought not to be so talkative as the parrot of Nevers, and -other similar ones, which we see and hear everywhere; nor as the head -made by Albertus Magnus; for it must not weary its friend, thereby -inciting him to its destruction. - -The inventor of this machine shall receive a reward of a gold medal -weighing four hundred sequins, which on the one side shall have a -representation of the figures of Pylades and Orestes, and on the other -side the name of the person rewarded, together with the inscription, -"First verifier of the ancient fables." - -The second machine must be an artificial man worked by steam, adapted -and constructed for virtuous and magnanimous actions. The Academy is of -opinion that since no other method appears to exist, steam ought to -be capable of directing an animated automaton in the paths of virtue -and glory. Candidates for this competition are referred to books of -poems and romances for suggestions as to the qualities and powers with -which to endow the figure. The reward to be a gold medal weighing four -hundred and fifty sequins, stamped on the one side with some fanciful -design significative of the age of gold, and on its reverse the name of -the inventor of the machine, together with this inscription from the -fourth eclogue of Virgil: "Quo ferrea primum desinet ac toto surget -gens aurea mundo." - -The third machine should be empowered to act as a woman, realising -the conception formed partly by Count Baldassar Castiglione, who -describes his idea in the book of the "Cortegiano," and partly by -others, easily discoverable in various writings which must be consulted -and combined with those of the Count. Nor ought the invention of this -machine to appear impossible to men of our times, when it be remembered -that Pygmalion long ago, in an age far from scientific, was able to -fabricate a spouse with his own hands, who was considered to be the -best woman that had ever existed. To the originator of this machine -a gold medal weighing five hundred sequins is assigned, on the one -side of which shall be represented the Arabian Phoenix of Metastasio, -perched on a tree of some European species, and on the other side shall -be written the name of the recipient, with the inscription, "Inventor -of faithful women, and conjugal happiness." The Academy decrees that -the cost of these prizes must be defrayed with what was discovered in -the satchel of Diogenes, late Secretary of this Academy, or by means -of one of the three golden asses that belonged to three Sillographic -Academicians, Apuleius, Firenzuola, and Macchiavelli; all which -property passed to the Sillographists by will of the deceased, as may -be read in the Chronicles of the Academy. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME._ - - -_Goblin_. You here, son of Beelzebub! where are you going? - -_Gnome_. My father has sent me to find out what these rascals of men -are doing. He is inclined to suspect something, because it is so -long since they gave us any trouble, and in all his realms there is -not a single one to be seen. He wonders whether any great change has -taken place, and thinks perhaps they have returned to the primitive -system of barter, whereby they use sheep instead of gold and silver; -or the civilised people have become dissatisfied with paper notes for -money, as they have often been, or have taken to cowrie shells such as -savages use; or the laws of Lycurgus have been re-established. The last -possibility seems to him the least likely. - -_Goblin_. "You seek them in vain, for they are all dead," as said the -survivors in a tragedy where the principal personages died in the last -act. - -_Gnome_. What do you mean? - -_Goblin_. I mean that men are all dead, and the race is lost. - -_Gnome_. My word! what news for the papers! But how is it they have not -already mentioned it? - -_Goblin_. Stupid. Do you not see that if there are no men there will be -no more newspapers? - -_Gnome_. Yes, that is true. But how shall we know in future the news of -the world? - -_Goblin_. News! what news? That the sun rises and sets? That it is hot -or cold? That here or there it has rained or snowed, or been windy? - -Since men disappeared, Fortune has unbandaged her eyes, put on -spectacles, and attached her wheel to a pivot. She sits with arms -crossed, watching the world go round without troubling herself in the -least as to its affairs. There are no more kingdoms nor empires to -swell themselves, and burst like bubbles, for they have all vanished. -There is no more war; and the years are as like one another as two peas. - -_Gnome_. No one will know the day of the month, since there will be no -more calendars printed! - -_Goblin_. What a misfortune! Nevertheless, the moon will continue her -course. - -_Gnome_. And the days of the week will be nameless! - -_Goblin_. What does it matter? Do you think they will not come unless -you call them? Or, that once passed, they will return if you call out -their names? - -_Gnome_. And no one will take any count of the years! - -_Goblin_. We shall be able to say we are young when we are old; and we -shall forget our cares when we cannot fix their anniversary. Besides, -when we are very old, we shall not know it, nor be expecting death -daily. - -_Gnome_. But how is it these rogues have disappeared? - -_Goblin_. Some killed themselves with fighting; others were drowned in -the sea. Some ate each other. Not a few committed suicide. Some died of -ennui in idleness; and some turned their brains with study. Debauch, -and a thousand other excesses, put an end to many more. In short, they -have arrived at their end, by endeavouring, as long as they lived, to -violate the laws of nature, and to go contrary to their welfare. - -_Gnome_. Still, I do not understand how an entire race of animals can -become extinct without leaving any trace behind it. - -_Goblin_. You who are a specialist in geology ought to know that the -circumstance is not a new one, and that many kinds of animals lived -anciently, which to-day are nowhere to be found except in the remains -of a few petrified bones. Moreover, these poor creatures employed none -of the means used by men for their destruction. - -_Gnome_. It may be so. I should dearly like to resuscitate one or two -of the rascals, just to know what they would think when they saw all -going on as before, in spite of the disappearance of the human race. -Would they then imagine that everything was made and maintained solely -for them? - -_Goblin_. They would not like to realise that the world exists solely -for the use of the Goblins. - -_Gnome_. You are joking, my friend, if you mean what you say. - -_Goblin_. Why? Of course I do. - -_Gnome_. Go along with you, buffoon! who does not know that the world -is made for the Gnomes? - -_Goblin_. For the Gnomes, who live underground! That is one of the best -jokes I have ever heard. What good are the sun, moon, air, sea, and -country to the Gnomes? - -_Gnome_. And pray of what use to the Goblins are the mines of gold and -silver, and the whole body of earth, except the outer skin? - -_Goblin_. Well, well: suppose we abandon the discussion. It is -unimportant after all. For I imagine even the lizards and gnats think -the whole world was created for their exclusive service. Let each of us -believe what we please, for nothing will make us change our opinion. -But, between ourselves, if I had not been born a Goblin, I should be in -despair. - -_Gnome_. And I, had I not been born a Gnome. But I should like to -know what men would say of their impertinence in former times, when, -besides other misdeeds, they sank thousands of underground shafts, and -stole our goods from us by force, asserting that they belonged to the -human race. Nature, they said, concealed and buried the things down -below, as a sort of game at hide and seek, just to see if they could -discover and abstract them. - -_Goblin_. I do not wonder at that, since they not only imagined the -things of the world were at their service, but they also regarded -them as a mere trifle compared to the human race. They called their -own vicissitudes "revolutions of the world;" and histories of their -nations, "histories of the world;" although the earth contained about -as many different species of animals as living individual human beings. -Yet these animals, though made expressly for the use of men, were never -conscious of the so-called revolutions of the world! - -_Gnome_. Then even the fleas and gnats were made for the service of men? - -_Goblin_. Just so. To exercise their patience, men said. - -_Gnome_. As if, apart from fleas, man's patience were not tried -sufficiently! - -_Goblin_. And a certain man named Chrysippus termed pigs pieces of meat -expressly prepared by nature for man's table. Their souls, he said, -served the purpose of salt, in preserving them from decay. - -_Gnome_. In my opinion, if Chrysippus had had a little sense (salt) in -his brain, instead of imagination (soul), he would never have conceived -such an idea. - -_Goblin_. Here is another amusing circumstance. An infinite number -of species of animals were never seen, nor heard of by men their -masters, either because they lived where man never set foot, or because -they were too small to be observed. Many others were only discovered -during the last days of the human race. The same may be said of -plants, minerals, &c. Similarly, from time to time, by means of their -telescopes, they perceived some star or planet, of the existence of -which hitherto, during thousands and thousands of years, they had been -ignorant. They then immediately entered it on the catalogue of their -possessions; for they regarded the stars and planets as so many candles -placed up above to give light to their dominions, because they were -wont to transact much business in the night. - -_Gnome_. And in summer, when they saw those little meteor flames -that rush through the air at night, they imagined them to be sprites -employed in snuffing the candles for the good of mankind. - -_Goblin_. Yet now that they are all gone, the earth is none the worse -off. The rivers still flow, and the sea, although no longer used for -navigation and traffic, is not dried up. - -_Gnome_. The stars and planets still rise and set; nor have they gone -into mourning. - -_Goblin_. Neither has the sun put on sackcloth and ashes, as it did, -according to Virgil, when CÊsar died; about whom I imagine it concerned -itself as little as Pompey's Pillar. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO._ - - -_Malambruno_. Spirits of the deep, Farfarello, Ciriatto, Raconero, -Astarotte, Alichino, or whatever else you are called, I adjure you in -the name of Beelzebub, and command you by virtue of my art, which can -unhinge the moon, and nail the sun in the midst of the heavens, come -one of you with your prince's permission, to put all the powers of hell -at my disposal. - -_Farfarello_. Here I am. - -_Mal_. Who are you? - -_Far_. Farfarello, at thy service. - -_Mal_. Have you the mandate of Beelzebub? - -_Far_. I have; and can thus do for thee all that the king himself could -do, and more than lies in the power of all other creatures together. - -_Mal_. It is well. I wish to be satisfied in but one desire. - -_Far_. Thou shalt be obeyed. What is it? Dost thou wish for majesty -surpassing that of the Atrides? - -_Mal_. No. - -_Far_. More wealth than shall be found in El Dorado, when it is -discovered? _Mal_. No. - -_Far_. An empire as large as that of which Charles V. dreamt one night? - -_Mal_. No. - -_Far_. A mistress chaster than Penelope? - -_Mal_. No: methinks the devil's aid were superfluous for that. - -_Far_. Honours and success, however wicked thou mayst be? - -_Mal_. I should rather more need the devil, if I wished the contrary, -under such circumstances. - -_Far_. Then what dost thou want? - -_Mal_. Make me happy for a moment. - -_Far_. I cannot. - -_Mal_. Why? - -_Far_. I give you my word of honour--I cannot do it. - -_Mal_. The word of honour of a good demon? - -_Far_. Yes, to be sure. Thou shouldest know that there are good devils -as well as good men. - -_Mal_. And you must know that I will hang you by the tail to one of -these beams if you do not instantly obey me without more words. - -_Far_. It were easier for you to kill me, than for me to satisfy your -demands. - -_Mal_. Then return with my malediction, and let Beelzebub come himself. - -_Far_. Beelzebub and the whole army of hell would be equally powerless -to render you or any of your race happy. - -_Mal_. Not even for a single moment? - -_Far_. As impossible for a moment, half a moment, or the thousandth -part of a moment, as for a lifetime. - -_Mal_. Well, since you cannot make me happy in any way, at least free -me from unhappiness. - -_Far_. On condition that you no longer love yourself above everything -else. - -_Mal_. I shall only cease doing that when I die. - -_Far_. But as long as you live you will be unable to do it. Your nature -would tolerate anything rather than that. - -_Mal_. So it is. - -_Far_. Consequently, loving yourself above everything, you desire your -own happiness more than anything. But because this is unattainable, you -must necessarily be unhappy. - -_Mal_. Even when engaged in pleasure; since no gratification can make -me happy, or satisfy me. - -_Far_. Truly none. - -_Mal_. And because pleasure cannot satisfy my soul's innate desire for -happiness, it is not true pleasure, and during its continuance I shall -still be unhappy. - -_Far_. As you say: because in men and other living beings, the -deprivation of happiness, even though pain and misfortune be wanting, -implies express unhappiness. This, too, during the continuance of -so-called pleasures. - -_Mal_. So that from birth to death our unhappiness never ceases for an -instant. - -_Far_. Yes, it ceases whenever you sleep dreamlessly, or when, from one -cause or another, you are deprived of your senses. - -_Mal_. But never, so long as we are sensible that we live. - -_Far_. Never. - -_Mal_. So that in fact it were better not to live than to live. - -_Far_. If the absence of unhappiness be better than unhappiness itself. - -_Mal_. Then? - -_Far_. Then if you would like to give me your soul before its time, I -am ready to carry it away with me. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL._ - - -_Nature_. Go, my beloved child. You shall be regarded as my favoured -one for very many centuries. Live: be great and unhappy. - -_Soul_. What evil have I done before beginning to live, that you -condemn me to this misery? - -_Nature_. What misery, my child? - -_Soul_. Do you not ordain that I am to be unhappy? - -_Nature_. Yes; but only so far as to enable you to be great, which you -cannot become without unhappiness. Besides, you are destined to animate -a human body, and all men are of necessity unhappy from their birth. - -_Soul_. It were more reasonable that you made happiness a necessity; or -this being impossible, it were better not to bring men into the world. - -_Nature_. I can do neither the one thing nor the other, because I am -subordinate to Destiny, who decrees the contrary. The reason of this -is as much a mystery to myself as to you. Now that you are created and -designed to animate a human being, no power in the world can save you -from the unhappiness common to men. Moreover, your infelicity will be -especially great, owing to the perfection with which I have fashioned -you. - -_Soul_. I know nothing yet, because I have only just begun to live. -Doubtless this is why I do not understand you. But tell me, is -greatness the same thing as extreme unhappiness? If, however, they are -different, why could not the one be separated from the other? - -_Nature_. In the souls of men, and proportionately in those of all -animals, they are inseparable, because excellence of soul implies great -capacity for knowledge, which in exposing to men the unhappiness of -humanity may be termed unhappiness itself. Similarly, a life of greater -intensity involves a greater love of self, manifested in different -ways. An increased desire for happiness is a consequence of this -self-love and increased unhappiness, because of the impossibility of -satisfying this desire, and as the unfortunate condition of humanity -becomes realised. All this is decreed from the beginning of creation, -and is unalterable by me. - -Moreover, the keenness of your intellect and the strength of your -imagination will lessen considerably your power of self-control. Brute -animals readily adapt all their faculties and powers to the attainment -of their ends; but men rarely do so, being usually prevented by their -reason and imagination, which give birth to a thousand doubts in -deliberation, and a thousand hindrances in execution. The less men -are inclined or accustomed to deliberate, the more prompt are they in -decision, and the more vigorous in action. But such souls as yours, -self-contained, and proudly conscious of their greatness, are really -powerless for self-rule, and often succumb to irresolution both in -thought and action. This temperament is one of the greatest curses of -human life. - -Added to this, although by your noble talents you will easily and -quickly excel most men in profound knowledge and works of the greatest -difficulty, you will yet find it almost impossible to learn, or put in -practice, a host of things, trivial enough, but very essential, for -your intercourse with others. At the same time, you; will see your -inferiors, and even men of scarcely any intelligence, perfectly at home -with these things. Such difficulties and miseries as these occupy and -surround great souls; but they are amply atoned for by fame, praise, -and honours paid to their greatness, and by the lasting memory they -leave behind them. - -_Soul_. Whence will come these praises and honours,--from heaven, from -you, or from whom? - -_Nature_. From men, who alone can dispense them. - -_Soul_. But I thought my ignorance of those things necessary for the -intercourse of life, which intellects inferior to mine so easily -comprehend, would cause me to be despised and shunned, not praised by -men. I thought too that I should surely live unknown to most of them, -because of my unfitness for their society. - -_Nature_. I have not the power to foresee the future, so I cannot say -exactly how men will behave to you whilst you are on earth. But judging -from past experience, I think they will probably be jealous of you. -This is another misfortune to which great minds are peculiarly liable. -Perhaps too, they will despise you, and treat you with indifference. -Fortune herself, and even circumstances, are usually unfriendly to such -as you. - -But directly after your death, as happened to one named Camoens, or a -few years later, like Milton, you will be eulogised and lauded to the -skies, if not by every one, at any rate by the few men of noble minds. -Perhaps the ashes of your body will be deposited in a magnificent tomb, -and your likeness reproduced in many different forms, and passed about -from hand to hand. Men will also study your life and writings, and at -length the world will ring with your name. Always provided you are not -hindered by evil fortune, or even by the very excess of your genius, -from leaving undoubted testimonies of your merit; instances are not -wanting of such unfortunates, known only to myself and Destiny. - -_Soul_. O mother, I care not if I be deprived of all knowledge, so long -as I obtain what I most desire, happiness. And as for glory, I know not -whether it be a good or evil thing, but I do know that I shall only -value it in so far as it procures me happiness, directly or indirectly. -Now, on your own showing, the excellence with which you have endowed -me, though it may be fruitful of glory, is also productive of the -greatest unhappiness. Yet even this paltry glory I may not gain until -I am dead, when I fail to see how I shall benefit by it. And besides, -there is the probability that this phantom glory, the price of so much -suffering, may be obtained neither in life nor after death. - -In short, from what you yourself have said, I conclude that far from -loving me with peculiar affection, as you affirmed, you bear me greater -malice than that of which I can be the victim, either at the hands -of men or Destiny. Why else should you have endowed me with this -disastrous excellence, about which you boast so much, and which will be -the chief stumbling-block in the road to happiness, the only thing for -which I care? - -_Nature_. My child, all men are destined to be unhappy, as I have said, -without any fault of mine. But in the midst of this universal misery, -and amid the infinite vanity of all their pleasures and joys, glory -is by most men considered to be the greatest good of life, and the -worthiest object of ambition and fatigue. Therefore, not hatred but a -feeling of especial kindliness, has prompted me to assist you as far as -I could in your attainment of this glory. - -_Soul_. Tell me: among the animals you mentioned, are there any of less -vitality and sensibility than men? - -_Nature_. All are so, in more or less degree, beginning with plants. -Man, being the most perfect of them all, has greater life and power of -thought than all other living beings. - -_Soul_. Then if you love me, place me in the most imperfect thing -existing, or that being impossible, at least deprive me of this -terrible excellence, and make me like the most stupid and senseless -soul you have ever created! - -_Nature_. I can satisfy your second request, and will do so, since you -reject the immortality I would have given you. - -_Soul_. And instead of the immortality, I beseech you to hasten my -death as much as possible. - -_Nature_. I will consult Destiny about that. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON_ - - -_Earth_. Dear Moon, I know that you can speak and answer questions like -a human being, for I have heard so from many of the poets. Besides, our -children say you have really a mouth, nose, and eyes like every one -else, and that they see them with their own eyes, which at their time -of life ought to be very sharp. As for me, no doubt you know that I am -a person; indeed, when I was young, I had a number of children; so you -will not be surprised to hear me speak. And the reason, my fine Moon, -why I have never uttered a word to you before, although I have been -your neighbour for I don't know how many centuries, is that I have been -so occupied as to have no time for gossip. But now my business is so -trifling that it can look after itself. I don't know what to do, and am -ready to die of ennui. So in future, I hope we may often have some talk -together; and I should like to know all about your affairs, if it does -not inconvenience you to recount them to me. - -_Moon_. Be easy on that score. May the Fates never trouble me more -than you are likely to! Talk as much as you please, and although, as I -believe you know, I am partial to silence, I will willingly listen and -reply, to oblige you. - -_Earth_. Do you hear the delightful sound made by the heavenly bodies -in motion? - -_Moon_. To tell you the truth, I hear nothing. - -_Earth_. Nor do I; save only the whistling of the wind, which blows -from my poles to the equator, and from the equator to the poles, and -which is far from musical. But Pythagoras asserts that the celestial -spheres make an incredibly sweet harmony, and that you take part in the -concert, and are the eighth chord of this universal lyre. As for me, I -am so deafened by my own noise that I hear nothing. - -_Moon_. I also am doubtless deafened, since I hear no more than you. -But it is news to me that I am a chord. - -_Earth_. Now let us change the subject. Tell me; are you really -inhabited, as thousands of ancient and modern philosophers affirm--from -Orpheus to De Lalande? In spite of all my efforts to prolong these -horns of mine, which men call mountains and hills, and from the summits -of which I look at you in silence, I have failed to discern a single -one of your inhabitants. Yet I am told that a certain David Fabricius, -whose eyes were keener than those of Lynceus, at one time observed your -people extending their linen to be dried by the sun. - -_Moon_. I know nothing about your horns. I will admit that I am -inhabited. - -_Earth_. What colour are your men? - -_Moon_. What men? - -_Earth_. Those that you contain. Did you not say you were inhabited? - -_Moon_. Yes, what then? - -_Earth_. Does it not follow that all your inhabitants are animals? - -_Moon_. Neither animals nor men, though I am really in ignorance as to -the nature of either the one or the other. As for the men you speak of, -I have not an idea what you mean. - -_Earth_. Then what sort of creatures are yours? - -_Moon_. They are of very many different kinds, as unknown to you, as -yours are to me. - -_Earth_. This is so strange that if you yourself had not informed me of -it, I would never have believed it. Were you ever conquered by any of -your inhabitants? - -_Moon_. Not that I know of. But how? And for what reason? - -_Earth_. Through ambition and jealousy; by means of diplomacy and arms. - -_Moon_. I do not know what you mean by arms, ambition, and diplomacy. -Indeed, I understand nothing of what you say. - -_Earth_. But surely if you do not understand the meaning of arms, -you know something of war; because, not long ago, a certain doctor -discovered through a telescope, which is an instrument for seeing a -long distance, that you possessed a fine fortress with proper bastions. -Now this is certain proof that your races are at any rate accustomed to -sieges and mural battles. - -_Moon_. Pardon me, Mother Earth, if I reply to you a little more at -length than would be expected from one so subjugated as it seems I -am. But in truth, you appear to me more than vain to imagine that -everything in the world is conformable to your things; as if Nature -had no other intention than to copy you exactly in each of her -creations. I tell you I am inhabited, and you jump to the conclusion -that my inhabitants are men. I assert that they are not, and whilst -admitting that they may be another race of beings, you endow them with -qualities and customs similar to those of your people. You also speak -to me about the telescope of a certain doctor. But it seems to me the -sight of these telescopes is about as good as that of your children, -who discover that I have eyes, a mouth, and a nose, all of which I am -ignorant of possessing. - -_Earth_. Then it is not true that your provinces are intersected by -fine long roads, and that you are cultivated; which things are clearly -discernible with a telescope from Germany.[1] - -_Moon_. I do not know whether I am cultivated, and I have never -observed my roads. - -_Earth_. Dear Moon, you must know that I am of a coarse composition, -and very simple-minded. No wonder therefore that men easily deceive -me. But I can assure you that if your own inhabitants do not care -to conquer you, you are by no means free from such danger; for at -different times many people down here have thought of subduing you, -and have even made great preparations for doing so. Some have tried -to reach you by going to my highest places, standing on tiptoe, and -stretching out their arms. Besides, they have made a careful study of -your surface, and drawn out maps of your countries. They also know -the heights of your mountains, and even their names. I warn you of -these things out of pure goodwill, so that you may be prepared for any -emergency. - -Now, permit me to ask you another question or two. Are you much -disturbed by the dogs that bay at you? What do you think of those -people who show you another moon in a well? Are you masculine or -feminine[2]--because anciently there was a difference of opinion. Is -it true that the Arcadians came into the world before you?[3] Are your -women, or whatever I should call them, oviparous, and did one of their -eggs fall down to us, once upon a time?[4] Are you perforated like -a bead, as a modern philosopher believes?[5] Are you made of green -cheese, as some English say? Is it true that Mahomet one fine night cut -you in two like a water melon, and that a good piece of your body fell -into his cloak? Why do you like to stay on the tops of minarets? What -do you think of the feast of Bairam? - -_Moon_. You may as well go on. I need not answer such questions, nor -depart from my accustomed habit of silence. If you wish to be so -frivolous, and can find nothing else to talk to me about except matters -incomprehensible to me, your people had better construct another planet -to rotate round them, which they can design and populate as they -please. You seem unable to talk of anything but men, and dogs, and such -things, of which I know as much as of that one great being round which -I am told our sun turns. - -_Earth_. Truly the more I determine not to touch on personal matters, -the less I succeed in my resolution. But for the future I will be more -careful. Tell me; do you amuse yourself by drawing up my sea-water, and -then letting it fall again? - -_Moon_. It may be. But if I have done this, or other such things, I am -unaware of it. And you, it seems to me, do not consider what you effect -here, which is of so much the more importance as your size and strength -are greater than mine. - -_Earth_. I know nothing of these effects, except that from time to -time I deprive you of the sun's light, and myself of yours, and that I -illumine you during your nights, as is sometimes evident to me. - -But I am forgetting one thing, which is the most important of all. I -should like to know if Ariosto is correct in saying that everything man -loses, such as youth, beauty, health, the vigour and money spent in -the pursuit of glory, in the instruction of children, and founding or -promoting useful institutions, flies to you; so that you possess all -things pertaining to man, except folly, which has never left mankind. -If this be true, I reckon you ought to be so full as to have scarcely -any space unoccupied, especially since men have recently lost a great -many things (such as patriotism, virtue, magnanimity, righteousness), -not merely in part, or singly, as in former times, but completely, and -without exception. And certainly if you have not got these things, I do -not know where else they can be. But supposing you have them, I wish -we could come to an agreement whereby you might soon return the lost -things to me; for I imagine you must be greatly encumbered, especially -with common sense, which I understand crowds you very much. In return -for this, I will see that men pay you annually a good sum of money. - -_Moon_. Men again! Though folly, as you say, has not left your domains, -you wish nevertheless to make an utter fool of me, by depriving me of -what reason I possess, to supply the deficiency in your people. But I -do not know where this reason of yours is, nor whether it can be found -in the universe. I know well that it is not here, any more than the -other things you mention. - -_Earth_. At least, you can tell me if your inhabitants are acquainted -with vices, misdeeds, misfortunes, suffering, and old age; in short, -evils? Do you understand these names? - -_Moon_. Yes, I understand these well enough, and not only the names. I -am full of them, instead of the other things. - -_Earth_. Which are the more numerous among your people, virtues or -vices? - -_Moon_. Vices, by a long way. - -_Earth_. Does pleasure or pain predominate? - -_Moon_. Pain is infinitely more prevalent. - -_Earth_. And your inhabitants, are they mostly happy or unhappy? - -_Moon_. So unhappy that I would not exchange my lot with the happiest -of them. - -_Earth_. It is the same here. I wonder why we differ so much in other -things, yet agree in this. - -_Moon_. I am also like you in shape, I rotate like you, and am -illumined by the same sun. It is no more wonderful that we should -resemble each other in these things, than that we should possess -common failings; because evil is as common to all the planets of the -universe, or at least of the solar system, as rotundity, movement, and -light. And if you could speak loud enough for Uranus or Saturn, or -any other planet, to hear you, and were to ask them if they contained -unhappiness, and whether pleasure or pain predominated, each would -answer as I have done. I speak from experience, for I have already -questioned Venus and Mercury, to whom I am now and then nearer than -you. I have also asked certain comets which have passed by me; they all -replied to the same effect. I firmly believe even the sun and every -star would make the same response. - -_Earth_. Still I am very hopeful. In future I trust men will permit me -to experience much happiness. - -_Moon_. Hope as much as you please. I will answer for it you may hope -for ever. - -_Earth_. Ha! Did you hear that? These men and animals of mine are -making an uproar. It is night on the side from which I am speaking -to you, and at first they were all asleep. But, thanks to our -conversation, they are now wide awake, and very frightened. - -_Moon_. And here, on the other side, you see it is day. - -_Earth_. Yes. Now I do not wish to terrify my people, or interrupt -their sleep, which is the best thing they possess; so let us postpone -conversation until another opportunity. Adieu, and good-day to you. - -_Moon_. Adieu. Good-night. - - -[Footnote 1: See German newspapers of March 1824, for particulars of -the discoveries attributed to Gruithuisen.] - -[Footnote 2: See Macrobius, _Saturnal_: lib. 3. cap. 8; Tertullian, -_Apolog_., cap. 15. The moon was also honoured as the god moon. In the -German language moon is masculine.] - -[Footnote 3: See Menander, lib. 1. cap. 15, _in Rhetor_, graec. veter.] - -[Footnote 4: Athen: lib. 2. _ed. Casaub_. p. 57.] - -[Footnote 5: Antonio di Ulloa. See Carli, _Lettere Americane_, par. 4. -lett. 7. Milan, 1784.] - - - - -_THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS._ - - -In the year 833,265 of the reign of Jove, the College of the Muses -caused certain notices to be printed and affixed in the public places -of the city and suburbs of Hypernephelus. These notices contained an -invitation to all the gods, great and small, and the other inhabitants -of the city, who had recently or anciently originated some praiseworthy -invention, to make representation thereof, either actually, or by model -or description, to certain judges nominated by this College. And, -regretting that its well-known poverty prevented it from displaying the -liberality it would have liked to show, the College promised to reward -the one whose invention should be judged the finest or most useful, -with a crown of laurel. In addition to the prize itself, the College -would give the victor permission to wear the crown, day and night, in -public and private life, and both in the city and outside it; he might -also be painted, sculptured, or modelled in any manner or material -whatever, with the emblem of victory on his brow. - -Not a few of the gods contested the prize, simply to kill time, a -thing as necessary for the citizens of Hypernephelus, as for the -people of other towns. They had no wish for the crown, which was about -as valuable as a cotton night-cap; and as for the glory, if even men -despise it as soon as they become philosophers, it may be imagined in -what esteem the phantom was held by the gods, who are so much wiser -than the wisest of men, if indeed they are not the sole possessors of -wisdom, as Pythagoras and Plato affirm. - -The prize was awarded with an unanimity hitherto unheard of in cases of -reward bestowed on the most meritorious. Neither were there any unfair -influences exercised, such as favouritism, underhand promises, or -artifice. Three competitors were chosen: Bacchus, for the invention of -wine; Minerva, for that of oil, with which the gods were daily wont to -be anointed after the bath; and Vulcan, for having made a copper pot of -an economical design, by which cooking could be expeditiously conducted -with but little fire. It was necessary to divide the prize into three -parts, so there only remained a little sprig of laurel for each of the -victors. But they all three declined the prize, whether in part or the -whole. Vulcan said, that since he was obliged to stand the greater part -of his time at the forge fire, perspiring and considerably exerting -himself, the encumbrance on his brow would be a great annoyance to -him; added to which, the laurel would run risk of being scorched or -burnt, if some spark by chance were to fall on its dry leaves and set -it on fire. Minerva excused herself on the ground of having to wear a -helmet large enough, as Homer says, to cover the united armies of a -hundred cities; consequently any increase of this weight would be very -inconvenient, and out of the question. Bacchus did not wish to change -his mitre and chaplet of vine leaves for the laurel, which, however, -he would willingly have accepted, had he been allowed to put it up as -a sign outside his tavern; but the Muses declined to grant it for that -purpose. Finally, the wreath remained in the common treasury of the -College. - -None of the competitors for the prize envied the three successful -gods; nor did they express vexation at the award, nor dispute the -verdict--with one exception, Prometheus. This god brought to the -contest the clay model he had used in the formation of the first man. -Attached to the model was some writing which explained the qualities -and office of the human race, his invention. The chagrin displayed -by Prometheus in this matter caused no little astonishment; since -all the other gods, whether victors or vanquished, had regarded the -whole affair as a joke. But on further inquiry it transpired that what -he especially desired, was not the honour, but rather the privilege -accompanying success. Some thought he meant to use the laurel as a -protection for his head against storms; as it is said of Tiberius that -whenever he heard thunder, he donned his crown, esteeming the laurel -proof against thunderbolts. But this suggestion was negatived by the -fact that the city of Hypernephelus never experienced either thunder -or lightning. Others, more rationally, affirmed that Prometheus, owing -to age, had begun to lose his hair, and being greatly troubled at this -misadventure, as are many mortals in similar circumstances (and either -not having read Synesius' eulogy on baldness, or being unconvinced -by it), wished, like Julius CÊsar, to hide the nakedness of his head -beneath the leafy diadem. - -But to turn to facts. One day Prometheus, talking with Momus, bitterly -complained of the preference given to the wine, oil, and copper-pot, -in comparison with the human race, which he said was the finest -achievement of the immortals that the universe had ever seen. And not -being able sufficiently to convince Momus, who gave various reasons -against this assertion, they made a wager on the subject. Prometheus -proposed that they should descend together to the earth, and alighting -by chance in the first place they should discover inhabited by man in -each of the five parts of the world, they might find out whether or -not there were in all or most of these parts conclusive evidence that -man is the most perfect creature of the universe. Momus accepted the -wager; and having settled the amount, they began without delay to -descend towards the earth. First of all they directed themselves to the -New World, which, from its name, and the fact that as yet none of the -immortals had set foot in it, greatly excited their curiosity. - -They touched ground towards the north of Popuyan, not far from the -river Cauca, in a place which showed many signs of human habitation. -There were traces of cultivation, level roads broken and impassable -in places, trees cut and strewn about, appearances of what might -be graves, and here and there human bones were scattered. But the -celestials could neither hear the voice, nor see the shadow of a living -man, though they listened acutely, and looked all around them. They -proceeded, walking and flying, for the distance of many miles, passing -mountains and rivers, and finding everywhere the same traces of human -habitation, and the same solitude. - -"How is it these countries are now deserted," said Momus to Prometheus, -"though they were evidently once inhabited?" - -Prometheus mentioned the inundations of the sea, earthquakes, storms, -and heavy rains, which he knew were ordinary occurrences in the -tropics. Indeed, as if in confirmation of his words, they could -distinctly hear in the neighbouring forests the incessant patter of -rain-drops falling from the branches of trees agitated by the wind. - -But Momus was unable to understand how that locality could be affected -by inundations of the sea, which was so distant as not to be visible on -any side. Still less could he comprehend why the earthquakes, storms, -and rains should have destroyed the human beings of the country, -sparing however, the jaguars, apes, ants, eagles, parrots, and a -hundred other kinds of animals and birds which surrounded them. - -At length, descending into an immense valley, they discovered a little -cluster of houses, or wooden cabins, covered with palm leaves, and -environed on all sides by a fence like a stockade. Before one of these -cabins, many persons, some standing, some sitting, were gathered round -an earthen pot suspended over a large fire. - -The two celestials, having taken human form, drew near, and Prometheus, -courteously saluting them all, turned to the one who seemed to be their -chief, and asked him what they were doing. - -_Savage_. Eating, as you see. - -_Prom_. What savoury food have you got? - -_Savage_. Only a little bit of meat. - -_Prom_. Of a domestic, or wild animal? - -_Savage_. Domestic, in truth, since it is my own son. - -_Prom_. What! Had you then, like PasiphaÎ, a calf for your son? - -_Savage_. Not a calf, but a child like every one else. - -_Prom_. Do you mean what you say? Is it your own flesh and blood that -you are eating? - -_Savage_. My own? No. But certainly that of my son. Why else did I -bring him into the world, and nourish him? - -_Prom_. What! To eat him? - -_Savage_. Why not? and I will also eat his mother when she can have no -more children. - -_Momus_. As one eats the hen after her eggs. - -_Savage_. And I will likewise eat my other women, when they can no -longer have children. And why also should I keep these slaves of mine -alive, if it were not that from time to time they give me children to -eat? But when they are old, I will eat them all one after the other, if -I live.[1] - -_Prom_. Tell me, do these slaves belong to your tribe or to another? - -_Savage_. Another. - -_Prom_. Far from here? - -_Savage_. A very long way. A river divides their huts from ours. And -pointing with his finger to a hillock, he added: They used to live -there, but our people have destroyed their dwellings. - -By this time it seemed to Prometheus that many of the savages were -standing looking at him with the sort of appreciative gaze that a cat -gives to a mouse. So, to avoid being eaten by his own manufactures, he -rose suddenly on the wing, and Momus followed his example. And such -was their fright that in setting out they unconsciously behaved as did -the Harpies towards the Trojans when at meat. But the cannibals, more -hungry, or less dainty, than the companions of ∆neas, continued their -horrid repast. - -Prometheus, very dissatisfied with the New World, turned immediately -towards Asia, the older one. Having traversed almost in an instant the -space which lies between the East and West Indies, they both descended -near Agra, in a field where they saw a number of people. These were -all gathered round a funeral pyre of wood, by which men with torches -were standing, ready to set it on fire; and on a platform was a young -woman very sumptuously attired, and wearing a variety of barbaric -adornments, who, dancing and shouting, displayed signs of the liveliest -joy. Prometheus, seeing her, imagined that a second Lucretia or -Virginia, or some imitator of the children of Erectheus, of Iphigenia, -Codrus, Menecius, Curtius, or Decius, was about to sacrifice herself -voluntarily on behalf of her country, in obedience to the decree of -some oracle. Learning however that the woman was about to die because -her husband was dead, he supposed that, like Alcestis, she wished at -the cost of her own life to reanimate her husband. But, when they -informed him that she was only induced to burn herself because it was -customary for widows of her caste to do so, and that she had always -hated her husband, that she was drunk, and that the dead man, instead -of being resuscitated, was to be burnt in the same fire, he abruptly -turned his back on the spectacle, and set out for Europe. On their way -thither, Prometheus and his companion held the following conversation. - -_Momus_. Did you think, when at so great a hazard you stole fire from -heaven to give to men, that some of them would make use of it to cook -one another in pots, and others voluntarily to burn themselves? - -_Prom_. No, indeed! But consider, dear Momus, that the men we have -hitherto seen are barbarians; and one must not judge of human nature -from barbarians, but rather from civilised people, to whom we are now -going. I have a strong conviction that among these latter we shall see -things, and hear words, which will astonish as much as delight you. - -_Momus_. I for my part do not see, if men are the most perfect -race of the universe, why they need be civilised in order not to -burn themselves, or eat their own children. Other animals are all -uncivilised, and yet none of them deliberately burn themselves, -except the phoenix, which is fabulous; rarely they eat their own -kind; and much more rarely make food of their own offspring by any -chance whatever; neither do they specially give birth to them for -that purpose. I also understand that of the five divisions of the -world, only the smallest possesses even incompletely the civilisation -that you praise. To this may be added minute portions of other parts -of the world. And you yourself will not venture to assert that the -civilisation of the present day is such that the men of Paris or -Philadelphia have reached the highest possible state of perfection. -Yet, to enable them to attain to their present imperfect state of -civilisation, how much time has had to elapse? Even as many years as -the world can number from its origin to the existing age. Again, almost -all the inventions which have been of greatest use or importance in the -advancement of civilisation have originated rather fortuitously than -rationally. Hence, human civilisation is a work of chance rather than -nature, and where opportunity has been lacking, the people are still -barbarians, though on the same level of age as civilised people. - -Consequently I make the following deductions: that man in the savage -state is many degrees inferior to every other animal; that civilisation -as compared with barbarism is only possessed even in the present day -by a small portion of the human race; that these privileged people -have only reached their existing state of culture after the lapse of -many ages, and more by chance than anything else; and finally, that -the present state of civilisation is imperfect. Consider, therefore, -whether your opinion about the human race would not be better expressed -in saying, that it is chief among races, but supreme rather in -imperfection than perfection. It does not affect the case that men -themselves, in talking and reasoning, continually confuse perfection -and imperfection, arguing as they do from certain preconceived notions, -which they take for palpable truths. It is certain that the other -races of creatures were each from the very beginning in a state of -perfection. And, since it is clear that man in a savage state compares -unfavourably with other animals, I do not understand how beings, -naturally the most imperfect among the races, as it seems men are, come -to be esteemed superior to all others. - -Added to which, human civilisation, so difficult to acquire, and almost -impossible to perfect, is not so immutable that it cannot relapse. -In fact, we find it has done so several times, among people who once -possessed a high degree of culture. - -In conclusion, I think your brother Epimetheus would have gained the -prize before you, had he brought to the judges his model of the first -ass, or first frog. I will, however, quite agree with you as to the -perfection of man, if you on your part will admit that his excellence -is of the kind attributed to the world by Plotinus. This philosopher -says the world in itself is supremely perfect, but containing as it -does every conceivable evil, it is in reality as bad as can be. From -the same point of view, I might perhaps agree with Leibnitz, that the -present world is the best of all possible worlds. - -There can be no doubt that Prometheus had prepared a concise and -crushing reply to all this reasoning; but it is very certain he did not -give it expression, for just then they found themselves over the city -of London. The gods descended, and seeing a great many people rushing -to the door of a private house, they mixed with the crowd, and entered -the building. Within, they found a dead man, who had been shot in the -breast, laid out on a bed. He had a pistol clenched in his right hand, -and by his side lay two children, also dead. There were several people -of the house in the room, who were being questioned by magistrates, -while an official wrote down their replies. - -_Prom_. Who are these unfortunate beings? - -_Servant_. My master and his children. - -_Prom_. Who has killed them? - -_Servant_. My master himself. - -_Prom_. What! Do you mean to say he killed his children and himself? - -_Servant_. Yes. - -_Prom_. Alas! Why did he do that? Surely some great misfortune must -have befallen him. - -_Servant_. None that I know of. - -_Prom_. Perhaps he was poor, or despised by every one, unfortunate in -love, or in disgrace at court. - -_Servant_. On the contrary, he was very rich, and I believe universally -esteemed. He cared nothing about love, and was in high favour at court. - -_Prom_. Then why has he done this thing? - -_Servant_. He was weary of life,--so he says in the writing he has left. - -_Prom_. What are these judges doing? - -_Servant_. Taking evidence as to whether my master was out of his mind -or not. Unless he is proved to have been insane, his goods fall to the -crown by law; and really there is nothing to prevent their so doing. - -_Prom_. But had he no friend or relative to whom he could entrust his -children instead of killing them? - -_Servant_. Yes, he had; and especially one friend, to whom he has -commended his dog.[2] - -Momus was about to congratulate Prometheus on the good effects of -civilisation, and the happiness that seemed to be inseparable from -human life. He wished also to remind him that no animal except man -voluntarily killed itself, or was impelled by feelings of despair to -take the life of its own offspring. But Prometheus anticipated him, and -paid the bet at once, without visiting the two remaining parts of the -world. - - -[Footnote 1: See Robertson's _Hist. of America_, Book VI.] - -[Footnote 2: A fact.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN_ - - -_Natural Philosopher_. Eureka! Eureka! - -_Metaphysician_. What is it? What have you found? - -_Nat. Phil._ The art of long life.[1] - -_Met_. And the book that you carry? - -_Nat. Phil_. Explains my theory. This invention of mine will give me -eternal life. Others may live long, but I shall live for ever. I mean -that I shall acquire immortal fame. - -_Met_. Follow my advice. Get a leaden casket; enclose therein your -book; bury it; and leave in your will directions where it may be found, -with instructions to your heirs not to exhume the book until they shall -have discovered the art of living a happy life. - -_Nat. Phil_. And meanwhile? - -_Met_. Meanwhile your invention will be good for nothing. It were far -better if it taught the art of living briefly. - -_Nat. Phil_. That has already been known a long time. The discovery -was not a difficult one. _Met_. At any rate I prefer it to yours. _Nat -Phil_. Why? - -_Met_. Because if life be not happy, as hitherto it has not been, it -were better to endure a short term of it than a long one. - -_Nat. Phil_. No, no. I differ from you. Life is a good in itself, and -is naturally desired and loved by every one. - -_Met_. So men think. But they are deceived. Similarly people deceive -themselves in thinking that colours are attributes of the objects -coloured; whereas really they are not qualities of objects, but -of light. I assert that man loves and desires nothing but his own -happiness. He therefore loves his life only inasmuch as he esteems it -the instrument or subject of his happiness. Hence it is happiness that -he always loves, and not life; although he very often attributes to the -one the affection he has for the other. It is true that this illusion -and that relating to colours are both natural. But as a proof that the -love of life in men is unnatural, or rather unnecessary, think of the -many people that in olden times preferred to die rather than live. -In our own time too many people often wish for death, and some kill -themselves. Now such things could not occur if man naturally loved life -itself. The love of happiness, on the contrary, is innate in every -living being; indeed the world would perish before they ceased loving -and seeking it in every possible form. And as for your assertion that -life in itself is a good thing, I challenge you to prove your words by -any arguments you please, whether of physics or metaphysics. Personally -I am of opinion that a happy life is undoubtedly a good thing. But this -is because of the happiness, not the life. An unhappy life is therefore -an evil. And since it is ordained that human life should be inseparable -from unhappiness, I leave you to draw your own conclusions. - -_Nat. Phil_. Let us drop the subject, if you please; it is too -melancholy. Answer me one question candidly, and without such -subtleties. If man had the power to live for ever, I mean in this -life and not after death, do you think he would be happy? - -_Met_. Allow me to answer you by a fable. Moreover, as I have never -tasted immortality, I cannot reply to you from experience. Besides, I -have never by any chance met an immortal, the very existence of whom -is a mere matter of legend. If Cagliostro were alive, he could perhaps -enlighten you, since he was said to have lived for several centuries. -But he is now dead, like his contemporaries. - -To return to the fable. The wise Chiro, who was a god, in time became -so wearied of his life, that he asked permission from Jove to die. -This was granted to him; so he died.[2] If immortality wrought such -an effect on the gods, how would it be with men? The Hyperboreans, an -unknown but famous people, whose country is inaccessible by sea or -land, were, it is said, rich in all manner of things, and possessed -a race of asses of peculiar beauty, which they used to offer as -sacrifices. They had the power, unless I am mistaken, of living for -ever, and knew nothing of fatigues, cares, wars, discords, or crimes. -Yet we learn that after several thousand years of life, they all killed -themselves by jumping from a certain rock into the sea, where they were -drowned.[3] Here is another legend. The brothers Biton and Cleobus, -at a festival, when the mules were not ready, attached themselves to -the chariot of their mother, who was a priestess of Juno, and drew her -to the temple. Touched by their devotion, the priestess asked Juno to -reward her sons for their piety by the greatest gift possible for men -to receive. The goddess caused them both to die peacefully within an -hour, instead of giving them immortality, as they had expected. - -The same happened to Agamede and Trophonius. When these two men had -finished the temple of Delphi, they begged Apollo to reward them. The -god asked them to wait seven days, at the end of which time he would -do so. On the seventh night he sent them a sweet sleep from which they -have never awakened. They are so satisfied with their recompense that -they have asked nothing more. - -On the subject of legends, here is one which introduces a question I -would have you answer. I know that by you and your colleagues human -life is generally considered to be, as a rule, of an uniformly average -duration: this in all countries and under all climates. But Pliny -relates that the men of some parts of India and Ethiopia do not exceed -the age of forty years. They who die at this age are considered very -old. Their children marry at seven years of age: and this statement -is verified by the custom in Guinea, the Deccan, and elsewhere in the -torrid zone. Now, regarding it as true that these people do not live -more than forty years (and this as a natural limit, and not due to -artificial circumstances), I ask you whether you imagine their lot -ought to be considered more or less happy than that of others? - -_Nat. Phil_. Undoubtedly, more miserable, since they die so soon. - -_Met_. I am of the contrary opinion for the very same reason. But that -does not matter. Give me your attention for a moment. I deny that -life itself, _i.e._, the mere sensation of existence, has anything -pleasurable or desirable in its nature. But we all wish for the other -thing, also called life; I mean strength, and numerous sensations. -Thus, all activity, and every strong and lively passion, provided it -be neither disagreeable nor painful, pleases us simply because it is -strong and lively, although it possess no other pleasurable attributes. - -Now these men, whose life normally lasts only forty years, that is, -half the time granted by nature to other men, would experience every -moment an intensity of life, twice as strong as ours, because their -growth, maturity, and decline are accomplished twice as rapidly as with -us. Their energy of life therefore ought to be twice as intense as ours -at every moment of their existence. And to this greater intensity there -must correspond a more lively activity of the will, more vivacity and -animation. Thus they experience in less time the same quantity of life -as we have. And the fewer years that these favoured people spend on -the earth are so well filled that there is no sensible vacuum; whereas -this same quantity of life is insufficient to vivify a term twice as -long. Their actions and sensations, diffused over so limited a space, -can duly occupy all their existence; but our longer life is constantly -divided by protracted intervals devoid of all activity and lively -passion. And since existence itself is in no sense desirable, but -only in so far as it is happy; and since good or evil fortune is not -measurable by the number of our days; I conclude that the life of these -people, though shorter than ours, is much the richer in pleasures, or -what are so called. Their life must then be preferable to ours, or -even to that of the earliest kings of Assyria, Egypt, China, India, -and other countries, who are said to have lived thousands of years. So -that, far from being desirous of immortality, I am content to leave it -to fishes, which are by Leeuwenhoek believed to be immortal, provided -they are neither eaten by us nor their fellows. Instead of delaying the -development of the body, in order to lengthen life, as Maupertuis[4] -proposed, I would rather accelerate it until the duration of our life -was as short as that of the insects called ephemerals; which insects, -although the most aged does not live beyond a single day, nevertheless -preside over three generations before they die. If it were so, then -there would at least be no time for ennui. - -What do you think of my reasoning? - -_Nat. Phil_. It does not persuade me. I know that you love metaphysics, -whereas I for my part hold to physics. To your subtleties, I oppose -simple common sense, which is sufficient for me. Thus, I venture to -assert, without appealing to the microscope, that life is better than -death. Judging between the two, I would give the apple to the former, -without troubling them to strip for the contest. - -_Met_. And I would do the same. But when I call to mind the custom of -those barbarians, who, for every unhappy day of their lives, used to -throw a black stone into a quiver, and for every happy day a white one, -I cannot help thinking how few white stones compared to the black ones -would be found therein on the death of the proprietor of the quiver. -Personally, I should like to have now all the stones representing the -days of life yet remaining to me, and permission to separate them, -throwing away all-the black ones and retaining only those that were -white; even though the number of the latter was exceedingly small, and -their colour a doubtful white. - -_Nat. Phil_. Many people, on the contrary, would be glad to increase -the number of their black stones, even though they were blacker than -they naturally would be; because they always, in their minds, dread the -last as the blackest of all. And such people, of whom I am one, will -really be able to add many stones to their normal quantity, if they -follow out the instructions contained in my book. - -_Met_. Every one thinks and works in his own way. Death also will not -fail to do the same. But if you wish, in prolonging man's life; really -to be of service to him, discover an art to increase the number and -strength of sensations, and their effects. This would be a genuine -augmentation of human life, for it would fill up those long intervals -of time, during which we vegetate rather than live. You could then -boast of having truly prolonged human life; and without having sought -after the impossible, or used violence to natural laws; rather, by -having strengthened them. For does it not seem as though the ancients -were more full of life than we are, in spite of the many and great -dangers by which they were surrounded, and which generally shortened -their existence? - -You will thus render a real service to man, whose life is, I will not -say more happy, but certainly less unhappy, when it is better occupied -and more violently agitated, without pain or discomfort. When, on the -other hand, existence is so full of idleness and ennui as to be justly -termed empty, the saying of Pyrrhus, "there is no difference between -life and death," is literally realised. Were this saying true, I should -be in no slight terror of death. - -But finally, unless life be active and vigorous, it is not true life, -and death is far preferable to it. - - -[Footnote 1: See _Instruction in the Art of Long Life_, by Hufeland.] - -[Footnote 2: See Lucian, Dial. Menip. and Chiro.] - -[Footnote 3: See Pindar, Strabo, and Pliny.] - -[Footnote 4: See _Lettres Philosophiques_: let. 11.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT_[1] - - -_Spirit_. Ah, Torquato. How are you? - -_Tasso_. As well as it is possible to be, when in prison, and up to the -neck in misfortunes. - -_Spirit_. Courage! After supper is not the time to be sorrowful. Cheer -up, and let us laugh at your griefs. - -_Tasso_. I am little inclined for that. But somehow your presence and -conversation always do me good. Come and sit down by me. - -_Spirit_. How can I sit? Such a thing is not easy for a spirit. But -what does it matter? Consider that I am seated. - -_Tasso_. Oh, that I could see my Leonora again! Whenever I think of -her, I feel a thrill of joy that reaches from the crown of my head to -the extremity of my feet, and all my nerves and veins are pervaded with -it. My mind, too, becomes inflamed with certain imaginings and longings -that seem for the time to transform me. I cannot think that I am the -Torquato who has experienced so much misfortune, and I often mourn -for myself as though I were dead. Truly, it would seem that worldly -friction and suffering are wont to overwhelm and lethargise our first -nature within each of us. This from time to time awakens for a brief -space, but less frequently as we grow older, when it always withdraws, -and falls into an increasingly sound sleep. Finally, it dies, although -our life still continues. In short, I marvel how the thought of a woman -should have sufficient power to rejuvenate the mind, and make it forget -so many troubles. Had I not lost all hope of seeing Leonora again, I -could almost believe I might still succeed in being happy. - -_Spirit_. Which do you consider the more delightful, to see the dear -woman, or to think of her? - -_Tasso_. I do not know. It is true when near me she seemed only a -woman; at a distance, however, she was like a goddess. - -_Spirit_. These goddesses are so amiable that when one approaches you, -she instantaneously puts off her divinity, and pockets her halo of -greatness for fear of dazzling the mortal to whom she appears. - -_Tasso_. There is only too much truth in what you say. But do you not -think it is a great failing in women that they prove really to be so -very different from what we imagine? - -_Spirit_. I scarcely think it is their fault that they are, like us, -made of flesh and blood, instead of ambrosia and nectar. What in the -world has a thousandth part of the perfection with which your fancy -endows women? It surprises me that you are not astonished to find that -men are men, that is, creatures of little merit and amiability, since -you cannot understand why women are not really angels. - -_Tasso_. In spite of all this, I am dying to see her again. - -_Spirit_. Compose yourself. This very night you shall dream of her. I -will lead her to you, beautiful as youth, and so kindly disposed that -you will be encouraged to speak to her much more freely and readily -than in former times. You will be induced at length to take her by the -hand, and she, looking intently at you, will surfeit your soul with -sweetness. And to-morrow, whenever you think of the dream, your heart -will overflow with affection. - -_Tasso_. What a consolation! A dream instead of the truth. - -_Spirit_. What is truth? - -_Tasso_. I am as ignorant on the subject as Pilate was. - -_Spirit_. Well, I will tell you. Between truth or reality, and a dream -there is this difference--the latter is much the finer thing of the two. - -_Tasso_. What! The pleasure of a dream worth more than a real pleasure? - -_Spirit_. It is. As an instance, I know a man who studiously avoids -meeting his sweetheart the following day after she has appeared to -him in a dream. He knows full well that he would not find in her all -the charms with which she was endowed in the dream, and that reality, -dispelling the illusion, would deprive him of the pleasure he felt. -The ancients too, who were much more diligent and skilful in their -search after all the enjoyments possible for man to have, did wisely -in endeavouring by various means to realise the sweetness and pleasure -of dreams. Pythagoras also was right when he forbad the eating of -beans for supper; these vegetables producing a dreamless or troubled -sleep.[2] I could also find excuse for those superstitious people who -were wont, before going to bed, to invoke the aid of Mercury, the -president of dreams. They offered sacrifice to him that he might grant -them happy dreams, and used to keep an image of the god at the foot -of their bed. Thus it was that being unable to procure any happiness -during the day, people sought it in the night-time. I am of opinion -that they were in a measure successful, and that Mercury paid more -attention to their prayers than was the custom of the other gods. - -_Tasso_. But, since men live for nothing but pleasure, whether of mind -or body, if this pleasure can only be found when we dream, it follows -that we live for no other purpose but to dream. Now I really cannot -admit that. - -_Spirit_. You already admit it, inasmuch as you live, and are willing -to live. But what is pleasure? - -_Tasso_. My acquaintance with it is too slight to enable me to answer -you. - -_Spirit_. No one has any real acquaintance with it, because pleasure -is not a reality, but a conception. It is a desire, not a fact. A -sentiment, imagined not experienced; or, better, it is a conception, -and not a sentiment at all. Do you not perceive that even in the very -moment of enjoyment, however ardently it may have been longed for or -painfully acquired, your mind, not deriving complete satisfaction from -the happiness, anticipates at some future time a greater and more -complete enjoyment? It is expectation that constitutes pleasure. Thus, -you never weary of placing reliance on some pleasure of the future, -which melts away just when you expect to enjoy it. The truth is, you -possess nothing but the hope of a more complete enjoyment at some -other time; and the satisfaction of imagining that you have had some -enjoyment, and of talking about it to others, less because you are -vain than to persuade yourself that the illusion is a reality. Hence, -everyone that consents to live makes this fugitive dream his aim in -life. He believes in the reality of past and future enjoyment, both of -which beliefs are false and fanciful. - -_Tasso_. Then is it impossible for a man to believe that he is actually -happy? - -_Spirit_. If such a belief were possible, his happiness would be -genuine. But tell me: do you ever remember having been able at any -moment in your life to say sincerely, "I am happy"? Doubtless you have -daily been able to say, and have said in all sincerity, "I shall be -happy;" and often too, though less sincerely, "I have been happy." -Thus, pleasure is always either a thing of the past, or the future, -never the present. - -_Tasso_. You may as well say it is non-existent. - -_Spirit_. So it seems. - -_Tasso_. Even in dreams? - -_Spirit_. Even in dreams, considering pleasure in its true sense. - -_Tasso_. And yet pleasure is the sole object and aim of life! By the -term pleasure I mean the happiness which ought to be a consequence of -pleasure. - -_Spirit_. Assuredly. - -_Tasso_. Then our life, being deprived of its real aim, must always be -imperfect, and existence itself unnatural. - -_Spirit_. Perhaps. - -_Tasso_. There is no perhaps in the matter. But why is it that we live? -I mean, why do we consent to live? - -_Spirit_. How should I know? You yourselves ought to know better than I. - -_Tasso_. I assure you I do not know. - -_Spirit_. Ask some one wiser than yourself. Perhaps he may be able to -satisfy you. - -_Tasso_. I will do so. But certainly, the life that I lead is an -unnatural state, because apart from my sufferings, ennui alone murders -me. - -_Spirit_. What is ennui? - -_Tasso_. As to this, I can answer from experience. Ennui seems to me of -the nature of atmosphere, which fills up the spaces between material -bodies, and also the voids in the bodies themselves. Whenever a body -disappears, and is not replaced by another, air fills up the gap -immediately. So too, in human life, the intervals between pleasures -and pains are occupied by ennui. And since in the material world, -according to the Peripatetics, there can be no vacuum, so also in our -life there is none, save when for some cause or other the mind loses -its power of thought. At all other times the mind, considered as a -separate identity from the body, is occupied with some sentiment. If -void of pleasure or pain, it is full of ennui; for this last is also a -sentiment like pleasure and pain. - -_Spirit_. And, since all your pleasures are like cobwebs, exceedingly -fragile, thin and transparent, ennui penetrates their tissue, and -saturates them, just as air penetrates the webs. I believe ennui is -really nothing but the desire of happiness, without the illusion of -pleasure and the suffering of pain. This desire, we have said, is never -completely satisfied, since true pleasure does not exist. So that human -life may be said to be interwoven with pain and ennui, and one of these -sentiments disappears only to give place to the other. This is the fate -of all men, and not of yourself alone. - -_Tasso_. What remedy is there for ennui? - -_Spirit_. Sleep, opium, and pain. The last is the best of the three, -because he who suffers never experiences ennui. - -_Tasso_. I would rather submit to ennui for the rest of my life, than -take such medicine. But its force and strength may be diminished by -action, work, and even other sentiments; though these do not entirely -free us from ennui, since they are unable to give us real pleasure. -Here in prison however, deprived of human society, without even the -means of writing, reduced for an amusement to counting the ticks of the -clock, looking at the beams, cracks, and nails of the ceiling, thinking -about the pavement stones, and watching the gnats and flies which flit -across my cell, I have nothing to relieve for a moment my burden of -ennui. - -_Spirit_. How long have you been reduced to this kind of life? - -_Tasso_. For many weeks, as you know. - -_Spirit_. Have you felt no variation in the ennui which oppresses you, -from the first day until now? - -_Tasso_. Yes. I felt it more at first. Gradually my mind is becoming -accustomed to its own society; I derive more and more pleasure from -my solitude, and by practice I am acquiring so great a readiness in -conversation, or rather chattering to myself, that I seem to have in my -head a company of talkative people, and the most trifling object is now -sufficient to give rise to endless discourse. - -_Spirit_. This habit will grow on you daily to such an extent, that -when you are free, you will feel more idle in society than in solitude. -Custom has made you bear patiently your kind of life, and the same -influence works not only in people who meditate like you, but in -everyone. Besides, the very fact that you are separated from men, and -even, it may be said, from life itself, will be of some advantage to -you. Disgusted and wearied with human affairs, as you are from your sad -experience, you will in time begin to look on them, from a distance, -with an appreciative eye. In your solitude they will appear to you more -beautiful, and worthy of affection. You will forget their vanity and -misery, and will take upon yourself to re-create the world as you would -have it. Consequently, you will value, desire, and love life. And, -provided there be the possibility or certainty of your return to human -society some day, your new aspect of life will fill and gladden your -mind with a joy like that of childhood. - -Solitude does indeed sometimes act like a second youth. It rejuvenates -the soul, revives the imagination, and renews in an experienced man -those impressions of early innocence that you so ardently desire. -But your eyes seem heavy with sleep: I will now therefore leave you -to prepare the fine dream I promised you. Thus between dreams and -fancies, your life shall pass without other gain than the fact of its -passing, which is the sole benefit of life. To hasten it should be the -one aim of your existence. You are often obliged to cling to life, as -it were with your teeth; happy will be the day when death releases -you from the struggle. But after all, time passes as tediously with -your persecutor in his palace and gardens, as with you in your prison -chamber. Adieu. - -_Tasso_. Adieu, yet stay a moment. Your conversation always enlivens -me. It does not draw me from my sadness, but my mind, which is -generally comparable to a dark night, moonless and starless, changes -when you are near to a condition like that of a grey dawn, pleasurable -rather than otherwise. Now tell me how I can find you in case I want -you at some future time. - -_Spirit_. Do you not yet know?--In any generous liquor. - - - -[Footnote 1: Tasso, during his mental hallucinations, used to fancy, -like Socrates, that he was visited by a friendly spirit, with which he -would hold long conversations. Manso, in his life of Tasso, mentions -this, and states that he was once present during such a colloquy or -soliloquy between Tasso and his imagined companion.] - -[Footnote 2: Apollonius, _Hist. Comment_., cap. 46, &c.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER._ - - -An Icelander who had travelled over most of the earth, and had lived -in very many different lands, found himself one day in the heart of -Africa. As he crossed the equator in a place never before penetrated -by man, he had an adventure like that which happened to Vasco di Gama, -who, when passing the Cape of Good Hope, was opposed by two giants, the -guardians of the southern seas, that tried to prevent his entrance into -the new waters.[1] The Icelander saw in the distance a huge bust, in -appearance like the colossal Hermes he had formerly seen in the Isle -of Pasqua. At first he thought it was made of stone, but as he drew -near to it he saw that the head belonged to an enormous woman, who was -seated on the ground, resting her back against a mountain. The figure -was alive, and had a countenance both magnificent and terrible, and -eyes and hair of a jet black colour. She looked fixedly at him for a -long time in silence. At length she said: - -_Nature_. Who art thou? What doest thou here, where thy race is unknown? - -_Icelander_. I am a poor Icelander, fleeing from Nature. I have fled -from her ever since I was a child, through a hundred different parts of -the world, and I am fleeing from her now. - -_Nature_. So flees the squirrel from the rattlesnake, and runs in its -haste deliberately into the mouth of its tormentor. I am that from -which thou fleest. - -_Icelander_. Nature? - -_Nature_. Even so. - -_Icelander_. I am smitten with anguish, for I consider no worse -misfortune could befall me. - -_Nature_. Thou mightest well have imagined that I was to be found in -countries where my power is supremest. But why dost thou shun me? - -_Icelander_. You must know that from my earliest youth, experience -convinced me of the vanity of life, and the folly of men. I saw these -latter ceaselessly struggling for pleasures that please not, and -possessions that do not satisfy. I saw them inflict on themselves, and -voluntarily suffer, infinite pains, which, unlike the pleasures, were -only too genuine. In short, the more ardently they sought happiness, -the further they seemed removed from it. These things made me determine -to abandon every design, to live a life of peace and obscurity, harming -no one, striving in nought to better my condition, and contesting -nothing with anyone. I despaired of happiness, which I regarded as a -thing withheld from our race, and my only aim was to shield myself -from suffering. Not that I had the least intention of abstaining from -work, or bodily labour; for there is as great a difference between mere -fatigue and pain,[2] as between a peaceful and an idle life. - -But when I began to carry out my project, I learnt from experience how -fallacious it is to think that one can live inoffensively amongst men -without offending them. Though I always gave them precedence, and took -the smallest part of everything, I found neither rest nor happiness -among them. However, this I soon remedied. By avoiding men I freed -myself from their persecutions. I took refuge in solitude--easily -obtainable in my native island. Having done this, I lived without a -shadow of enjoyment; yet I found I had not escaped all suffering. -The intense cold of the long winter, and the extreme heat of summer, -characteristic of the country, allowed me no cessation from pain. And -when, to warm myself, I passed much time by the fire, I was scorched by -the flames, and blinded by the smoke. I suffered continuously, whether -in the open air, or in the shelter of my cabin. In short, I failed to -obtain that life of peace which was my one desire. Terrible storms, -Hecla's menaces and rumblings, and the constant fires which occur among -the wooden houses of my country, combined to keep me in a state of -perpetual disquietude. Such annoyances as these, trivial though they be -when the mind is distracted by the thoughts and actions of social and -civil life, are intensified by solitude. I endured them all, together -with the hopeless monotony of my existence, solely in order to obtain -the tranquillity I desired. I perceived that the more I isolated myself -from men, and confined me to my own little sphere, the less I succeeded -in protecting myself from the discomforts and sufferings of the outer -world. - -Then I determined to try other climates and countries, to see if -anywhere I could live in peace, harming no one, and exist without -suffering, if also without pleasure. I was urged to this by the thought -that perhaps you had destined for the human race a certain part of the -earth (as you have for many animals and plants), where alone they could -live in comfort. In which case it was our own fault if we suffered -inconvenience from having exceeded our natural boundaries. I have -therefore been over the whole earth, testing every country, and always -fulfilling my intention of troubling others in the least possible -degree, and seeking nothing for myself but a life of tranquillity. -But in vain. The tropical sun burnt me; the Arctic cold froze me; in -temperate regions the changeability of the weather troubled me; and -everywhere I have experienced the fury of the elements. I have been in -places where not a day passes without a storm, and where you, O Nature, -are incessantly at war with simple people who have never done you any -harm. In other places cloudless skies are compensated for by frequent -earthquakes, active volcanoes, and subterranean commotions. Elsewhere -hurricanes and whirlwinds take the place of other scourges. Sometimes -I have heard the roof over my head groan with the burden of snow that -it supported; at other times the earth, saturated with rain, has broken -away beneath my feet. Rivers have burst their banks, and pursued me, -fleeing at full speed, as though I were an enemy. Wild beasts tried -to devour me, without the least provocation on my part. Serpents have -sought to poison or crush me; and I have been nearly killed by insects. -I make no mention of the daily hazards by which man is surrounded. -These last are so numerous that an ancient philosopher[3] laid down a -rule, that to resist the constant influence of fear, it were well to -fear everything. - -Again, sickness has not failed to torment me, though invariably -temperate, and even abstemious, in all bodily pleasures. In truth, our -natural constitution is an admirably arranged affair! You inspire us -with a strong and incessant yearning for pleasure, deprived of which -our life is imperfect; and on the other hand you ordain that nothing -should be more opposed to physical health and strength, more calamitous -in its effects, and more incompatible with the duration of life itself, -than this same pleasure. But although I indulged in no pleasures, -numerous diseases attacked me, some of which endangered my life, and -others the use of my limbs, thus threatening me with even an access of -misery. All, during many days or months, caused me to experience a -thousand bodily and mental pangs. And, whereas in sickness we endure -new and extraordinary sufferings, as though our ordinary life were -not sufficiently unhappy; you do not compensate for this by giving us -equally exceptional periods of health and strength, and consequent -enjoyment. In regions where the snow never melts, I lost my sight; this -is an ordinary occurrence among the Laplanders in their cold country. -The sun and air, things necessary for life, and therefore unavoidable, -trouble us continually; the latter by its dampness or severity, the -former by its heat, and even its light; and to neither of them can -man remain exposed without suffering more or less inconvenience or -harm. In short, I cannot recollect a single day during which I have -not suffered in some way; whereas, on the other hand, the days that -have gone by without a shadow of enjoyment are countless. I conclude -therefore that we are destined to suffer much in proportion as we enjoy -little, and that it is as impossible to live peacefully as happily. I -also naturally come to the conclusion that you are the avowed enemy of -men, and all other creatures of your creation. Sometimes alluring, at -other times menacing; now attacking, now striking, now pursuing, now -destroying; you are always engaged in tormenting us. Either by habit or -necessity you are the enemy of your own family, and the executioner of -your own flesh and blood. As for me, I have lost all hope. Experience -has proved to me that though it be possible to escape from men and -their persecutions, it is impossible to evade you, who will never -cease tormenting us until you have trodden us under foot. Old age, -with all its bitterness, and sorrows, and accumulation of troubles, is -already near to me. This worst of evils you have destined for us and -all created beings, from the time of infancy. From the fifth lustre of -life, decline makes itself manifest; its progress we are powerless to -stay. Scarce a third of life is spent in the bloom of youth; but few -moments are claimed by maturity; all the rest is one gradual decay, -with its attendant evils. - -_Nature_. Thinkest thou then that the world was made for thee? It is -time thou knewest that in my designs, operations, and decrees, I never -gave a thought to the happiness or unhappiness of man. If I cause you -to suffer, I am unaware of the fact; nor do I perceive that I can in -any way give you pleasure. What I do is in no sense done for your -enjoyment or benefit, as you seem to think. Finally, if I by chance -exterminated your species, I should not know it. - -_Icelander_. Suppose a stranger invited me to his house in a most -pressing manner, and I, to oblige him, accepted his invitation. On my -arrival he took me to a damp and unhealthy place, and lodged me in a -chamber open to the air, and so ruinous that it threatened momentarily -to collapse and crush me. Far from endeavouring to amuse me, and make -me comfortable, he neglected to provide me with even the necessaries -of life. And more than this. Suppose my host caused me to be insulted, -ridiculed, threatened, and beaten by his sons and household. And on my -complaining to him of such ill-treatment, he replied: "Dost thou think -I made this house for thee? Do I keep these my children and servants -for thy service? I assure thee I have other things to occupy me, than -that I should amuse thee, or give thee welcome." To which I answered: -"Well, my friend, though you may not have built your house especially -for me, at least you might have forborne to ask me hither. And, since I -owe it to you that I am here, ought I not to rely on you to assure me, -if possible, a life free from trouble and danger?" - -Thus I reply to you. I am well aware you did not make the world for the -service of men. It were easier to believe that you made it expressly -as a place of torment for them. But tell me: why am I here at all? Did -I ask to come into the world? Or am I here unnaturally, contrary to -your will? If however, you yourself have placed me here, without giving -me the power of acceptance or refusal of this gift of life, ought you -not as far as possible to try and make me happy, or at least preserve -me from the evils and dangers, which render my sojourn a painful one? -And what I say of myself, I say of the whole human race, and of every -living creature. - -_Nature_. Thou forgettest that the life of the world is a perpetual -cycle of production and destruction, so combined that the one works -for the good of the other. By their joint operation the universe is -preserved. If either ceased, the world would dissolve. Therefore, if -suffering were removed from the earth, its own existence would be -endangered. - -_Icelander_. So say all the philosophers. But since that which is -destroyed suffers, and that which is born from its destruction also -suffers in due course, and finally is in its turn destroyed, would you -enlighten me on one point, about which hitherto no philosopher has -satisfied me? For whose pleasure and service is this wretched life of -the world maintained, by the suffering and death of all the beings -which compose it? - -Whilst they discussed these and similar questions, two lions are said -to have suddenly appeared. The beasts were so enfeebled and emaciated -with hunger that they were scarcely able to devour the Icelander. They -accomplished the feat however, and thus gained sufficient strength to -live to the end of the day. - -But certain people dispute this fact. They affirm that a violent wind -having arisen, the unfortunate Icelander was blown to the ground, -and soon overwhelmed beneath a magnificent mausoleum of sand. Here -his corpse was remarkably preserved, and in process of time he was -transformed into a fine mummy. Subsequently, some travellers discovered -the body, and carried it off as a specimen, ultimately depositing it in -one of the museums of Europe. - - -[Footnote 1: Camoens' _Lusiad_, canto 5.] - -[Footnote 2: Cicero says: "Labour and pain are not identical. Labour is -a toil-some function of body or mind--pain an unpleasant disturbance in -the body. When they cut Marius' veins, it was pain; when he marched at -the head of the troops in a great heat, it was labour."--_Tusc. QuÊst._] - -[Footnote 3: Seneca, _Natural. Question_: lib. 6, cap. 2.] - - - - -_PARINI ON GLORY._ - - - -GIUSEPPE PARINI[1] was in our opinion one of the very few Italians who -to literary excellence joined depth of thought, and acquaintance with -contemporary philosophy. These latter attributes are now so essential -to the cultivation of the _belles lettres_, that their absence would -be inconceivable, did we not find an infinite number of Italian -_littÈrateurs_ of the present day, in whom they are wanting. - -He was remarkable for his simplicity, his compassion for the -unfortunate and his own country, his fidelity, high-mindedness, and the -courage with which he bore the adversities of nature and fortune, which -tormented him during the whole course of his miserable and lowly life. -Death however drew him from obscurity. - -He had several disciples, whom he taught, first of all, to gain -experience of men and things, and then to amuse themselves with -eloquence and poetry. Among his followers was a youth, lately come to -him, of wonderful genius and industry, and of very great promise. To -him one day Parini spoke as follows: - -"You seek, my son, the only avenue to glory which is open to people who -lead a private life, such glory as is sometimes the reward of wisdom, -and literary and other studies. Now you are not unaware that this -glory, though far from being despised, was by our greatest ancestors -held in less esteem than that derivable from other things. Cicero, -for instance, though a most ardent and successful follower of glory, -frequently and emphatically makes apology for the time and labour he -had spent in its pursuit. On one occasion he states that his literary -and philosophical studies were secondary to his public life; on -another, that being constrained by the wickedness of the age to abandon -more important business, he hoped to spend his leisure profitably amid -these studies. He invariably rated the glory of his writings at a lower -value than that acquired from his consulship and his labours on behalf -of the republic. - -"Indeed, if human life be the principal subject of literature, and to -rule our actions the first lesson of philosophy; there can be no doubt -that action itself is as much more important and noble than thoughts -and writing, as the end is nobler than the means, or as things and -subjects in comparison with words and reasoning. For no man, however -clever he be, is naturally created for study, nor born to write. Action -alone is natural to him. And we see the majority of fine writers, and -especially illustrious poets in the present age (Vittorio Alfieri, -for instance), impelled to action in an extraordinary degree. Then, -if by chance the deeds of these men prove unacceptable, either from -the nature of the times or their own ill-fortune, they take up the -pen and write grand things. Nor can people write who have neither the -disposition nor power to act. From this you will easily understand why -so few Italians gain immortal fame by their writings; it is that they -are by nature unfit for noble actions. Antiquity, especially that of -the early Greeks or Romans, is, I think, comparable to the design of -the statue of Telesilla, who was a poetess, a warrior, and the saviour -of her country. She is represented holding her helmet, at which she -looks intently and longingly, as though she desired to place it on her -head; at her feet lie some books almost disregarded, as forming but an -insignificant part of her glory.[2] - -"But men of modern times are differently situated to the ancients. -Glory is less open to them. They who make studies their vocation in -life show the greatest possible magnanimity; nor need they, like -Cicero, apologise to their country for the profession they have chosen. -I therefore applaud the nobility of your decision. But since a life of -letters, being unnatural, cannot be lived without injury to the body, -nor without increasing in many ways the natural infelicity of your -mind, I regard it as my duty to explain to you the various difficulties -attendant on the pursuit of that glory towards which you aspire, and -the results that will follow success should you attain it. You will -then be able to estimate, on the one hand, the importance and value -of the goal, and your chance of reaching it; and, on the other, the -sufferings, exertions, and discomforts inseparable from the pursuit. -Thus, you may be better able to decide whether it be expedient to -continue as you have begun, or to seek glory by some other road." - - -[Footnote 1: Parini lived 1729-1799. As a philosopher and satirist he -seems to have exercised no slight influence over the mind of Leopardi.] - -[Footnote 2: Pausanias, lib. 2, cap. 20.] - - - -CHAPTER II. - -"I might first of all say a great deal about the rivalries, envy, -bitter censures, libels, injustices, schemes and plots against your -character, both in public and private, and the many other difficulties -which the wickedness of men will induce them to oppose to you in the -path you have chosen. These obstacles, always very hard to overcome -and often insuperable, exercise a further influence. It is owing to -them that more than one author, not only in life, but even when dead, -is robbed of the honour that is due to him. Such an one, not having -been famous when alive, because of the hatred or envy with which he -was regarded by others, when dead remains in obscurity, because he is -forgotten; for it rarely happens that a man obtains glory after he has -ceased writing, when there is no one to excite an interest in him. - -"I do not intend to refer to the hindrances which arise from matters -personal to the writer, and other more trivial things. Yet it is often -owing to these latter that writings worthy of the highest praise, and -the fruit of infinite exertions, are for ever excluded from fame, or -having been before the world for a short time, fall into oblivion, and -disappear entirely from the memory of men. For the same causes other -writings, either inferior to or no better than these, become highly -honoured. I will merely expose to you the difficulties and troubles -which, apart from the malice of men, will stubbornly contest the -prize of glory. These embarrassments are of ordinary, not exceptional -occurrence, and have been experienced by most great writers. - -"You are aware that no one can be called a great writer, nor obtains -true and lasting glory, except by means of excellent and perfect works, -or such as approach perfection. The following very true utterance of -Castiglione is worthy of being engraved on your mind:--It is very -seldom that a person unaccustomed to write, however learned he be, can -adequately recognise the skill and industry of writers; or appreciate -the delicacy and excellence of styles, and those subtle and hidden -significations which abound in the writings of the ancients.' - -"In the first place, consider how very few people practise or learn -the art of composition; and think from how small a number of men, -whether in the present or the future, you can in any case look for the -magnificent estimation which you hope will be the reward of your life. -Consider, too, how much influence style has in securing appreciation -for writings. On this, and their degree of perfection, depends the -subsequent fate of all works that come under the heading of 'light -literature,' So great is the influence of style, that a book presumably -celebrated for its matter often proves valueless when deprived of its -manner. Now, language is so interwoven with style that the one can -hardly be considered apart from the other. Men frequently confuse the -two together, and are often unable to express the distinction between -them, if even they are aware of it in the first place. And as for the -thousand merits and defects of language and style, with difficulty, -if at all, can they be discerned and assigned to their respective -properties. But it is certain, to quote the words of Castiglione, that -no foreigner is 'accustomed to write' with elegance in your language. -It follows therefore that style, which is so great and important a -necessity in composition, and a thing of such unaccountable difficulty -and labour, both in acquirement and usage, can only properly be judged -and appreciated by the persons who in one single nation are accustomed -to write. For all other people the boundless exertions attached to the -formation of style will be almost useless, and as if entirely wasted. I -will not refer to the infinite diversities of opinion, and the various -tendencies of readers; owing to which the number of persons adapted to -perceive the good qualities of this or that book is still more reduced. - -"You must regard it as an undoubted fact that, in order to distinctly -recognise the value of a perfect or nearly perfect work, deserving of -immortality, it is not enough merely to be accustomed to write. You -yourself must be able to accomplish the work in question almost as -perfectly as the writer himself. And as experience gradually teaches -you what qualities constitute a perfect writer, and what an infinity of -difficulties must be surmounted before these can be obtained, you will -learn how to overcome the latter, and acquire the former; so that in -time knowledge and power will prove to be one and the same thing. Hence -a man cannot discern nor fully appreciate the excellence of perfect -writers until he is able to give expression to it in his own writings; -because such perfection can only be appreciated by what may be termed -a transference of it into oneself. Until this be done, a man cannot -really understand what constitutes perfection in writing, and will -therefore be unable to duly admire the best writers. - -"Now most literary men, because they write easily, think they write -well; they therefore regard good writing as a facile accomplishment, -even though they assert the contrary. Think, then, how the number will -be reduced of those who might appreciate and laud you when, after -inconceivable exertions and care, you succeed in producing a noble and -perfect work. In the present day there are scarcely two or three men in -Italy who have acquired the art of perfect writing; and although this -number may appear to you excessively small, at no time nor place has it -ever been much greater. - -"I often wonder to myself how Virgil, as a supreme example of literary -perfection, ever acquired the high reputation in which he is now -held. For I am certain that most of his readers and eulogisers do not -discover in his poems more than one beauty for every ten or twenty -revealed to me by continuous study and meditation. Not that I imagine I -have succeeded in estimating him at his proper value, nor have derived -every possible enjoyment from his writings. In truth, the esteem and -admiration professed for the greatest writers is ordinarily the result -of a blind predisposition in their favour, rather than the outcome of -an impartial judgment, or the consequence of a due appreciation of -their merits. - -"When I was young I remember first reading Virgil, being on the one -hand unbiassed in my judgment, and careless of the opinion of others -(a very rare thing, by the by); and, on the other hand, as ignorant as -most boys of my age, though perhaps not more so than is the unchanging -condition of many readers. I refused to admit that Virgil's reputation -was merited, since I failed to discover in him much more than is to be -found in very ordinary poets. Indeed, it surprises me that Virgil's -fame should excel that of Lucan. For we see the mass of readers, at -all times, equally when the literature of the day is of a debasing or -an elevating tendency, much prefer gross and unmistakable beauties to -those that are delicate and half-concealed. They also prefer fervour -to modesty; often indeed even the apparent to the real; and usually -mediocrity to perfection. - -"In reading the letters of a certain prince, exceptionally intelligent, -whose writing was remarkable for its wit, pleasantry, smoothness, and -acuteness, I clearly discerned that in his heart he preferred the -Henriad to the ∆neid; although the fear of shocking men's sensibilities -might deter him from confessing such a preference. - -"I am astonished that the judgment of a few, correct though it be, -should have succeeded in controlling that of numbers, and should have -established the custom of an esteem no less blind than just. This, -however, does not always occur, and I imagine that the fame gained by -the best writers is rather a matter of chance than merit. My opinion -may be confirmed by what I say as we proceed." - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -"We have seen how very few people will be able to appreciate you when -you succeed in becoming a perfect writer. Now, I wish to indicate -some of the hindrances that will prevent even these few from rightly -estimating your worth, although they see the signs of it. - -"In the first place, there can be no doubt that all writings of -eloquence or poetry are judged, not so much on their merits, as by -the effect they produce in the mind of the reader. So that the reader -may be said to consider them rather in himself than in themselves. -Consequently men who are naturally devoid of imagination and -enthusiasm, though gifted with much intelligence, discernment, and -no little learning, are almost quite incapable of forming a correct -judgment of fanciful writings. They cannot in the least immerse their -minds in the mind of the writer, and usually have within themselves a -feeling of contempt for his compositions, because unable to discover -in what their so great fame consists. Such reading awakens no emotion -within them, nor does it arouse their imagination, or create in them -any especial sensation of pleasure. And even people who are naturally -disposed and inclined to receive the impression of whatever image or -fancy a writer has properly signified, very often experience a feeling -of coldness, indifference, languor, or dulness; so that for the time -they resemble the persons just mentioned. This change is due to divers -causes, internal and external, physical and mental, and is either -temporary or lasting. At such times no one, even though himself an -excellent writer, is a good judge of writings intended to excite the -affections or the imagination. Again, there is the danger of satiety -due to previous reading of similar writings. Certain passions too, of -more or less strength, from time to time invest the mind, leaving no -room for the emotions which ought to be excited by the reading. And it -often happens that places; spectacles, natural or artificial, music; -and a hundred such things, which would ordinarily excite us, are now -incapable of arousing or delighting us in the least, although no less -attractive than formerly. - -"But, though a man, for one or other of these reasons, may be ill -disposed to appreciate the effects of eloquence or poetry, he does -not for that reason defer judgment of books on both these subjects -which he then happens to read for the first time. I myself sometimes -take up Homer, Cicero, or Petrarch, and read without feeling the least -emotion. Yet, as I am quite aware of the merits of these writers, -both because of their reputation, and my own frequent appreciation of -their charms, I do not for a moment think them undeservedly praised -simply because I am at present too dull to do them justice. But it is -different with books read for the first time, which are too new to have -acquired a reputation. There is nothing in such cases to prevent the -reader forming a low opinion of the author and the merits of his book, -if his mind be indisposed to do justice to the sentiments and imagery -contained in the work. Nor would it be easy to induce him to alter his -judgment by subsequent study of the same book under better auspices; -for probably the disgust inspired by his first reading will deter him -from a second; and in any case the strength of first impressions will -be almost invincible. - -"On the other hand, the mind is sometimes, for one reason or another, -in such a state of sensibility, vivacity, vigour, and fervour, that -it follows even the least suggestion of the reading; it feels keenly -the slightest touch, and as it reads is able to create within itself -a thousand emotions and fancies, sometimes losing itself in a sort -of sweet delirium, when it is almost transported out of itself. As a -natural result of this, the mind, reviewing the pleasures enjoyed in -the reading, and not distinguishing between its own predisposition -and the actual merits of the book, experiences a feeling of so great -admiration, and forms so high a conception of it, as even to rank the -book above others of much greater merit, read under less felicitous -circumstances. See therefore to what uncertainty is subject even the -truth and justice of opinions from the same persons, as to the writings -and genius of others, quite apart from any sentiment of malice or -favour. So great is this uncertainty that a man varies considerably -in his estimation of works of equal value, and even the same work, at -different times of life, under different circumstances, and even at -different hours of the day." - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -"Perhaps you may think that these difficulties, due to mental -indisposition on the part of readers, are of rare occurrence. Consider, -then, how frequently a man, as he grows old, becomes incapable of -appreciating the charms of eloquence and poetry, no less than those -of the other imitative arts, and everything beautiful in the world. -This intellectual decay is a necessity of our nature. In the present -day it is so much greater than formerly, begins so much earlier, and -progresses so much more rapidly, especially in the studious, as our -experience is enlarged in more or less degree by the knowledge begotten -of the speculations of so many past centuries. For which reason, and -owing to the present condition of civilised life, the phantoms of -childhood soon vanish from the imagination of men; with them go the -hopes of the mind, and with the hopes most of the desires, passions, -and energy of life and its faculties. Whence I often wonder that men -of mature age, especially the learned and those inclined to meditate -about human affairs, should yet be subject to the influence of poetry -and eloquence, which are, however, unable to produce any real effect on -them. - -"It may be regarded as a fact that, in order to be greatly moved by -imagination of the grand and beautiful, one must believe that there is -something really grand and beautiful in human life, and that poetry is -not mere fable. The young always believe such things, even when they -know their fallacy, until personal experience forces them to accept -the truth. But it is difficult to put faith in them after the sad -discipline of practical life; especially when experience is combined -with habits of study and speculation. - -"From this it would seem that the young are generally better judges -of writings intended to arouse the affections and the imagination, -than men of mature and advanced age. But, on the other hand, the -young are novices in literature. They exact from books a superhuman, -boundless, and impossible pleasure, and where they fail to experience -this they despise the writer. Illiterate people have the same idea of -the functions of literature. And youths addicted to reading prefer, -both in their own writings and those of others, extravagance to -moderation, magnificence or attractiveness of style and ornamentation, -to the simple and natural, and sham beauties to real ones. This is -partly due to their limited experience, and partly to the impetuosity -of their time of life. Consequently, although the young are doubtless -more inclined than their elders to applaud what seems good to them, -since they are more truthful and candid, they are seldom capable of -appreciating the excellences of literary works. As we grow older, -the influence exercised over us by art increases, as that of nature -diminishes. Nevertheless both nature and art are necessary to produce -effect. - -"Dwellers in large towns are compelled to sacrifice the beautiful -to the useful. Even though of warm and sensitive natures and lively -imagination, they cannot experience as an effect of the charms -either of nature or literature any tender or noble sentiment, any -sublime or delightful fancy; unless indeed, like you, they spend -most of their time in solitude. For few things are so opposed to -the state of mind necessary to appreciate such delights, as the -conversation of these men, the riot of these places, and the sight of -the tinselled splendour, the falseness, the miserable troubles, and -still more miserable idleness which abound there. I also think that -the _littÈrateurs_ of large towns are, as a rule, less qualified to -judge books than those of small towns; because, like everything else, -the literature of large towns is ordinarily false and pretentious, or -superficial. - -"And whereas the ancients used to regard literature and the sciences -as a pleasing change from more serious business, in the present day -the majority of men who in large towns profess to be students regard -literature and writing as merely an agreeable variation of their other -amusements. - -"I think that works of art, whether painting, sculpture, or -architecture, would be much more appreciated if they were disseminated -throughout a country in different-sized towns, instead of being, as -at present, accumulated in the chief cities. For in the latter places -men are so full of thoughts, so occupied with pleasurable pursuits and -vain and frivolous excitements, that they are very rarely capable of -the profound pleasures of the intellect. Besides, a multitude of fine -things gathered together have a distracting influence; the mind bestows -but little attention on individual things, and is sensible of no -especial gratification; or else it becomes satiated, and regards them -all as indifferently as though they were objects of the commonest kind. - -"I say the same of music, which is nowhere so elaborate, or brought to -such perfection, as in large towns, where men have less appreciation -for the wonderful emotions of the art, and are indeed less musical than -elsewhere. - -"Nevertheless, large towns are a useful home for the fostering and -perfecting of the arts; although their inhabitants are less under the -influence of their charms than the people of other places. It may be -said that artists, who work in solitude and silence, strive laboriously -and industriously to please men, who, because accustomed to the bustle -and noise of cities, are almost totally incapable of appreciating the -fruit of their exertions. - -"The fate of writers may in a measure be compared to that of artists." - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -"We will now return to the consideration of authors. - -"It is a characteristic of writings approaching perfection that they -usually please more when read a second time, than they pleased at -first. The contrary effect is produced by many books written carefully -and skilfully, but which really possess few merits. These when read a -second time are less esteemed than at first. But both kinds of books, -when read only once, often deceive even the learned and experienced, so -that indifferent books are preferred to excellent ones. In the present -day, however, even students by profession can rarely be induced to read -new books a second time, especially such as come under the heading of -light literature. This was not so in olden times, because then but few -books were in existence. Now, it is very different. We possess the -literary bequests of all past times. Every nation has its literature, -and produces its host of books daily. There are writings in all -languages, ancient and modern, relating to every branch of science and -learning, and so closely connected and allied that the student must -study them all as far as possible. You may therefore easily imagine -that a book does not obtain full consideration on a first reading, and -that a second reading is out of the question. Yet the first opinion -that we form of a new book is seldom changed. - -"For the same reasons, even in the first reading of books, especially -those of light literature, very rarely sufficient attention and study -is given to discover the laborious perfection, the subtle art, and -the hidden and unpretentious virtues of the writings. Thus, in the -present day the condition of excellent books is really worse than that -of indifferent ones. For the charms and qualifications of most of the -latter, whether true or false, are so exposed to the eye, that, however -trivial they may be, they are easily discernible at first sight. We -may therefore say with truth, that the exertion necessary to produce -perfect writing is almost useless for fame. But, on the other hand, -books composed, like most modern ones, rapidly and without any great -degree of excellence, though perhaps celebrated for a time, cannot fail -to be soon forgotten. And many works of recognised value are also lost -in the immense stream of new books which pours forth daily, before -they have had time to establish their celebrity. They perish for no -intrinsic fault of their own, and give place to other books, good and -bad, which each in turn live their short spell of life. So that whereas -the ancients could acquire glory in a thousand ways, we can only attain -it by one single avenue, after much more exertion than formerly. - -"The books of the ancients alone survive this universal shipwreck of -all later writings. Their fame is established and confirmed; they are -diligently and repeatedly read, and are made the subject of careful -study. And it is noteworthy that a modern book, if intrinsically equal -to any of the ancient writings, would rarely, if ever, give its readers -as much pleasure as the ancient work. This for two reasons. In the -first place, it would not be read with the care and attention that we -bestow on celebrated writings; very few people would read it twice; -and no one would study it (for none but scientific books are studied -until made venerable by age). In the second place, the world-wide and -permanent reputation of writings, whether or not due to their internal -excellence, adds to their value, and proportionately increases the -pleasure they give; often, indeed, most of the charm of such literature -is simply due to its celebrity. - -"This reminds me of some remarkable words of Montesquieu about the -origin of human pleasures. He says: 'The mind often creates within -itself many sources of pleasure, which are intimately dependent on each -other. Thus, a thing that has once pleased us, pleases us again simply -because it did so before; we couple together imagination of the present -and remembrance of the past. For example, an actress who pleased us -on the stage, will probably please us in private life: her voice; her -manner; the recollection of the applause she excited; perhaps, too, -her _rÙle_ of princess joined to her real character,--all combine and -form a mixture of influences producing a general feeling of pleasure. -Our minds are always full of ideas subordinate to one or more primary -ideas. A woman famous for one cause or another, and possessed of some -slight inherent defect, is often able to attract by means of this -very defect. And women are ordinarily loved less because they inspire -affection than because they are well born, rich, or highly esteemed by -others.'[1].... - -"Often indeed a woman's reputation for beauty and grace, whether well -or ill founded, or even the mere fact that others have been under the -influence of her charms, suffices to inspire a man with affection -for her. And who does not know that most pleasures are due to the -imagination rather than to the inherent qualities of the things that -please us? - -"These remarks refer to writings no less than to all other things. -Indeed I will venture to say that were a poem to be published equal -or superior to the Iliad, and carefully read by an excellent judge of -poetry, it would give less satisfaction and appear less charming than -the Greek masterpiece, much less would its fame be comparable with that -of the Iliad; for its real merits would not be aided by twenty-seven -centuries of admiration, nor the thousand reminiscences and other -associations that connect themselves with Homer's poem. Similarly I -affirm that if any one were to read carefully either the 'Jerusalem' or -the 'Furioso,' without knowing anything of their celebrity, he would be -much less pleased than others who were aware of their fame. - -"In short, it may be accepted as a general rule that the first readers -of every remarkable work which in after ages becomes famous, and the -contemporaries of the writer, derive less enjoyment from such reading -than all other people. - -"This fact cannot but be very disadvantageous to the interest of -writers." - - -[Footnote 1: Ex: Fragment _Sur le go˚t_, &c.] - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -"Such are a few of the obstacles that may prevent you from acquiring -glory from the studious, or even from those who excel in knowledge and -the art of writing. - -"Now there are many people who, though educated sufficiently for the -purposes of daily life, are neither writers nor students to any very -great extent. They read simply for amusement, and, as you know, are -only capable of appreciating certain qualities in literature. The chief -reason of this has been already partly explained. There is, however, -another cause. It is that they only seek momentary pleasure in what -they read. But the present in itself is trivial and joyless to all men. -Even the sweetest things, as says Homer, - - 'Love, sleep, song, and the dance,' - -soon weary us, if to the present there be not joined the hope of -some pleasure or future satisfaction, dependent on them. For it is -contrary to human nature to be greatly pleased with that of which hope -does not form a constituent part. And so great is the power of hope -that it enlivens and sweetens many exertions, painful and laborious -in themselves; whereas, on the other hand, things innately charming, -when unaccompanied by hope, are scarce sufficiently attractive to be -welcomed. "We see studious people never tired of reading, often even -of the driest kind; and they experience a constant delight in their -studies, carried on perhaps throughout the greater part of the day. The -reason of this is that they have the future ever before their eyes; -they hope in some way, and at some time, to reap the benefit of their -labours. Such people always have their interests at heart. They do not -take up a book, either to pass time or for amusement, without also -distilling from it more or less definite instruction. Others, on the -contrary, who seek to learn nothing from books, are satisfied when they -have read their first few pages, or those that have the most attractive -appearance. They wander wearily from book to book, and marvel to -themselves how any one can find prolonged pleasure in prolonged reading. - -"It is clear that any skill or industry displayed by the writer is -almost entirely wasted on such people, who nevertheless compose the -mass of readers. And even men of studious inclinations, having later in -life changed the nature of their studies, almost feel a repugnance for -books which would formerly have given them intense delight; and though -still able to discern their value, are wearied rather than pleased by -their merits, because instruction is not at all what they desire." - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -"Hitherto we have considered writings in general, and certain things -relating to light literature in particular, towards which I see you are -more especially attracted. Let us now turn to philosophy, though it -must not be supposed that this science is separable from the study of -letters. - -"Perhaps you will think that because philosophy is derived from -reason, which among civilised people is usually a stronger power -than the imagination or the affections, the value of philosophical -works ought to be more universally recognised than that of poems, -and other writings which treat of the pleasurable and the beautiful. -It is, however, my opinion that poetry is better understood and -appreciated than philosophy. In the first place, it is certain that a -subtle intelligence and great power of reasoning are not sufficient -to ensure much progress in philosophy. Considerable imaginative -power is also requisite. Indeed, judged from the nature of their -intellects, Descartes, Galileo, Leibnitz, Newton, and Vico would -have made excellent poets; and, on the other hand, Homer, Dante, and -Shakespeare might have been great philosophers. This subject would -require much elaboration; I will therefore merely affirm that none but -philosophers can perfectly appreciate the value and realise the charm -of philosophical books. Of course, I refer to their substance, and -not to whatever superficial merit they may have, whether of language, -style, or anything else. And, just as men are by nature unpoetical, -and consequently rarely catch the spirit of a poem or discern its -imagery, although they may follow the meaning of its words; similarly, -people unaccustomed to meditate and philosophise within themselves, -or who are incapable of deep sustained thought, cannot comprehend the -truths that a philosopher expounds, however clear and logical his -deductions, arguments, and conclusions may be, although they understand -the words that he uses and their signification. Because, being unable -or unused to analyse the essence of things by means of thought, or to -separate their own ideas into divisions, or to join and bind together -a number of these ideas, or simultaneously to grasp with the mind many -particulars so as to deduce a single general rule from them, or to -follow unweariedly with the mind's eye a long series of truths mutually -connected, or to discover the subtle and hidden connection between -each truth and a hundred others; they can with difficulty, if at all, -grasp and follow his working, or experience the impressions proved by -the philosopher. Therefore, they can neither understand nor estimate -rightly all the influences that led him to this or that opinion, and -made him affirm or deny this or that thing, and doubt such and such -another. Possibly they may understand his ideas, but they neither -recognise their truth nor probability; because they are unable to test -either the one or the other. They are like those cold and passionless -men who are incapable of appreciating the fancies and imagery of the -poets. And you know it is common to the poet and the philosopher to -penetrate into the depths of the minds of men, and thence to bring into -light all their hidden emotions, profundities, and secret working, with -their respective causes and effects; thus, men who are incapable of -sympathy with the poet and his thoughts, are also incapable of entering -into the thoughts of the philosopher. - -"This is why we see daily many meritorious works, clear and -intelligible to all, interpreted by some people as containing a -thousand undoubted truths, and, by others, a thousand patent errors. -They are attacked in public and private, not only from motives of -malice, interest, and other similar causes, but also because of the -incapacity of the readers, and their inability to comprehend the -certainty of the principles, the correctness of the deductions and -conclusions, and the general fitness, sufficiency, and truth of the -reasoning put forward. It often happens that philosophical writings -of the most sublime nature are accused of obscurity, not necessarily -because they are obscure, but either because their vein of thought -is of too profound or novel a nature to be easily intelligible, or -because the reader himself is too dense to be a competent judge of -such works. Think, then, how difficult it must be to gain praise for -philosophical writings, however meritorious they may be. For there can -be no doubt that the number of really profound philosophers, who alone -can appreciate one another, is in the present day very small, although -philosophy is more cultivated than in past times. - -"I will not refer to the various sects into which those who profess -philosophy are divided. Each sect ordinarily refuses to allow -that there is aught estimable in the others; this is not only from -unwillingness, but also because it occupies itself with different -principles of philosophy." - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -"If, as the result of your learning and meditation, you chanced to -discover some important truth, not only formerly unknown, but quite -unlooked for, and even antagonistic to the opinions of the day, you -must not anticipate in your lifetime any peculiar commendation for this -discovery. You will gain no esteem, even from the wise (except perhaps -from a very few), until by frequent and varied reiteration of these -truths the ears of men have become accustomed to their sound; then -only, after a long time, the intellect begins to receive them. - -"For no truth contrary to current opinion, even though demonstrable -with almost geometrical certitude, can ever, unless capable of material -proof, be suddenly established. Time, custom, and example alone are -able to give it a solid foundation. Men accustom themselves to belief, -as to everything else; indeed they generally believe from habit, and -not from any sentiment of conviction within their minds. At length -it happens that the once-questioned truth is taught to children, and -is universally accepted. People are then astonished that it was ever -unknown to them, and they ridicule their ancestors and contemporaries -for the ignorance and obstinacy they manifested in opposing it. The -greater and more important the new truths, so much the greater will -be the difficulty of procuring acceptance for them; since they will -overthrow a proportionately large number of opinions hitherto rooted -in the minds of men. For even acute and practised intellects do not -easily enter into the spirit of reasonings which demonstrate new truths -that exceed the limits of their own knowledge; especially when these -are opposed to beliefs long established within them. Descartes, in -his geometrical discoveries, was understood by but very few of his -contemporaries. It was the same with Newton. Indeed, the condition of -men pre-eminent in knowledge is somewhat similar to that of literary -men, and 'savants' who live in places innocent of learning. The latter -are not deservedly esteemed by their neighbours; the former fail to be -duly appreciated by their contemporaries. Both are often despised for -their difference in manner of life and opinions from other men, who -neither do justice to their ability nor to the writings they put forth -in proof of it. - -"There is no doubt that the human race makes continual progress in -knowledge. As a body, its march is slow and measured; but it includes -certain great and remarkable minds which, having devoted themselves -to speculation about the sensible or intelligible phenomena of the -universe, and the pursuit of truths, travel, nay sometimes flash, to -their conclusions in an immeasurably short space of time. And the rapid -progress of these intellects stimulates other men, who hasten their -foot-steps so as to reach, later on, the place where these superior -beings rested. But not until the lapse of a century or more do they -attain to the knowledge possessed by an extraordinary intellect of this -kind. - -"It is ordinarily believed that human knowledge owes most of its -progress to these supreme intellects, which arise from time to time, -like miracles of nature.[1] I, on the contrary, think that it owes -more to men of common powers than to those who are exceptionally -endowed. Suppose a case, in which one of the latter, having rivalled -his contemporaries in knowledge, advances independently, and takes a -lead of, say ten paces. Most other men, far from feeling disposed -to follow him, regard his progress in silence, or else ridicule it. -Meanwhile, a number of moderately clever men, partly aided perhaps by -the ideas and discoveries of the genius, but principally through their -own endeavours, conjointly advance one step. The masses unhesitatingly -follow them, being attracted by the not inordinate novelty, and also by -the number of those who are its authors. In process of time, thanks to -the exertions of these men, the tenth step is accomplished; and thus -the opinions of the genius are universally received throughout the -civilised world. But their originator, dead long ago, only acquires a -late and unseasonable reputation. This is due partly to the fact that -he is forgotten, or to the low esteem in which he was held when living; -added to which men are conscious that they do not owe their knowledge -to him, and that they are already his equals in erudition, and will -soon surpass him, if they have not done so already. They are also his -superiors, in that time has enabled them to demonstrate and affirm -truths that he only imagined, to prove his conjectures, and give better -form and order to his inventions, almost, as it were, maturing them. -Perchance, after a time, some student engaged in historical research -may justly appraise the influence of this genius, and may announce him -to his countrymen with great _Èclat_; but the fame that may ensue from -this will soon give way to renewed oblivion. - -"The progress of human knowledge, like a falling weight, increases -momentarily in its speed; none the less very rarely men of a generation -change their beliefs or recognise their errors, so as to believe at one -time the opposite of what they previously believed. Each generation -prepares the way for its successor to know and believe many things -contrary to its own knowledge and belief. But most men are as little -conscious of the increasing development of their knowledge, and the -inevitable mutation of their beliefs, as they are sensible of the -perpetual motion of the earth. And a man never alters his opinions so -as to be conscious of the alteration. But were he suddenly to embrace -an opinion totally discordant with his old beliefs, he could not fail -to perceive the change. It may therefore be said, that ordinarily no -truths, except such as are determinable by the senses, will be believed -by the contemporaries of their discoverer." - - -[Footnote 1: It is in the order of Providence that the inventive, -generative, constitutive mind should come first; and then that the -patient and collective mind should follow, and elaborate the pregnant -queries and illumining guesses of the former,--S. T. Coleridge, _Table -Talk_, Oct. 8, 1830.] - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -"Now let us suppose that every difficulty be overcome, and that -aided by fortune you have actually in your lifetime acquired not -only celebrity, but glory. What will be the fruit of this? In the -first place, men will wish to see you, and make your acquaintance; -they will indicate you as a distinguished man, and will honour you -in every possible way. Such are the best results of literary glory. -It would seem more natural to look for such demonstrations in small -than in large towns; for these latter are subject to the distracting -influence of wealth and power, and all the arts which serve to amuse -and enliven the inactive hours of men's lives. But because small towns -are ordinarily wanting in things necessary to stimulate literary -excellence, they are rarely the abode of men devoted to literature -and study. The people of such places esteem learning and wisdom, and -even the fame men seek by these means, at a very low value; neither -the one nor the other are objects of envy to them. And if a man who -is a distinguished scholar take up his residence in a small town, his -notability is of no advantage to him. Rather the contrary. For though -his fame would secure him high honour in towns not far distant, he is -there regarded as the most forlorn and obscure individual in the place. -Just as a man who possessed nothing but an abundance of silver and gold -would be even poorer than other men in a place where these metals were -valueless; similarly a wise and studious man who makes his abode in a -place where learning and genius are unknown, far from being considered -superior to other men, will be despised and scornfully treated unless -he happen to have some more material possessions. Yet such a man is -often given credit for possessing much greater knowledge than he really -has, though this reputation does not procure him any especial honour -from these people. - -"When I was a young man, I used occasionally to return to Bosisio, -my native place. Every one there knew that I spent my time in study -and writing. The peasants gave me credit for being poet, philosopher, -doctor, mathematician, lawyer, theologian, and sufficiently a linguist -to know all the languages in the world. They used to question me -indiscriminately on any subject, or about any trifle that chanced to -enter their minds. Yet they did not hold me in much esteem, and thought -me less instructed than the learned people of all other places. But -whenever I gave them reason to think my learning was not as extensive -as they supposed, I fell vastly in their estimation, and in the end -they used to persuade themselves that after all my knowledge was no -greater than theirs. - -"We have already noticed the difficulties to be overcome in large towns -before glory can be acquired, or the fruit of it enjoyed. I will now -add that although no fame is more difficult to merit than that of being -an excellent poet, writer, or philosopher, nothing is less lucrative -to the possessor. You know that the misery and poverty of the greatest -poets, both in ancient and modern times, is proverbial. Homer, like his -poetry, is involved in mystery; his country, life, and history are an -impenetrable secret to men. But, amid this uncertainty and ignorance, -there is an unshaken tradition that Homer was poor and unhappy. It is -as if time wished to bear witness that the fate of other noble poets -was shared by the prince of poetry. - -"But, passing over the other benefits of glory, we will simply consider -what is called honour. No part of fame is usually less honourable -and more useless than this. It may be that so many people obtain it -undeservedly, or even because of the extreme difficulty of meriting -it at all; certain it is that such reputation is scarce esteemed, if -regarded as trustworthy. Or perhaps it is due to the fact that most -clever half-cultured men imagine they either are, or could easily -become, as proficient in literature and philosophy as those who are -successful in these studies, and whom they accordingly treat as on an -intellectual equality. Possibly both causes combine in their influence. -It is certain, however, that the man who is an ordinary mathematician, -natural philosopher, philologist, antiquary, artist, sculptor, -musician, or who has only a moderate acquaintance with a single ancient -or foreign language, is usually more respected, even in large towns, -than a really remarkable philosopher, poet, or writer. Consequently, -poetry and philosophy, the noblest, grandest, and most arduous of -things pertaining to humanity, and the supreme efforts of art and -science, are in the present day the most neglected faculties in the -world, even in their professed followers. Manual arts rank higher than -these noble things; for no one would pretend to a knowledge of them -unless he really possessed it, nor could this knowledge be acquired -without study and exertion. In short, the poet and the philosopher -derive no benefit in life from their genius and studies, except perhaps -the glory rendered to them by a very few people. Poetry and philosophy -resemble each other in that they are both as unproductive and barren of -esteem and honour, as of all other advantages." - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -"From men you will scarcely derive any advantage whatever from your -glory. You will therefore look within you for consolation, and in -your solitude will nerve yourself for fresh exertions, and lay the -foundation of new hopes. For like all other human benefits, literary -glory is more pleasing in anticipation than in reality, if indeed it -can ever be said to be realised. You will therefore at length console -yourself with the thought of that last hope and refuge of noble minds, -posterity. Even Cicero, richly renowned as he was in life, turned his -mind yearningly towards the future, in saying: 'Thinkest thou I should -have undertaken so many labours, during day and night, in peace and -war, had I imagined my glory was limited to this life? Far better were -a life of idleness and peace, devoid of cares and fatigue. No. My soul, -in some inexplicable way, used ever to fix its hopes on posterity, and -looked for the dawn of its true life from the hour of death.'[1] Cicero -here refers to the idea of immortality innate in the minds of men. -But the true explanation lies in the fact that all earthly benefits -are no sooner acquired than their insignificance becomes apparent; -they are unworthy of the fatigues they have cost. Glory is, above all, -an example of this; it is a dear purchase, and of little use to the -purchaser. But, as Simonides says, I Sweet hope cheers us with its -phantom beauties, and with its vain prospect stimulates us to work. -Some men await the friendly dawn, others the advance of age, and others -more auspicious seasons. Every mortal cherishes within him hopes of -coming good from Pluto and the other gods,' Thus, as we experience the -vanity of glory, hope, driven and hunted from place to place, finding -at length no spot in the whole of life whereon to rest, passes beyond -the grave and alights on posterity. For man ever turns instinctively -from the present to the future, about which he hopes much in proportion -as he knows little. Hence, they who are desirous of glory in life, -chiefly nourish themselves on that which they hope to gain after -death. For the lack of enjoyment in the present, man consoles himself -with hopes of future happiness, as vain as that of the present." - - -[Footnote 1: De Senectute.] - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -"But what, after all, is this appeal that we make to posterity? The -human imagination is such that it forms a more exalted conception of -posterity than of the men of past or present times, simply because we -are totally ignorant of the people who are yet to be. But, reasonably, -and not imaginatively, do we really think our successors will be better -than ourselves? I am of a contrary opinion, and for my part put faith -in the proverb that says 'the world grows worse as it ages,' It were -better for men of genius if they could appeal to their wise ancestors, -who, according to Cicero, were not inferior in point of numbers, and -far superior in excellence to their successors. But, though such appeal -would be sure of a truer judgment, it is certain that the greatest men -of our day would be held in little esteem by the ancients. - -"It may be allowed that the men of the future, being free from -any spirit of rivalry, envy, love, or hatred, not indeed amongst -themselves, but towards us, ought to be better qualified than ourselves -to pass impartial judgment on our writings. For other reasons, too, -they may be better judges. Posterity will perhaps have fewer excellent -writers, noble poets, and subtle philosophers. In which case the few -followers of these sublime influences will honour us the more. It is -also probable that their control over the minds of the people will -be still less than that exercised by us. Again, will the affections, -imagination, and intellect of men be, as a rule, more powerful than -they are at present? If not, we shall gain by the comparison. - -"Literature is peculiarly exposed to the influence of custom. In times -of debased literature, we see how firmly this or that barbarism is -retained and upheld, as though it alone were reasonable and natural. At -such times the best and greatest writers are forgotten or ridiculed. -Where, then, is the certainty that posterity will always esteem the -kind of writing that we praise? Besides, it is a question whether or -not we ourselves esteem what is really praiseworthy. For men have -different opinions about what constitutes good writing, and these vary -according to the times, the nature of places and people, customs, -usages, and individuals. Yet it is to this variety and variability of -influences that the glory of writers is subjected. - -"Philosophy is even more diverse and changeable than other sciences.[1] -At first sight the contrary of this would seem to be true; for whereas -the 'belles lettres' are concerned with the study of the beautiful, -which is chiefly a matter of custom and opinion, sciences seek the -truth, which is fixed and unchangeable. But this truth is hid from -mortals, though, as centuries go by, some little of it is revealed. -Consequently, on the one hand, in their endeavours to discover it, -and their conjectures as to its nature, men are led to embrace this -or that resemblance of truth; thereupon opinions and sects multiply. -And, on the other hand, it is due to the ever-increasing number of -fresh discoveries, and new aspects of truth obtained daily, that even -these divisions become subdivided; and opinions which at one time were -regarded almost as certainties change shape and substance momentarily. -It is owing to the changeability of sciences and philosophy that they -are so unproductive of glory, either at the hands of contemporaries -or posterity. For when new discoveries, or new ideas and conjectures, -greatly alter the condition of this or that science from its present -state, how will the writings and thoughts of men now celebrated in -these sciences be regarded? Who, for instance, now reads Galileo's -works? Yet in his time they were most wonderful; nor could better and -nobler books, full of greater discoveries and grander conceptions, -be then written on such subjects. But now every tyro in physics or -mathematics surpasses Galileo in his knowledge. Again, how many people -in the present day read the writings of Francis Bacon? Who troubles -himself about Malebranche? And how much time will soon be bestowed on -the works of Locke, if the science almost founded by him progresses in -future as rapidly as it gives promise of doing? - -"Truly the very intellectual force, industry, and labour, which -philosophers and scientists expend in the pursuit of their glory, are -in time the cause of its extinction or obscurÈment. For by their own -great exertions they open out a path for the still further advancement -of the science, which in time progresses so rapidly that their writings -and names fall gradually into oblivion. And it is certainly difficult -for most men to esteem others for a knowledge greatly inferior to their -own. Who can doubt that the twentieth century will discover error in -what the wisest of us regard as unquestionable truths, and will surpass -us greatly in their knowledge of the truth?" - - -[Footnote 1: Compare the following from H. Rogers' _Essay on Leibnitz_: -"The condition of great philosophers is far less enviable than that of -great poets. The former can never possess so large a circle of readers -under any circumstances; but that number is still further abridged by -the fact that even the truths the philosopher has taught or discovered -form but stepping-stones in the progress of science, and are afterwards -digested, systematised, and better expounded in other works composed by -inferior men."] - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -"Finally, you would perhaps like to know my opinion, and decided advice -to you, about your intended profession. The question is one as to -the advisability of your pursuing or abandoning this path to glory, -a thing so poor in usefulness, and so hard and uncertain both to -secure and retain, that it may be compared to a shadow which you can -neither feel when you hold, nor yet keep from fleeing away. I will tell -you then briefly my true opinion. I consider your wonderful genius, -noble disposition, and prolific imagination to be the most fatal and -lamentable qualities distributed by Fortune to humanity. But since -you possess them, you will scarcely be able to avoid their harmful -influence. In the present day there is but one possible benefit to be -gained from such endowments as yours; viz., the glory that sometimes -rewards industry in literature and study. You know those miserable men, -who having accidentally lost or injured a limb, try to make as much -profit as possible from their misfortune, which they ostentatiously -display to excite the pity and consequent liberality of passers-by. -In the same way I advise you to endeavour to procure by means of your -endowments the only possible advantage, trifling and uncertain though -it be. Such qualities as yours are usually regarded as great natural -gifts, and are often envied by those who do not possess them. But this -feeling is opposed to common sense; as well may the sound man envy -those wretched fellows their bodily calamities, or wish to mutilate -himself in the same way, for the sake of the miserable profit he might -gain. Most men work as long as they can, and enjoy themselves as much -as their nature will permit. But great writers are naturally, and by -their manner of life, incapable of many human pleasures: voluntarily -deprived of many others; often despised by their fellow-men, save -perhaps a very few who pursue the same studies; they are destined to -lead a life like unto death, and to live only beyond the grave, if even -that be granted them. - -"But Destiny must be obeyed; duty commands us to follow it courageously -and nobly whithersoever it may lead us. Such resignation is especially -necessary for you, and those who resemble you." - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN FREDERIC RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES._ - - -_Chorus of the dead in Ruysch's laboratory._ - - - O Death, thou one eternal thing, - That takest all within thine arms, - In thee our coarser nature rests - In peace, set free from life's alarms: - Joyless and painless is our state. - Our spirits now no more are torn - By racking thought, or earthly fears; - Hope and desire are now unknown, - Nor know we aught of sorrow's tears. - Time flows in one unbroken stream, - As void of ennui as a dream. - The troubles we on earth endured - Have vanished; yet we sometimes see - Their phantom shapes, as in a mist - Of mingled thought and memory: - They now can vex our souls no more. - What is that life we lived on earth? - A mystery now it seems to be, - Profound as is the thought of death, - To wearers of mortality. - And as from death the living flee, - So from the vital flame flee we. - Our portion now is peaceful rest, - Joyless, painless. We are not blest - With happiness; that is forbid - Both to the living and the dead. - -_Ruysch (outside his laboratory, looking through the keyhole)._ -Diamine! Who has been teaching these dead folks music, that they thus -sing like cocks, at midnight? Verily I am in a cold sweat, and nearly -as dead as themselves. I little thought when I preserved them from -decay, that they would come to life again. So it is however, and with -all my philosophy I tremble from head to foot. It was an evil spirit -that induced me to take these gentry in. I do not know what to do. If I -leave them shut in here, they may break open the door, or pass through -the keyhole, and come to me in bed. Yet I do not like to show that I am -afraid of the dead by calling for help. I will be brave. Let us see if -I cannot make them afraid in their turn. - -(_Entering_.)--Children, children, what game are you playing at? Do -you not remember that you are dead? What does all this uproar mean? -Are you so puffed up because of the Czar's visit,[1] that you imagine -yourselves no longer subject to the laws of Nature? I am presuming this -commotion is simply a piece of pleasantry on your part, and that there -is nothing serious about it. If, however, you are truly resuscitated, -I congratulate you, although I must tell you that I cannot afford to -keep you living as well as dead, and in that case you must leave my -house at once. Or if what they say about vampires be true, and you are -some of them, be good enough to seek other blood to drink, for I am -not disposed to let you suck mine, with which I have already liberally -filled your veins. In short, if you will continue to be quiet and -silent as before, we shall get on very well together, and you shall -want for nothing in my house. Otherwise, I warn you that I will take -hold of this iron bar, and kill you, one and all. - -_A Mummy_. Do not put yourself about. I promise you we will all be dead -again without your killing us. - -_Ruysch_. Then what is the meaning of this singing freak? - -_Mummy_. A moment ago, precisely at midnight, was completed for the -first time that great mathematical epoch referred to so often by the -ancients. To-night also the dead have spoken for the first time. And -all the dead in every cemetery and sepulchre, in the depths of the sea, -beneath the snow and the sand, under the open sky, and wherever they -are to be found, have like us chanted the song you have just heard. - -_Ruysch_. And how long will your singing or speaking last?' - -_Mummy_. The song is already finished. We are allowed to speak for a -quarter of an hour. Then we are silent again until the completion of -the second great year. - -_Ruysch_. If this be true, I do not think you will disturb my sleep -a second time. So talk away to your hearts' content, and I will -stand here on one side, and, from curiosity, gladly listen without -interrupting you. - -_Mummy_. We can only speak in response to some living person. The dead -that are not interrogated by the living, when they have finished their -song, are quiet again. - -_Ruysch_. I am greatly disappointed, for I was curious to know what you -would talk about if you could converse with each other. - -_Mummy_. Even if we could do so, you would hear nothing, because we -should have nothing to say to one another. - -_Ruysch_. A thousand questions to ask you come into my mind. But the -time is short, so tell me briefly what feelings you experienced in body -and soul when at the point of death. - -_Mummy_. I do not remember the exact moment of death. - -_The other Mummies_. Nor do we. - -_Ruysch_. Why not? - -_Mummy_. For the same reason that you cannot perceive the moment when -you fall asleep, however much you try to do so. - -_Ruysch_. But sleep is a natural thing. - -_Mummy_. And does not death seem natural to you? Show me a man, beast, -or plant that shall not die. - -_Ruysch_. I am no longer surprised that you sing and talk, if you do -not remember your death. - -"A fatal blow deprived him of his breath; -Still fought he on, unconscious of his death "-- - -as says an Italian poet. I thought that on the subject of death you -fellows would at least know something more than the living. Now tell -me, did you feel any pain at the point of death? - -_Mummy_. How can there be pain at a time of unconsciousness? - -_Ruysch_. At any rate, every one believes the moment of departure from -this life to be a very painful one. - -_Mummy_. As if death were a sensation, and not rather the contrary. - -_Ruysch_. Most people who hold the views of the Epicureans as to the -nature of the soul, as well as those who cling to the popular opinion, -agree in supposing that death is essentially a pain of the most acute -kind. - -_Mummy_. Well, you shall put the question to either of them from us. -If man be unaware of the exact point of time when his vital functions -are suspended in more or less degree by sleep, lethargy, syncope, or -any other cause, why should he perceive the moment-when these same -functions cease entirely; and not merely for a time, but for ever? -Besides, how could there be an acute sensation at the time of death? -Is death itself a sensation? When the faculty of sense is not only -weakened and restricted, but so minimised that it may be termed -non-existent, how could any one experience a lively sensation? Perhaps -you think this very extinction of sensibility ought also to be an acute -sensation? But it is not so. For you may notice that even sick people -who die of very painful diseases compose themselves shortly before -death, and rest in tranquillity; they are too enfeebled to suffer, and -lose all sense of pain before they die. - -You may say this from us to whoever imagines it will be a painful -effort to breathe his last. - -_Ruysch_. Such reasoning would perhaps satisfy the Epicureans, but not -those people who regard the soul as essentially different from the -body. I have hitherto been one of the latter, and now that I have heard -the dead speak and sing I am more than ever disinclined to change my -opinions. We consider death to be a separation of the soul and body, -and to us it is incomprehensible how these two substances, so joined -and agglutinated as to form one being, can be divided without great -force and an inconceivable pang. - -_Mummy_. Tell me: is the spirit joined to the body by some nerve, -muscle, or membrane which must be broken to enable it to escape? Or -is it a member which has to be severed or violently wrenched away? Do -you not see that the soul necessarily leaves the body when the latter -becomes uninhabitable, and not because of any internal violence? Tell -me also: were you sensible of the moment when the soul entered you, -and was joined, or as you say agglutinated, to your body? If not, why -should you expect to feel any violent sensation at its departure? Take -my word for it, the departure of the soul is as quiet and imperceptible -as its entrance. - -_Ruysch_. Then what is death, if it be not pain? - -_Mummy_. It is rather pleasure than anything else. You must know that -death, like sleep, is not accomplished in a moment, but gradually. It -is true the transition is more or less rapid according to the disease -or manner of death. But ultimately death comes like sleep, without -either sense of pain or pleasure. Just before death pain is impossible, -for it is too acute a thing to be experienced by the enfeebled senses -of a dying person. It were more rational to regard it as a pleasure; -because most human joys, far from being of a lively nature, are made up -of a sort of languor, in which pain has no part. Consequently, man's -senses, even when approaching extinction, are capable of pleasure; -since languor is often pleasurable, especially when it succeeds a -state of suffering. Hence the languor of death ought to be pleasing in -proportion to the intensity of pain from which it frees the sufferer. -As for myself, if I cannot recall the circumstances of my death, it -may be because the doctors forbade me to exert my brain. I remember, -however, that the sensation I experienced differed little from the -feeling of satisfaction that steals over a man, as the languor of sleep -pervades him. - -_The other Mummies_. We felt the same sensation. - -_Ruysch_. It may be as you say, although every one with whom I have -conversed on this subject is of a very different opinion. It is true, -however, they have not spoken from experience. Now tell me, did you -at the time of death, whilst experiencing this sensation of pleasure, -realise that you were dying, and that this feeling was a prelude to -death, or what did you think? - -_Mummy_. Until I was dead I believed I should recover, and as long as I -had the faculty of thought I hoped I should still live an hour or two. -I imagine most people think the same. - -_The other Mummies_. It was the same with us. - -_Ruysch_. Cicero says[2] that, however old and broken-down a man may -be, he always anticipates at least another year of life. - -But how did you perceive at length that your soul had left the body? -Say, how did you know you were dead?... You do not answer. Children, -do you not hear?... Ah, the quarter of an hour has expired. Let me -examine them a little. Yes, they are quite dead again. There is no fear -that they will give me such another shock. I will go to bed. - - - -NOTE.--Frederic Ruysch (1638-1731) was one of the cleverest anatomists -Holland has ever produced. For sixty years he held a professorship of -anatomy at Amsterdam, during which time he devoted himself to his art. -He obtained from Swammerdam his secret of preserving corpses by means -of an injection of coloured wax. Ruysch, it is said, also made use of -his own blood for this purpose. His subjects, when prepared, looked -like living beings, and showed no signs of corruption. Czar Peter -visited Holland in 1698, and was amazed at what he saw in Ruysch's -studio. In 1717 the Czar again visited Holland, and succeeded in -inducing Ruysch to dispose of his collection of animals, mummies, &c. -These were all transported to St. Petersburg. Ruysch formed a second -collection as valuable as the first, which after his death was publicly -sold. - - -[Footnote 1: See note.] - -[Footnote 2: De Senectute.] - - - - -_REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI._[1] - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Philip Ottonieri, a few of whose remarkable sayings I am about to -recount, partly heard from his own mouth and partly related to me by -others, was born at Nubiana in the province of Valdivento. There he -lived most of his life, and died a short time ago, leaving behind him -the reputation of having never injured any one either by word or deed. -He was detested by the majority of his fellow-citizens, because he took -so little interest in the many things that gave them pleasure; although -he did nothing to show that he despised those who differed from himself -in this respect. He is believed to have been, not only in theory, but -also in practice, what so many of his contemporaries professed to be, -that is, a philosopher. For this reason other men thought him peculiar, -though really he never affected singularity in anything. Indeed, he -once said that a man who nowadays practised the greatest possible -singularity in dress, manners, or actions, would be far less singular -than were those ancients who obtained a reputation for singularity; and -that the difference between such a person and his contemporaries would -by the ancients have been regarded as scarcely worthy of notice. And, -comparing J. J. Rousseau's singularity, which seemed very striking to -the people of his generation, with that of Democritus and the first -Cynic philosophers, he said that whoever nowadays lived as differently -from his contemporaries as these Greeks lived from theirs, would not -merely be regarded as singular, but would be treated as outside the -pale of human society. He thought, too, that the degree of civilisation -reached by any country might be estimated from observation of the -degree of singularity possible in the inhabitants of that country. - -Though very temperate in his habits of life, he professed Epicureanism, -perhaps lightly rather than from conviction. But he condemned Epicurus, -affirming that in his time and nation there was much more pleasure to -be obtained from the pursuit of glory and virtue, than from idleness, -indifference, and sensuality, which things were considered by that -philosopher to represent the greatest good of life. He said also -that the Epicureanism of modern times has nothing in common with the -Epicureanism of the ancients. - -In philosophy, he liked to call himself Socratic. Like Socrates, too, -he often spent great part of the day reasoning philosophically with any -chance acquaintance, and especially with certain of his friends, on any -impromptu subject. But unlike Socrates, he did not frequent the shops -of the shoemakers, carpenters, and blacksmiths; for he was of opinion -that, though the artisans of Athens may have had time to spend in -philosophising, those of Nubiana would starve were they to follow such -an example. Nor did he, like Socrates, explain his conclusions by means -of endless interrogation and argument; for, he said, although men in -the present day may have more patience than their ancestors, they would -never consent to reply to a thousand consecutive questions, still less -to hear their answers answered. In fact, he only resembled Socrates in -his manner of speaking, sometimes ironical, sometimes equivocal. He -analysed the famous Socratic irony in the following way:-- - -"Socrates was naturally very tender-hearted, and of a most lovable -disposition. But he was physically so unattractive that it is -probable he despaired from his youth of ever inspiring others with a -warmer feeling than that of friendship, far insufficient to satisfy -his sensitive and ardent nature, which often felt towards others a -much more lively affection. He was courageous in all matters of the -intellect, but seems to have been wanting in natural courage, and -those other qualities that would have enabled him to hold his own in -public life, amid the tumult of wars, the sedition, and the license -of all kinds, then characteristic of Athenian affairs. In addition to -this, his ridiculous and insignificant figure must have been no slight -prejudice to him among people who made little distinction between the -good and the beautiful, and who were also much addicted to banter. Thus -it happened that in a free city, full of wealth and the bustle and -amusements of life, Socrates, poor, rejected by love, incapable of a -public career, yet gifted with very great intelligence which doubtless -intensified the consciousness of his defects, resigned himself to a -life of philosophising on the actions, manners, and thoughts of his -fellow-citizens. The irony he used was natural to a man who found -himself as it were excluded from participation in the existence of -others. But it was due to his inherent nobility and affableness, and -perhaps also to the celebrity he gained by his reasonings, and which -flattered his self-esteem, that this irony, instead of being bitter and -contemptuous, was pleasing, and expressed in a friendly manner. - -"Then it was that Philosophy, as Cicero has well said, made her first -descent from heaven, and was led by Socrates into the towns and houses -of men. Hitherto occupied with speculations as to the nature of hidden -things, she now studied the manners and lives of men, and discussed -virtues and vices, things good and useful, and the contrary. But -Socrates did not primarily think of introducing this novel feature into -philosophy, nor did he propose to teach anything, nor even aspire to -the name of philosopher, which then only belonged to those who made -physics or metaphysics the study of their lives. He openly proclaimed -his ignorance of all things, and in his conversation with others simply -discussed the affairs of his neighbours, and the topics of the day. -He preferred this amusement to the real study of philosophy, or any -other science or art; and being naturally more inclined to act than -speculate, he only adopted this manner of life, because shut out from a -more congenial employment. He was always more willing to converse with -young and handsome persons than with others; in this way he hoped to -gain at least esteem, where he would far rather have had love." - -And since all the schools of Greek philosophy are traceable directly -or indirectly to the Socratic school, Ottonieri asserted that the flat -nose and satyr-like visage of a highly intellectual and warm-hearted -man were the origin of all Greek philosophy, and, consequently, the -philosophy of modern times. He also said that in the writings of -his followers, the individuality of Socrates is comparable to those -theatrical masks of the ancients, which always retained their name, -character, and identity, but the _rÙle_ of which varied in each -distinct performance. - -He left behind him no philosophical or other writings for public -benefit. Being asked one day why he did not give written as well as -verbal expression to his philosophical views, he replied: "Reading -is a conversation held with the writer. Now, as in fÍtes and public -entertainments, they who take no active part in the spectacle or -performance soon become tired, similarly in conversation men prefer to -speak rather than listen. And books necessarily resemble those people -who take all the speaking to themselves, and never listen to others. -Consequently, to atone for their monopoly of talking, they ought to say -many fine and excellent things, expressing them in a remarkable manner. -Every book that does not do this inspires the same feeling of aversion -as an insatiable chatterer." - - -[Footnote 1: A fictitious personage.] - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Ottonieri made no distinction between business and pleasure. However -serious his occupation, he called it pastime. Only once, having been -idle temporarily, he confessed he had then experienced no amusement. - -He said that our truest pleasures are due to the imagination. Thus, -children construct a world out of nothing, whereas men find nothing in -the world. He compared those pleasures termed real to an artichoke, all -the leaves of which must be masticated in order to reach the pith. He -added that such artichokes as these are very rare; and that many others -resemble them in exterior, but within are void of kernel. He for his -part, finding the leaves unpalatable, determined to abstain from both -leaves and kernel. - -Being asked what was the worst moment of life, he said: "Except those -of pain or fear, the worst moments are, in my opinion, those spent in -pleasure. For the anticipation and recollection of these last, which -fill up the remainder of life, are better and more delightful than the -pleasures themselves." He also made a comparison between pleasures -and odours. The latter he considered usually leave behind a desire to -experience them again, proportioned to their agreeableness; and he -regarded the sense of smell as the most difficult to satisfy of all our -senses. Again, he compared odours to anticipations of good things; and -said that odoriferous foods are generally more pleasing to the nose -than the palate, for their scent originates savoury expectations which -are seldom sufficiently realised. He explained why sometimes he was so -impatient about the delay of a pleasure sure to occur sooner or later, -by saying that he feared the enjoyment he should derive from it would -be of diminished force, on account of the exaggerated anticipation -conceived by his mind. For this reason he endeavoured in the meantime -to forget the coming good, as though it were an impending misfortune. - -He said that each of us in entering the world resembles a man on a -hard and uncomfortable bed. As soon as the man lies down, he feels -restless and begins to toss from side to side and change his position -momentarily, in the hope of inducing sleep to close his eyes. Thus he -spends the whole night, and though sometimes he believes himself on the -point of falling asleep, he never actually succeeds in doing so. At -length dawn comes, and he rises unrefreshed. - -Watching some bees at work one day in company with certain -acquaintances, he remarked: "Blessed are ye, if ye know not your -unhappiness." - -He considered the miseries of mortals to be incalculable, and that no -single one of them could be adequately deplored. - -In answer to Horace's question, "Why is no one content with his lot?" -he said: "Because no one's lot is happy. Subjects equally with princes, -the weak and the strong, were they happy, would be contented, and would -envy no one. For men are no more incapable of being satisfied than -other animals. But since happiness alone can satisfy them, they are -necessarily dissatisfied, because essentially unhappy." - -"If a man could be found," he said, "who had attained to the summit of -human happiness, that man would be the most miserable of mortals. For -even the oldest of us have hopes and schemes for the improvement of our -condition." He recalled a passage in Zenophon, where a purchaser of -land is advised to buy badly cultivated fields, because such as do not -in the future bring forth more abundantly than at the time of purchase, -give less satisfaction than if they were to increase in productiveness. -Similarly, all things in which we can observe improvement please us -more than others in which improvement is impossible. - -On the other hand, he observed that no condition is so bad that it -cannot be worse; and that however unhappy a man may be, he cannot -console or boast himself that his misfortunes are incapable of -increase. Though hope is unbounded, the good things of life are -limited. Thus, were we to consider a single day in the life of a rich -or poor man, master or servant, bearing in mind all the circumstances -and needs of their respective positions, we should generally find -an equality of good throughout. But nature has not limited our -misfortunes; nor can the mind scarcely conceive a cause of suffering -which is non-existent, or which at some time was not to be found among -humanity. Thus, whereas most men vainly hope for an increase of the -good things they possess, they never want for genuine objects of fear; -and if Fortune sometimes obstinately refuses to benefit us in the least -degree, she never fails to afflict us with new torments of such a -nature as to crush within us even the courage of despair. - -He often used to laugh at those philosophers who think that a man is -able to free himself from the tyranny of Fortune, by having a contempt -for good and evil things which are entirely beyond his control; as if -happiness and the contrary were absolutely in his own power to accept -or refuse. On the same subject he also said, amongst other things, -that however much a man may act as a philosopher in his relations with -others, he is never a philosopher to himself. Again, he said that it is -as impossible to take more interest in the affairs of others than in -our own, as to regard their affairs as though they were our own. But, -supposing this philosophical disposition of mind were possible, winch -it is not, and possessed by one of us, how would it stand the test -of a thousand trials? Would it not be evident that the happiness or -unhappiness of such a person is nevertheless a matter of fortune? Would -not the very disposition they boast of be dependent on circumstances? -Is not man's reason daily governed by accidents of all kinds? Do not -the numberless bodily disturbances due to stupidity, excitement, -madness, rage, dullness, and a hundred other species of folly, -temporary or continuous, trouble, weaken, distract, and even extinguish -it? Does not memory, wisdom's ally, lose strength as we advance in age? -How many of us fall into a second childhood! And we almost all decrease -in mental vigour as we grow old; or when our mind remains unimpaired, -time, by means of some bodily disease, enfeebles our courage and -firmness, and not infrequently deprives us of both attributes -altogether. In short, it is utter folly to confess that physically we -are subject to many things over which we have no control, and at the -same time to assert that the mind, which is so greatly dependent on the -body, is not similarly controlled by external influences. He summed up -by saying that man as a whole is absolutely in the power of Fortune. -Being asked for what purpose he thought men were born, he laughingly -replied: "To realise how much better it were not to be born." - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -On the occasion of a certain misfortune, Ottonieri said: "It is less -hard to lose a much-loved person suddenly, or after a short illness, -than to see him waste away gradually, so that before his death he is -transformed in body and mind into quite another being from what he -formerly was. This latter is a cruel thing; for the beloved one, -instead of leaving to us the tender recollections of his real identity, -remains with us a changed being, in whose presence our old affection -slowly but surely fades away. At length he dies; but the remembrance -of him as he was at the last destroys the sweeter and earlier image -within us. Thus he is lost entirely, and our imagination, instead of -comforting, saddens us. Such misfortunes as these are inconsolable." - -One day he heard a man lamenting and saying, "If only I were freed from -this trouble, all my other troubles would be easy to bear." He replied: -"Not so; for then those that are now light would be heavy." - -Another person said to him: "Had this pain continued, I could not have -borne it." Ottonieri answered: "On the contrary, habit would have made -it more bearable." - -Touching many things as to human nature, he held opinions not in -accordance with those of the multitude, and often different from -those of learned men. For instance, he thought it unwise to address -a petition to any one when the person addressed is in a state of -extraordinary hilarity. "And," he said, "when the petition is such that -it cannot be granted at once, I consider occasions of joy and sorrow as -equally inopportune to its success. For both sentiments make a man too -selfish to trouble himself with the affairs of others. In sorrow our -misfortune, in joy our good fortune, monopolises our mind, and erects, -as it were, a barrier between us and matters external to ourselves. -Both are also peculiarly unsuitable for exciting compassion: when -sorrowful, we reserve all pity for ourselves; when joyful, we colour -all things with our joy, and are inclined to regard the troubles and -misfortunes of others as entirely imaginative, or else we refuse to -think of them, as too discordant with the mind's present condition. The -best time to ask a favour, or some beneficial promise for others, is -when the person petitioned is in a state of quiet, happy good humour, -unaccompanied by any excessive joyfulness; or better still, when under -the influence of that keen but indefinite pleasure which results from a -reverie of thought, and consists of a peaceful agitation of the spirit. -At such times men are most open to pity and entreaty, and are often -glad to please others, and give expression to the vague gratifying -activity of their thoughts by some good action." - -He also denied that an afflicted person ordinarily receives more pity -from fellow-sufferers than from other people. For a man's companions in -misfortune are always inclined to give their own troubles precedence -over his, as being more serious and compassionable. And often, when a -man in recounting his sufferings thinks he has excited the sympathy of -his auditors, he is interrupted by one of them who expatiates in turn -on his misfortunes, and ends by trying to show that he is the more -afflicted of the two. He said that in such cases it generally happens -as occurred to Achilles when Priam prostrated himself at his feet, with -entreaties and lamentations. The tears of Priam excited the tears of -Achilles, who began to groan and weep like the Trojan king. This he -did, not from sympathy, but because of his own misfortunes, and the -thoughts of his dead father and friend. "We compassionate others," he -said, "when they suffer from evils we have experienced; but not so when -we and they suffer simultaneously." - -He said that from carelessness and thoughtlessness we do many cruel -or wicked things, which very often have the appearance of genuine -cruelty and maliciousness. For example, he mentioned the case of a man -who spending his time away from home left his servants in a dwelling -scarcely weather proof, not designedly, but simply from thoughtlessness -or disregard of their comfort. He considered malice, inhumanity, and -the like to be far less common among men than mere thoughtlessness, to -which he attributed very many things called by harder names. - -He once said that it were better to be completely ungrateful towards a -benefactor than to make some trifling return for his great kindness. -For in the latter case the benefactor must consider the obligation -as cancelled, whatever may have been the motive that inspired the -donor, and however small the return. He is thus despoiled of the bare -satisfaction of gratitude, on which he probably reckoned; and yet he -cannot regard himself as treated ungratefully, though he is so in -reality. - -I have heard the following saying attributed to him:--"We are -inclined and accustomed to give our acquaintances credit for being -able to discern our true merits, or what we imagine them to be, and to -recognise the virtue of our words and actions. We also suppose that -they ponder over these virtues and merits of ours, and never let them -escape their memory. But, on the other hand, we do not discern similar -qualities in them, or else are unwilling to acknowledge the fact." - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Ottonieri observed that irresolute men sometimes persevere in their -undertakings in the face of the greatest opposition. This is even a -consequence of their irresolution; for were they to abandon their -design, it would be evidence that they had for once fulfilled a -determination. Sometimes they skilfully and speedily carry out a -resolution. To this they are urged by fear lest they should be -compelled to cease their task, when they would return to the state -of perplexity and uncertainty in which they were formerly. Thus they -strenuously hasten the execution of their design, stimulated rather by -anxiety and uncertainty as to whether they will conquer themselves, -than by the goal or the difficulties to be overcome before it can be -reached. - -At another time he said, with a smile, that people accustomed to give -expression to their every thought and feeling in conversation with -others, cry out when alone if a fly bite them, or if they chance to -upset a glass of water; and, on the other hand, they who live solitary -lives become so reserved that even the presentiment of apoplexy would -not induce them to speak in the presence of others. - -He was of opinion that most men reputed great in ancient and modern -times have obtained their reputation through a preponderance of one -quality over the rest in their character. And a man possessed of the -most brilliant but evenly proportioned endowments, would fail to -acquire celebrity either with his contemporaries or posterity. - -He divided the men of civilised nations into three classes. The first -class are they whose individual nature, and partly also their natural -human constitution, become transformed under the influence of the arts -and customs of urban life. Among these he included all men who are -skilful in business, whether private or public, who appreciate society, -and make themselves universally agreeable to their fellows. Generally -speaking, such men alone inspire esteem and respect. The second class -are they who preserve their primitive nature in a greater degree, -either from lack of culture or because they are naturally incapable -of being influenced by the arts, manners, and customs of others. This -is the most numerous of the three classes, and is held in general -contempt. It embraces those who are known as the common people, or who -deserve to be included with them, be their station in life what it may. -The third class, incomparably the smallest in numbers, and often even -more despised than the second, consists of those men in whom nature -is strong enough to resist and often repulse the civilising influence -of the times. They are seldom apt in business, or self-governed in -society; nor do they shine in conversation, nor succeed in making -themselves agreeable to their fellow-men. This class is subdivided -into two varieties. The one includes those strong and courageous -natures that despise the contempt they excite, and often indeed esteem -it more than honour. They differ from other men, not only by nature, -but also by choice and preference. Having nothing in common with the -hopes and pleasures of society, solitary in a crowd, they avoid other -men as much as they themselves are avoided. Specimens of this class are -rarely met with. The other variety consists of persons whose nature is -a compound of strength, weakness, and timidity, and who are therefore -in a constant state of agitation. They are as a rule desirous of -associating with their fellows, and wishing to emulate the men of the -cultivated class, they feel acutely the contempt in which they are held -by their inferiors. These men are never successful in life; they fail -in ever becoming practical, and in society are neither tolerable to -themselves nor others. Not a few of our most gifted men of modern times -have belonged to this division in more or less degree. J. J. Rousseau -is a famous example, and with him may be bracketed one of the ancients, -Virgil. Of the latter it is said, on the authority of Melissus, that -he was very slow of speech, and apparently a most ordinary endowed -man. And this, together with the probability that owing to his great -talents Virgil was little at ease in society, seems likely enough, both -from the laboured subtlety of his style, and the nature of his poetry; -it is also confirmed by what we read towards the end of the Second -Book of the Georgics. There the poet expresses a wish for a quiet and -solitary life, as though he regarded it as a remedy and refuge more -than an advantage in itself. Now, seeing that with rare exceptions men -of these two species are never esteemed until they are dead, and are -of little power in the world; he asserted as a general rule, that the -only way to gain esteem during life is to live unnaturally. And since -the first class, which is the mean of the two extremes, represents -the civilisation of our times; he concluded from this and other -circumstances that the conduct of human affairs is entirely in the -hands of mediocrity. - -He distinguished also three conditions of old age, compared with the -other ages of man. When nature and manners were first instituted, men -were just and virtuous at all ages. Experience and knowledge of the -world did not make men less honest and upright. Old age was then the -most venerable time of life; for besides having all the good qualities -common to other men, the aged were naturally possessed of greater -prudence and judgment than their juniors. But in process of time, the -conduct of men changed; their manners became debased and corrupt. Then -were the aged the vilest of the vile; for they had served a longer -apprenticeship to vice, had been longer under the influence of the -wickedness of their neighbours, and were besides possessed of the -spirit of cold indifference natural to their time of life. Under such -conditions they were powerless to act, save by calumny, fraud, perfidy, -cunning, dissimulation, and other such despicable means. The corruption -of men at length exceeded all bounds. They despised virtue and -well-doing before they knew anything of the world, and its sad truth. -In their youth they drained the cup of evil and dissipation. Old age -was then not indeed venerable, for few things thence-forward could be -so called, but the most bearable time of life. For whereas the mental -ardour and bodily strength which formerly stimulated the imagination -and the conception of noble thoughts, had often given rise to virtuous -habits, sentiments, and actions; the same causes latterly increased -man's wickedness by enlarging his capacity for evil, to which it lent -an additional attractiveness. But this ardour diminished with age, -bodily decrepitude, and the coldness incident to age, things ordinarily -more dangerous to virtue than vice. In addition to this, excessive -knowledge of the world became so dissatisfactory and wearisome a -thing, that instead of conducting men from good to evil, as formerly, -it gave them strength to resist wickedness, and sometimes even to hate -it. So that, comparing old age with the other periods of life, it may -be said to have been as better to good in the earliest times; as worse -to bad in the corrupt times; and subsequently as bad to worse. - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Ottonieri often talked of the quality of self-love, nowadays called -egotism. I will narrate some of his remarks on this subject. - -He said that "if you hear a person speak well or ill of another with -whom he has had dealings, and term him honest or the contrary; value -his opinion not a whit. He speaks well or ill of the man simply as -his relationship with him has proved satisfactory or the reverse." He -said that no one can love without a rival. Being asked to explain, -he replied: "Because the person beloved is a very close rival of the -lover." - -"Suppose a case," he said, "in which you asked a favour from a friend, -who could not grant it without incurring the hatred of a third person. -Suppose, too, that the three interested people are in the same -condition of life. I affirm that your request would have little chance -of success, even though your gratitude to the granter might exceed the -hatred he would incur from the other person. The reason of this is as -follows: we fear men's anger and hatred more than we value their love -and gratitude. And rightly so. For do we not oftener see the former -productive of results than the latter? Besides, hatred or vengeance is -a personal satisfaction; whereas gratitude is merely a service pleasing -to the recipient." - -He said that respect and services rendered to others in expectation of -some profitable return, are rarely successful; because men, especially -nowadays when they are more knowing than formerly, are less inclined to -give than receive. Nevertheless, such services as the young render to -the old who are rich or powerful, attain their end more often than not. - -The following remarks about modern customs I remember hearing from his -own mouth:-- - -"Nothing makes a man of the world so ashamed as the feeling that he is -ashamed, if by chance he ever realises it. - -"Marvellous is the power of fashion! For we see nations and men, so -conservative in everything else, and so careful of tradition, act -blindly in this respect, often indeed unreasonably, and against their -own interests. Fashion is despotic. She constrains men to lay aside, -change, or assume manners, customs, and ideas, just when she pleases; -even though the things changed be rational, useful, or beautiful, and -the substitutes the contrary.[1] - -"There are an infinite number of things in public and private life -which, though truly ridiculous, seldom excite laughter. If by chance a -man does laugh in such a case, he laughs alone, and is soon silent. On -the other hand, we laugh daily at a thousand very serious and natural -things; and such laughter is quickly contagious. Thus, most things -which excite laughter are in reality anything but ridiculous; and we -often laugh simply because there is nothing to laugh at, or nothing -worthy of laughter. - -"We frequently hear and say such things as, 'The good ancients,' 'our -good ancestors,' &c. Again, 'A man worthy of the ancients,' by which -we mean a trustworthy and honest man. Every generation believes, on -the one hand, that its ancestors were better than its contemporaries; -and on the other hand, that the human race progresses as it leaves the -primitive state, to return to which would be a movement for the worse, -further and further behind. Wonderful contradiction! - -"The true is not necessarily the beautiful. Yet, though beauty be -preferable to truth, where the former is wanting, the latter is the -next best thing. Now in large towns the beautiful is not to be found, -because it no longer has a place in the excitement of human life. -The true is equally non-existent; for all things there are false or -frivolous. Consequently, in large towns one sees, feels, hears, and -breathes nothing but falsity, which in time, custom renders even -pleasurable. To sensitive minds, what misery can exceed this? - -"People who need not work for their bread, and who accordingly leave -the care of it to others, have usually great difficulty in providing -themselves with one of the chief necessities of life, occupation. This -may indeed be called the greatest necessity of life, for it includes -all others. It is greater even than the necessity of living; for life -itself, apart from happiness, is not a good thing. And possessing life, -as we do, our one endeavour should be to endure as little unhappiness -as possible. Now, on the one hand, an idle and empty life is very -unhappy; and on the other hand, the best way to pass our time is to -spend it in providing for our wants." - -He said that the custom of buying and selling human beings has proved -useful to the race. In confirmation of this, he mentioned the practice -of inoculating for small-pox, which originated in Circassia; from -Constantinople it passed to England, and thence became disseminated -throughout Europe. Its office was to mitigate the destructiveness -wrought by true small-pox, which besides endangering the life and -comeliness of the Circassian children and youths, was especially -disastrous in its effects on the sale of their maidens. - -He narrated of himself that on leaving school to enter the world of -life, he mentally resolved, inexperienced, and devoted to truth as he -was, to praise no person or thing that did not seem really deserving -of praise. He kept his determination for a whole year, during which -time he did not utter a single word of praise. Then he broke his -vow, fearing lest, from want of practice, he should forget all the -eulogistic phraseology he had learnt shortly before, at the School of -Rhetoric. From that time he absolutely renounced his intention. - - -[Footnote 1: See "Dialogue between Fashion and Death," p. 19.] - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Ottonieri was accustomed to read out passages from books taken at -hazard, especially those of ancient writers. He would often interrupt -himself by uttering some remark or comment on this or that passage. - -One day he read from Laertius' "Lives of the Philosophers," the passage -where Chilo, being asked how the learned differed from the ignorant, is -said to have replied, that the former possess 'hopes,' Ottonieri said: -"Now all is changed. The ignorant hope, but the learned do not." - -Again, as he read in the same book how Socrates affirmed that the world -contains but one benefit, knowledge, and but one evil, ignorance, -he said: "I know nothing about the knowledge and ignorance of the -ancients; but in the present day I should reverse this saying." - -Commenting on this maxim of Hegesias, also from the book of Laertius, -"The wise man attends to his own interests in everything," he said: "If -all men who carry out this principle be philosophers, Plato may come -and establish his republic throughout the civilised world." - -He greatly praised the following saying of Bion Borysthenes, mentioned -by Laertius: "They who seek the greatest happiness, suffer most." -To this he added: "And they on the other hand are happiest who are -contented with least, and who are accustomed to enjoy their happiness -over again in memory." - -From Plutarch he read how Stratocles excited the anger of the Athenians -by inducing them on a certain occasion to sacrifice as though they -were victors; and how he then replied by demanding why they blamed him -that he had made them happy and joyful for the space of three days. -Ottonieri added: "Nature might make the same response to those who -complain that she endeavours to conceal the truth beneath a multitude -of vain but beautiful and pleasing appearances. How have I injured you, -in making you happy for three or four days?" - -On another occasion he remarked that Tasso's saying about a child -induced to take his medicine under a false belief, "he is nourished on -deception," is equally applicable to all our race, in relation to the -errors in which man puts faith. - -Beading the following from Cicero's "Paradoxes"--"Do pleasures make -a person better or more estimable? Is there any one who boasts of the -pleasures he enjoys?" he said: "Beloved Cicero, I cannot say that -pleasures make men in the present day either more estimable or better; -but undoubtedly they cause them to be more esteemed. For in the present -day most young men seek esteem by no other way than pleasure. And not -only do they boast of these pleasures when they obtain them, but they -din the intelligence of their enjoyment into the ears of friends and -strangers, willing or unwilling. There are also many pleasures which -are eagerly desired and sought after, not as pleasures, but for the -sake of the renown, reputation, and self-satisfaction that they bring; -and very often these latter things are appropriated when the pleasures -have neither been obtained, nor sought, or else have been entirely -imaginary." - -He noted from Arrian's History of the Wars of Alexander the Great, that -at the battle of Issus, Darius placed his Greek mercenaries in the van -of his army, and Alexander his Greeks at the wings. He thought that -this fact alone was sufficient to determine the result of the battle. - -He never blamed authors for writing much about themselves. On the -contrary, he applauded them for so doing, and said that on such -occasions they are nearly always eloquent, and their style, though -perhaps unusual and even singular, is ordinarily good and fluent. -And this is not surprising; for writers treating of themselves have -their heart and soul in the work. They are at no loss what to say; -their subject and the interest they take in it are jointly productive -of original thought. They confine themselves to themselves, and do -not drink at strange fountains; nor need they be commonplace and -trite. There is nothing to induce them to garnish their writing with -artificial ornamentation, or to affect an unnatural style. And it -is an egregious error to suppose that readers are ordinarily little -interested in a writer's confessions. For in the first place, whenever -a man relates his own experiences and thoughts simply and pleasingly, -he succeeds in commanding attention. Secondly, because in no way -can we discuss and represent the affairs of others more truthfully -and effectively than by treating of our own affairs; seeing that -all men have something in common, either naturally or by force of -circumstances, and that we are better able to illustrate human nature -in ourselves than in others. In confirmation of these opinions, he -instanced Demosthenes' Oration for the Crown, in which the speaker, -continually referring to himself, is surpassingly eloquent. And Cicero, -when he touches on his own affairs, is equally successful; peculiarly -so in his Oration for Milo, admirable throughout, but above all praise -towards the end, where he himself is introduced. Bossuet also is -supremely excellent in his panegyric of the Prince de CondÈ, where he -mentions his own extreme age and approaching death. Again, the Emperor -Julian, whose writings are all else trifling, and often unbearable, is -at his best in the "Misopogony" (speech against the beard), in which -he replies to the ridicule and malice of the people of Antioch. He -is here scarcely inferior to Lucian in wit, vigour, and acuteness; -whereas his work on the CÊsars, professedly an imitation of Lucian, -is pointless, dull, feeble, and almost stupid. In Italian literature, -which is almost devoid of eloquent writings, the apology of Lorenzo -de Medici is a specimen of eloquence, grand and perfect in every way. -Tasso also is often eloquent where he speaks much of himself, and is -nearly always excessively so in his letters, which are almost occupied -with his own affairs. - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Many other famous sayings of Ottonieri are recorded. Amongst them is a -reply he gave to a clever, well-read young man, who knew little of the -world. This youth said that he learned daily one hundred pages of the -art of self-government in society. "But," remarked Ottonieri, "the book -has five million pages." - -Another youth, whose thoughtless and impetuous behaviour constantly -got him into trouble, used to excuse himself by saying that life is a -comedy. "May be," replied Ottonieri, "but even then it is better for -the actor to gain applause than rebuke; often, too, the ill-trained or -clumsy comedian ends by dying of starvation." - -One day he saw a murderer, who was lame, and could not therefore -escape, being carried off by the police. "See, friends," he said, -"Justice, lame though she be, can bring the doer of evil to account, if -he also be lame." - -During a journey through Italy he met a courtier, who, desirous of -acting the critic to Ottonieri, began: "I will speak candidly, if you -will allow me." "I will listen attentively," said the other, "for, as a -traveller, I appreciate uncommon things." - -Being in need of money, he once asked a loan from a certain man, who, -excusing himself on the plea of poverty, added that were he rich, the -necessities of his friends would be his first thought. "I should be -truly sorry were you to bestow on us such a valuable moment," replied -Ottonieri: "God grant you may never become rich!" - -When young, he wrote some verses, using certain obsolete expressions. -At the request of an old lady he recited them to her. She professed -ignorance of their meaning, and said that in her day such words were -not in use. Ottonieri replied: "I thought they might have been, simply -because they are very ancient." - -Of a certain very rich miser who had been robbed of a little money, he -said: "This man behaved in a miserly manner even to thieves." - -He said of a man who had a mania for calculating on every possible -occasion: "Other men make things; this fellow counts them." - -Being asked his opinion about a certain old terra-cotta figure of Jove, -over which some antiquaries were disputing, he said: "Do you not see -that it is a Cretan Jove?" - -Of a foolish fellow, who imagined himself to be an admirable reasoner, -yet was illogical whenever he spoke two words, he said: "This person -exemplifies the Greek definition of man, as a 'logical animal.'" - -When on his deathbed, he composed this epitaph, which was subsequently -engraved on his tomb: - - - HERE LIE - THE BONES OF - PHILIP OTTONIERI. - BORN FOR VIRTUE AND GLORY, - HE LIVED IDLE AND USELESS, - AND DIED IN OBSCURITY; - NOT WITHOUT A KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE - AND HIS OWN DESTINY. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND PIETRO GUTIERREZ._ - - - -_Columbus_. A fine night, friend. - -_Gutierrez_. Fine indeed; but a sight of land would be much finer. - -_Col_. Decidedly. So even you are tired of a life at sea. - -_Gut_. Not so. But I am rather weary of this voyage, which turns out to -be so much longer than I expected. Do not, however, think that I blame -you, like the others. Rather, consider that I will, as hitherto, do all -I can to help you in anything relating to the voyage. But just for the -sake of some talk I wish you would tell me candidly and explicitly, -whether you are as confident as at first about finding land in this -part of the world; or if, after spending so much time to no purpose, -you begin at all to doubt. - -_Col_. Speaking frankly as to a friend who will not betray me, I -confess I am a little dubious; especially because certain evidences -during the voyage, which filled me with hope, have turned out -deceitful; for instance, the birds which flew over us from the west, -soon after we left Gomera, and which I considered a sure sign of land -not far distant. Similarly, more than one conjecture and anticipation, -made before setting out, regarding different things that were to have -taken place during the voyage, have failed of realisation. So that at -length I cannot but say to myself, "Since these predictions in which I -put the utmost faith have not been verified, why may not also my chief -conjecture, that of finding land beyond the ocean, be also unfounded?" -It is true this belief of mine is so logical, that if it be false, on -the one hand it would seem as if no human judgment could be reliable, -except such as concern things actually seen, and touched; and on the -other hand, I remember how seldom reality agrees with expectation. I -ask myself, "What ground have you for believing that both hemispheres -resemble each other, so that the western, like the eastern, is part -land and part water? Why may it not be one immense sea? Or instead -of land and water, may it not contain some other element? And, -supposing it to have land and water like the other, why may it not be -uninhabited? or even uninhabitable? If it be peopled as numerously as -our hemisphere, what proof have you that rational beings are to be -found there, as in ours? And if so, why not some other intelligent -animals instead of men? Supposing they be men, why not of a kind very -different from those you are acquainted with; for instance, with much -larger bodies, stronger, more skilful, naturally gifted with much more -genius and intelligence, more civilised, and richer in sciences and -arts?" - -These thoughts occur to me. And in truth, we see nature endowed with -such power, so diverse and manifold in her effects, that we not only -are unable to form a certain opinion about her works in distant and -unknown parts of the world, but we may even doubt whether we do not -deceive ourselves in drawing conclusions from the known world, and -applying them to the unknown. Nor would it be contrary to probability -to imagine that the things of the unknown world, in whole or part, -were strange and extraordinary to us. For do we not see with our own -eyes that the needle in these seas falls away from the Pole Star not a -little towards the west? Such a thing is perfectly novel, and hitherto -unheard of by all navigators; and even after much thought I can arrive -at no satisfactory explanation of it. I do not infer that the fables -of the ancients regarding the wonders of the undiscovered world and -this ocean are at all credible. Annonus, for instance, said of these -parts, that the nights were illumined by flames, and the glow of fiery -torrents, which emptied themselves into the sea. We observe also, how -foolish hitherto have been all the fears of miraculous and terrible -novelties felt by our fellow-sailors during the voyage; as when, on -coming to that stretch of seaweed, which made as it were a meadow in -the sea, and impeded us so greatly, they imagined we had reached the -verge of navigable waters. - -I say this simply because I wish you to see that although this idea -of mine about undiscovered land may be founded on very reasonable -suppositions, in which many excellent geographers, astronomers, and -navigators, with whom I conversed on the subject in Spain, Italy, and -Portugal, agree with me, it might yet be fallacious. In short, we often -see many admirably drawn conclusions prove erroneous, especially in -matters about which we have very little knowledge. - -_Gut_. So that in fact you have risked your own life, and the lives of -your companions, on behalf of a mere possibility. - -_Col_. I cannot deny it. But, apart from the fact that men daily -endanger their lives for much frailer reasons, and far more trifling -things, or even without thinking at all, pray consider a moment. - -If you, and I, and all of us were not now here in this ship, in the -middle of this ocean, in this strange solitude, uncertain and hazardous -though it be, what should we be doing? How should we be occupied? How -should we be spending our time? More joyfully perhaps? More probably, -in greater trouble and difficulty; or worse, in a state of ennui? - -For what is implied in a state of life free from uncertainty and -danger? If contentment and happiness, it is preferable to all others; -if weariness and misery, I know nothing so undesirable. - -I do not wish to mention the glory and useful intelligence that we -shall take back with us, if our enterprise succeed, as we hope. If the -voyage be of no other use to us, it is very advantageous, inasmuch as -it for a time frees us from ennui, endears life to us, and enhances the -value of many things that we should not otherwise esteem. - -You remember perhaps what the ancients say about unfortunate lovers. -These used to throw themselves from the rock of St. Maur (then called -Leucadia) into the sea; being rescued therefrom, they found themselves, -thanks to Apollo, delivered from their love passion. Whether or not -this be credible, I am quite sure that the lovers, having escaped their -danger, for a short time even without Apollo's assistance, loved the -life they previously hated; or loved and valued it increasedly. Every -voyage is, in my opinion, comparable to the leap from the Leucadian -rock, producing the same useful results, though these are of a more -durable kind. - -It is ordinarily believed that sailors and soldiers, because -incessantly in danger of their lives, value existence more lightly than -other people. For the same reason, I come to a contrary conclusion, -and imagine few persons hold life in such high estimation as soldiers -and sailors. Just as we care nothing for many benefits as soon as we -possess them; so sailors cherish and value, very greatly, numerous -things that are far from being good, simply because they are deprived -of them. Who would think of including a little earth in the catalogue -of human benefits? None but navigators; and especially such as -ourselves, who, owing to the uncertain nature of our voyage, desire -nothing so much as the sight of a tiny piece of land. This is our first -thought on awaking, and our last before we fall asleep. And if at some -future time we chance to see in the distance the peak of a mountain, -the tops of a forest, or some such evidence of land, we shall scarcely -be able to contain ourselves for joy. Once on _terra firma_, the mere -consciousness of being free to go where we please will suffice to make -us happy for several days. - -_Gut_. That is all very true; and if your conjecture only prove to be -as reasonable as your justification of it, we shall not fail to enjoy -this happiness sooner or later. - -_Col_. Personally, I think we shall soon do so; though I dare not -actually promise such a thing. You know we have for several days been -able to fathom; and the quality of the matter brought up by the lead -seems to me auspicious. The clouds about the sun towards evening are -of a different form and colour to what they were a few days ago. The -atmosphere, as you can feel, is warmer and softer than it was. The wind -no longer blows with the same force, nor in so straightforward and -unwavering a manner; it is inclined to be hesitating and changeable, as -though broken by some impediment. To these signs add that of the piece -of cane we discovered floating in the sea, which bore marks of having -been recently severed; and the little branch of a tree with fresh -red berries on it; besides, the swarms of birds that pass over us, -though they have deceived me before, are now so frequent and immense, -that I think there must be some special reason for their appearance, -particularly because we see amongst them some which do not resemble -sea birds. In short, all these omens together make me very hopeful and -expectant, however diffident I may pretend to be. - -_Gut_. God grant your surmises may be true. - - - - -_PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS._ - - -Amelio, a lonely philosopher, was seated, reading, one spring morning -in the shade of his country house. Being distracted by the songs of the -birds in the fields, he gradually resigned himself to listening and -thinking. At length he threw his book aside, and taking up a pen wrote -as follows:-- - -Birds are naturally the most joyful creatures in the world. I do not -say this because of the cheerful influence they always exercise over -us; I mean that they themselves are more light-hearted and joyful than -any other animal. For we see other animals ordinarily stolid and grave, -and many even seem melancholy. They rarely give signs of joy, and when -they do, these are but slight and of brief duration. In most of their -enjoyments and pleasures they do not express any gratification. The -green fields, extensive and charming landscapes, noble planets, pure -and sweet atmosphere, if even a cause of pleasure to them, do not -excite in them any joyful demonstrations; save that on the authority -of Zenophon, hares are said to skip and frolic with delight when the -moon's radiance is at its brightest. - -Birds, on the other hand, show extreme joy, both in motion and -appearance; and it is the sight of this evident disposition for -enjoyment on their part that gladdens us as we watch them. And this -appearance must not be regarded as unreal and deceptive. They sing to -express the happiness they feel, and the happier they are, the more -vigorously do they sing. And if, as it is said, they sing louder and -more sweetly when in love than at other times, it is equally certain -that other pleasures besides love incite them to sing. For we may -notice they warble more on a quiet and peaceful day, than when the day -is dark and uncertain. And in stormy weather, or when frightened, they -are silent; but the storm passed, they reappear, singing and frolicking -with one another. Again, they sing in the morning when they awake; -being partly incited to this by a feeling of joy for the new day, and -partly by the pleasure generally felt by every animal when refreshed -and restored by sleep. They also delight in gay foliage, rich valleys, -pure and sparkling water, and beautiful country.... - -It is said that birds' voices are softer and sweeter, and their songs -more refined, with us than among wild and uncivilised people. This -being so, it would seem that birds are subject to the influence of the -civilisation with which they associate. Whether or not this be true, it -is a remarkable instance of the providence of nature that they should -have capacity for flight, as well as the gift of song, so that their -voices might from a lofty situation reach a greater number of auditors. -It is also providential that the air, which is the natural element of -sound, should be inhabited by vocal and musical creatures. - -Truly the singing of birds is a great solace and pleasure to us, and -all other animals. This fact is not, I believe, so much due to the -sweetness of the sounds, nor to their variety and harmony, as to -the joyful signification of songs generally, and those of birds in -particular. Birds laugh, as it were, to show their contentment and -happiness. It may therefore be said that they partake in a degree of -man's privilege of laughter, unpossessed by other animals. Now some -people think that man may as well be termed a laughing animal, as an -animal possessed of mind and reason; for laughter seems to them quite -as much peculiar to man as reason. And it is certainly wonderful that -man, the most wretched and miserable of all creatures, should have the -faculty of laughter, which is wanting in other animals. Marvellous also -is the use we make of this faculty! We see people suffering from some -terrible calamity or mental distress, others who have lost all love of -life, and regard every human thing as full of vanity, who are almost -incapable of joy, and deprived of hope, laugh nevertheless. Indeed, the -more such men realise the vanity of hope, and the misery of life, the -fewer their expectations and pleasures, so much the more do they feel -inclined to laugh. Now it is scarcely possible to explain or analyse -the nature of laughter in general, and its connection with the human -mind. Perhaps it may aptly be termed a species of momentary folly or -delirium. For men can have no reasonable and just cause for laughter, -because nothing really satisfies nor truly pleases them. It would be -curious to discover and trace out the history of this faculty. There -is no doubt that in man's primitive and wild state, it was expressed -by a peculiar gravity of countenance, as in other animals, who show -it even to the extent of melancholy. For this reason I imagine that -laughter not only came into the world after tears, which cannot be -questioned, but that a long time passed before it appeared. During that -time, neither the mother greeted her child with a smile, nor did the -child smilingly recognise her, as Virgil says. And the reason why, in -the present day, among civilised people, children smile as soon as they -are born, is explainable by virtue of example: they see others smile, -therefore they also smile. It is probable that laughter originated in -drunkenness,[1] another peculiarity of the human race. This vice is -far from being confined to civilised nations, for we know that scarcely -any people can be found that do not possess an intoxicating liquor of -some kind, which they indulge in to excess. And this cannot be wondered -at, when we remember that men, the most unhappy of all animals, are -above all pleased with anything that easily alienates their minds, -such as self-forgetfulness, or a suspension of their usual life; from -which interruption and temporary diminution of the sense and knowledge -of their peculiar evils they receive no slight benefit. And whereas -savages have ordinarily a sad and grave countenance, yet, when in -a state of drunkenness, they laugh immoderately, and talk and sing -incessantly, contrary to their custom. But I will discuss this matter -more in detail in a history of laughter which I think of composing. -Having discovered its origin, I will trace its history and fortune to -the present day, when it is more valued than at any previous time. It -occupies among civilised nations a place, and fills an office somewhat -similar to the parts formerly played by virtue, justice, honour, and -the like, often indeed frightening and deterring men from the committal -of evil. - -But to return to the birds. From the effect their singing produces in -me, I conclude that the sight and recognition of joy in others, of -which we are not envious, gratifies and rejoices us. We may therefore -be grateful to Nature for having ordained that the songs of birds, -which are a demonstration of joy and a species of laughter, should -be in public, differing from the private nature of the singing and -laughter of men, who represent the rest of the world. And it is wisely -decreed that the earth and air should be enlivened by creatures that -seem to applaud universal life with the joyful harmony of their sweet -voices, and thus incite other living beings to joy, by their continual, -though false, testimony to the happiness of things. - -It is reasonable that birds should be, and show themselves, more joyful -than other creatures. For, as I have said, they are naturally better -adapted for joy and happiness. In the first place, apparently, they are -not subject to ennui. They change their position momentarily, and pass -from country to country, however distant, and from the lowest regions -of the air to the highest, quickly and with wonderful ease. Life to -them is made up of an infinite variety of sights and experiences. Their -bodies are in a continuous state of activity, and they themselves are -full of vital power. All other animals, their wants being satisfied, -love quietude and laziness; none, except fishes and certain flying -insects, keep long in motion simply for amusement. The savage, for -instance, except to supply his daily wants, which demand little and -brief exertion, or when unable to hunt, scarcely stirs a step. He loves -idleness and tranquillity above everything, and passes nearly the whole -day sitting in silence and indolence within his rude cabin, or at its -opening, or in some rocky cave or place of shelter. Birds, on the -contrary, very rarely stay long in one place. They fly backwards and -forwards without any necessity, simply as a pastime, and often having -gone several hundred miles away from the country they usually frequent, -they return thither the same evening. And even for the short time they -are in one place, their bodies are never still. Ever turning here and -there, they are always either flocking together, pecking, or shaking -themselves, or hopping about in their extraordinarily vivacious and -active maimer. In short, from the time a bird bursts its shell until -it dies, save intervals of sleep, it is never still for a moment. From -these considerations it may reasonably be affirmed that whereas the -normal state of animals, including even man, is quietude, that of birds -is motion. - -We find also that birds are so endowed that their natural qualities -harmonise with the exterior qualities and conditions of their life; -this again makes them better adapted for happiness than other animals. -They have remarkably acute powers of hearing, and a faculty of vision -almost inconceivably perfect. Owing to this last they can discern -simultaneously a vast extent of country, and are daily charmed by -spectacles the most immense and varied. From these things it may be -inferred that birds ought to possess an imagination, vivid and powerful -in the highest degree,. Not the ardent and stormy imagination of -Dante or Tasso; for this is a disastrous endowment, and the cause of -endless anxieties and sufferings. But a fertile, light, and childish -fancy, such as is productive of joyful thoughts, sweet unrealities, -and manifold pleasures. This is the noblest gift of Nature to living -creatures. And birds have this faculty in a great measure for their -own delight and benefit, without experiencing any of its hurtful and -painful consequences. For their prolific imagination, as with children, -combines, with their bodily vigour, to render them happy and contented, -instead of being injurious, and productive of misery, as with most -men. Thus, birds may be said to resemble children equally in their -vivacity and restlessness, and the other attributes of their nature. If -the advantages of childhood were common to other ages, and its evils -not exceeded later in life, man might perhaps be better able to bear -patiently the burden of existence. - -To me it seems that the nature of birds, considered aright, is -manifestly more perfect than that of other animals. For, in the first -place, birds are superior to other animals in sight and hearing, which -are the principal senses of life. In the second place, birds naturally -prefer motion to rest, whereas other creatures have the contrary -preference. And since activity is a more living thing than repose, -birds may be said to have more life than other animals. It follows -therefore that birds are physically, and in the exercise of their -faculties, superior to other creatures. - -Now, if life be better than its contrary, the fuller and more perfect -the life, as with birds, the greater is the superiority of creatures -possessing it, over less endowed animals. - -We must not forget also that birds are adapted to bear great -atmospheric changes. Often they rise instantaneously from the ground -far up into the air, where the cold is extreme; and others in their -travels fly through many different climates. - -In short, just as Anacreon wished to be changed into a mirror that he -might be continually regarded by the mistress of his heart, or into a -robe that he might cover her, or balm to anoint her, or water to wash -her, or bands that she might draw him to her bosom, or a pearl to be -worn on her neck, or shoes that she might at least press him with her -feet; so I should like temporarily to be transformed into a bird, in -order to experience their contentment and joyfulness of life. - - -[Footnote 1: Compare Shakespeare's Henry IV., Part 2, Act 4, sc. 3. -_Falstaff:_ " ... nor a man cannot make him laugh;--but that's no -marvel, he drinks no wine."] - - - - -_THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK._ - - -Certain Hebrew _savants_ and writers affirm, that between heaven and -earth, or rather, partly in one and partly on the other, lives a wild -cock which stands with its feet resting on the earth, and touching the -sky with its crest and beak. This gigantic cock, besides possessing -other peculiarities mentioned by these writers, has the use of reason; -or else, like a parrot, it has been taught, I know not by whom, to -express itself in human fashion. In proof of this, an old parchment -manuscript has been discovered, containing a canticle written in -Hebrew characters, and in a language compounded of Chaldean, Targumic, -Rabbinical, Cabalistic and Talmudic, entitled "Morning Song of the -Wild Cock." (Scir detarnegÚl bara letzafra.) This, not without great -exertion, and the interrogation of more than one Rabbi, Cabalist, -theologian, jurist, and Hebrew philosopher, has been interpreted and -translated as follows. I have not yet been able to ascertain whether -this song is still uttered by the cock on certain occasions, or every -morning, or whether it was sung but once, or who is said to have heard -it, or if this language be the proper tongue of the cock, or whether -the canticle was translated from some other language. In the following -translation I have used prose rather than verse, although it is a poem, -in order to ensure as literal a rendering as possible. The broken -style and occasional bombast must not be imputed to me, for it is -a reproduction of the original; and in this respect the composition -partakes of the characteristics of Oriental languages, and especially -of Oriental poems. - -"Mortals, awake! The day breaks; truth returns to the earth and vain -fancies flee away. Arise; take up again the burden of life; forsake the -false world for the true. - -"Now is the time when each one takes again to his mind all the thoughts -of his real life. He recalls to memory his intentions, aims, and -labours; and thinks of the pleasures and cares that must occur during -the new day. And every one at this time eagerly seeks to discover in -his mind joyful hopes and sweet thoughts. Few, however, are satisfied -in this desire; for all men it is a misfortune to awake. The miserable -man is no sooner aroused than he falls again into the clutches of -his unhappiness. Very sweet a thing is that sleep induced by joy or -hope. These preserve themselves in their entirety until the following -morning, when they either vanish or decrease in force. - -"If the sleep of mortals were continuous and identical with life; if -under the star of day all living beings languished on the earth in -utter rest, and no work was wrought; if the oxen ceased bellowing in -the meadows, the beasts roaring in the forests, the birds singing -in the air, the bees buzzing, and the butterflies skimming over the -fields; if no voice nor motion except-that of the waters, winds, and -tempests anywhere existed, the universe would indeed be useless; but -would there be less happiness or more misery than there is to-day? - -"I ask of thee, O Sun, author of day, and guardian of eve; in the -course of the centuries measured out and consummated by thee, thus -rising and setting, hast thou ever at any time seen one living being -possessed of happiness? Of the numberless works of mortals which -hitherto thou hast seen, thinkest thou that a single one was successful -in its aim of procuring satisfaction, durable or temporary, for its -originator? And seest thou, or hast thou ever seen, happiness within -the boundaries of the world? Where does it dwell? In what country, -forest, mountain, or valley; in what land, inhabited or uninhabited; -in which planet of the many that thy flames illumine and cherish? Does -it perchance hide from thee in the bowels of the earth, or the depths -of the sea? What living being, what plant, or other thing animated by -thee, what vegetable or animal participates in it? And thou thyself, -like an indefatigable giant, traversing swiftly, day and night, -sleepless and restless, the vast course prescribed to thee; art thou -content or happy? - -"Mortals, arouse yourselves! Not yet are you free from life. The time -will come when no eternal force, no internal agitation, shall awaken -you from the repose of sleep, in which you shall ever and insatiably -rest. For the present, death is not granted to you; only from time to -time you are permitted to taste briefly its resemblance, because life -would fail were it not often suspended. Too long abstention from this -short and fleeting sleep is a fatal evil, and causes eternal sleep. -Such thing is life, that to secure its continuance it must from time to -time be laid aside; man then in sleep refreshes himself with a taste, -and, as it were, a fragment of death. - -"It seems as though death were the essential aim of all things. That -which has no existence cannot die; yet all that exists has proceeded -from nothing. The final cause of existence is not happiness, for -nothing is happy. It is true, living creatures seek this end in all -their works, but none obtain it; and during all their life, ever -deceiving, tormenting, and exerting themselves, they suffer indeed for -no other purpose than to die. - -"The earliest part of the day is ordinarily the most bearable for -living beings. Few, when they awake, find again in their minds -delightful and joyful thoughts, but almost all people give birth to -them for the time being. For then the minds of men, being free from -any special concentration, are predisposed to joy fulness, and inclined -to bear evils more patiently than at other times. Thus a man who falls -asleep in the anguish of despair is filled anew with hope when he -awakes, though it can profit him nothing, Many misfortunes and peculiar -hardships, many causes of fear and distress, then seem less formidable -than they appeared the previous evening. Often, also, the pangs of -yesterday are remembered with contempt, and are ridiculed as follies -and vain fancies. - -"The evening is comparable to old age; and on the other hand, the dawn -of the morning resembles youth; the one full of comfort and hope, and -then sad evening with its discouragement and tendencies to look on the -dark side of things. But, just as the time of youth in life is very -short and fleeting, so is the infancy of each new day, which quickly -ages towards its evening. - -"Youth, if indeed it be the best of life, is a very wretched thing. -Yet even this poor benefit is so soon over, that when by many signs -man is led to perceive the decline of his existence, he has scarcely -experienced its perfection, or fully realised its peculiar strength, -which, once diminished, the best part of life is gone with every race -of mortals. Thus, in all her works, Nature turns and points towards -death: for old age reigns universally. Every part of the world hastens -untiringly; with diligence and wonderful celerity, towards death. The -world itself alone seems exempt from decay; for although in autumn and -winter it appears as it were sick and aged, nevertheless in the spring -it ever rejuvenates. But just as mortals in the first part of each day -regain some portion of their youth, yet grow old as the day progresses, -and are at length extinguished in sleep; so although in the beginning -of the year the world becomes young again, none the less it perpetually -ages. The time will come when this world, and Nature herself, shall -die. And as at the present day there remains no trace nor record of -many very great kingdoms and empires, so in the whole world there shall -not he left a vestige of the infinite changes and catastrophes of -created things. A naked silence and an utter calm shall fill the vast -space. Thus, this wonderful and fearful mystery of universal existence -shall be unloosed, and shall melt away before it be made manifest or be -comprehended."[1] - - -[Footnote 1: This is a poetical not philosophical conclusion. Speaking -philosophically, existence, which has had no beginning, will have no -ending.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO._ - - -_Timandro_. I am very anxious to have some conversation with you. It is -about the matter and tendency of your writings and words, which seem to -me most blamable. - -_Meandro_. So long as you find no fault with my actions, I confess I do -not much care; because words and writings are of little consequence. - -_Tim_. There is nothing in your actions, as far as I can see, for which -I need blame you. I am aware that you benefit no one because you cannot -do so, and I observe that you injure no one because you are unwilling -to do so. But I consider your speech and writings very reprehensible, -and I do not agree with you that they are of little importance. Our -life may almost be said to consist of nothing else. For the present -we will disregard the words, and simply consider the writings. In the -first place, the incessant vituperation and continuous satire that you -bestow on the human race are out of fashion. - -_Mean_. My brain also is out of fashion. It is quite natural for a -child to resemble its father. - -_Tim_. Then you must not be surprised if your books, like everything -contrary to the custom of the day, are ill received. - -_Mean_. That is a small misfortune. They were not written for the -purpose of begging a little bread at the doors of the rich. - -_? Tim_. Forty or fifty years ago, philosophers used to say hard things -about the human race, but now they do just the contrary. - -_Mean_. Do you believe that forty or fifty years ago the philosophers -were right or wrong in their statements? - -_Tim_. More often right than wrong. - -_Mean_. Do you think that in these forty or fifty years the human race -has changed to the opposite of what it then was? - -_Tim_. Not at all. But that has nothing to do with the question. - -_Elean_. Why not? Has humanity progressed in strength and perfection, -that the writers of to-day should be constrained to flatter, and -compelled to reverence it? - -_Tim_. What have such pleasantries to do with so grave a matter? - -_Elean_. Then seriously. I am not unaware that the people of this -century, although continuing to ill-treat their fellow-men as their -ancestors did, have yet a very high opinion of themselves, such as men -of the past century did not possess. But I, who ill-treat no one, do -not see that I am obliged to speak well of others against my conscience. - -_Tim_. You must, however, like all men, endeavour to serve your race. - -_Elean_. If my race, on the contrary, does its best to injure me, I do -not see that this obligation holds, as you say. But supposing you are -right, what ought I to do, if I cannot be useful to my race? - -_Tim_. By actions, perhaps, you may be unable to be of much use. Such -power is in the hands of but few people. But by your writings you can, -and indeed ought to serve it. And the race is not benefited by books -which snarl incessantly at men in general. Such behaviour is, on the -contrary, extremely injurious. - -_Elean_. I admit that it does no good, but I also imagine it does no -harm. Do you, however, think books are able to help the human race? - -_Tim_. Not I only, but all the world think so. - -_Elean_. What kind of books? - -_Tim_. Many kinds; but especially books treating of morals. - -_Elean_. All the world does not think so, because I, amongst others, -do not, as a woman once said to Socrates. If books of morals could be -useful to men, I should place poetry above all others. I use the word -poetry in its widest sense, as including all writings, the aim of which -is to excite the imagination, whether in prose or verse. Now I hold -in little esteem that sort of poetry which, when read and meditated -over, does not leave in the mind of the reader a sufficiently elevating -sentiment to deter him for half an hour from giving way to a single -base thought or unworthy action. If, however, the reader commits, for -example, a breach of faith towards his best friend an hour after such -reading, I do not condemn the poetry for that, because then the finest, -most stirring, and noblest poetry the world possesses would come under -condemnation. Exceptions to this influence are readers who live in -great cities. These people, however great their concentration, cannot -forget themselves for even half an hour, nor are they much pleased, or -moved, by any sort of poetry. - -_Tim_. You speak, as usual, maliciously, and so as to leave an -impression that you are habitually ill-treated by others. This, in most -instances, is the true cause of the ill-humour and contempt exhibited -by certain people towards their race. - -_Elean_. Indeed, I cannot say that men have treated, or do treat me -very well. If I could say so, I imagine I should be unique in my -experience. But neither have they done me any serious harm, because in -demanding nothing from men, and having nothing in common with them, I -scarcely give them a chance of offending me. I must confess, however, -that recognising clearly, as I do, how ignorant I am of the simplest -means of making myself agreeable to others, both in conversation and -the daily intercourse of life, whether from a natural defect or fault -of my own, I should esteem men less if they treated me better. - -_Tim_. Then you are so much the more to blame. For, had you even a -mistaken ground of complaint, your hatred and desire for revenge -against men would be in a measure justifiable. But your hatred, from -what you say, is based on nothing in particular, except perhaps an -extraordinary and wretched ambition of becoming famous as a misanthrope -like Timon--a desire abominable in itself, and especially out of place -in a century like the present, so peculiarly devoted to philanthropy. - -_Elean_. I need not reply to your remark about ambition, because I have -already said that I want nothing from men. Does that seem incredible to -you? You will at least grant that it is not ambition which urges me to -write books, such as on your own showing are more likely to bring me -reproaches than glory. Besides, I am so far from hating the human race, -that I neither can nor wish to hate even those who particularly offend -me. Indeed, the fact that hatred is so completely foreign to me, goes -far to explain my inability to do as other men do. But I cannot change -this, because I always think that whenever a man displeases or injures -another, he does so in the hope of procuring some pleasure or advantage -for himself. His aim is not to injure others (which can never be the -motive of any action, nor the object of any thought), but to benefit -himself,--a natural desire, and undeserving of odium. Again, whenever I -notice a particular vice or fault in my neighbour, I carefully examine -myself, and as far as circumstances will allow, I put myself in his -place. Thereupon I invariably find that I should have done the same as -he, and been guilty of the same faults. Consequently my mind loses -what irritation it previously felt. I reserve my wrath for occasions -when I might see some wickedness of which my nature is incapable; but -so far I have never met with such a case. Finally, the thought of the -vanity of human things is so constantly in my mind that I am unable to -excite myself about any one of them. Hatred and anger seem to me great -and strong passions, out of harmony with the insignificance of life. -Thus you see there is a great difference between Timon and myself. -Timon hated and shunned all men except Alcibiades, for whom he reserved -all his affection, because he saw in him the initiator of innumerable -evils for their common country. I, on the other hand, without hating -Alcibiades, would have especially avoided him. I would have warned my -fellow-citizens of their danger, exhorting them at the same time to -take the requisite steps to preserve themselves from it. Some say that -Timon did not hate men, but beasts in the likeness of men. As for me, I -neither hate men nor beasts. - -_Tim_. Nor do you love any one. - -_Mean_. Listen, my friend. I am born to love. I have loved; and perhaps -with as deep a passion as is possible for human soul to feel. To-day, -although, as you see, I am not sufficiently old to be naturally devoid -of passion, nor even of a lukewarm age, I am not ashamed to say that -I love no one except myself, by the necessity of nature, and that as -little as possible. Nevertheless, I would always rather bear suffering -myself than be the cause of it to others. I believe you can bear -witness to the truth of this, little as you know about my habits. - -_Tim_. I do not deny it. - -_Mean_. I try to procure for men, even at my own expense, that greatest -possible good, which alone I seek for myself, viz., a state of freedom -from suffering. - -_Tim_. But do you distinctly confess that you do not love the human -race in general? - -_Elean_. Yes, absolutely. But in such a way that if it depended on me, -I would punish those who deserved punishment, without hating them, as -also I would benefit my race to the utmost, although I do not love it. - -_Tim_. Well, it may be so. But then, if you are not incited by injuries -received, nor by hatred, nor ambition, why do you write in such a -manner? - -_Mean_. For many reasons. First, because I cannot tolerate deceit -and dissimulation. I may sometimes have to give way to these in -conversation, but never in my writings; because I am often obliged to -speak unwillingly, but I never write unless I please. I should derive -no satisfaction from puzzling my brains, and expressing the result on -paper, unless I could write what I really think. All sensible people -laugh at those who now-a-days write Latin, because no one speaks, and -few understand, the language. I think it is equally absurd to take for -granted, whether in conversation or writing, the reality of certain -human qualities no longer extant, and the existence of certain rational -beings, formerly considered as divinities, but now really regarded as -non-existent equally by those who mention them, and those who hear them -mentioned. I could understand men using masks and disguises in order to -deceive other men, or to avoid being recognised. But it seems childish -for them all to conceal themselves behind the same kind of mask, and -use the same disguise, whereby they deceive no one, but recognise each -other perfectly, in spite of it. Let them lay aside their masks, and -retain merely their clothes. The effect will be precisely the same, and -they will be more at ease. Besides, this perpetual simulation, though -useless, and this eternal acting of a part between which and oneself -there is nothing in common, cannot be carried on without fatigue and -weariness. If men had passed suddenly, instead of gradually, from the -savage condition to their present state of civilisation, would the -names of the things just mentioned be found in general usage, with the -custom of deducing from them a thousand philosophical conclusions? In -truth, this custom seems to me like one of those ceremonies and ancient -practices so incompatible with our present habits, which nevertheless -continue to exist by force of usage. I for my part cannot submit to -these ceremonies; and I write in the language of modern times, not -that of the Trojan era. In the second place, I do not so much, in my -writings, find fault with the human race, as grieve over its destiny. -There is nothing I think more clear and palpable than the necessary -unhappiness of all living beings. If this unhappiness be not a fact, -then all my arguments are wrong, and we may abandon the discussion. -If it be true, why may I not lament openly and freely, and say that -I suffer? Doubtless, if I did nothing but weep incessantly (this -is the third cause which moves me), I should become a nuisance to -others as well as myself, without profiting any one. But in laughing -at our misfortunes, we do much to remedy them. I endeavour therefore -to persuade others to profit in this way, as I have done. Whether I -succeed or not, I feel assured that such laughter is the only solace -and remedy that can be found. The poets say that despair has always a -smile on its lips. - -But you must not think that I am devoid of compassion for the -unhappiness of humanity. Its condition is incurable by art, industry, -or anything else, therefore I consider it far more manly and consistent -with a magnanimous despair to laugh at our common woes, than to -sigh, weep, and moan with others, thereby encouraging them in their -lamentations. - -Lastly, permit me to say that I desire as much as you, or any one else, -the welfare of my race in general, but I am hopeless of its attainment; -nor can I, like so many philosophers of this century, nourish and -soothe my mind with anticipations of good. My despair is absolute, -unchangeable, and so based on firm judgment and conviction, that I -cannot imagine such a thing as a joyous future, nor can I undertake -anything with the hope of bringing it to completion. And you are well -aware that man is never inclined to attempt what he knows or thinks -cannot succeed; or if he does, he acts feebly and without confidence. -Similarly a writer, who expresses himself contrary to his real opinion, -though this be erroneous, utters nothing worthy of consideration. - -_Tim_. But when his judgment is, like yours, a false one, he should -rectify it. - -_Elean_. My judgment is of myself alone, and I am quite sure I do -not err in announcing my unhappiness. If other men are happy, I -congratulate them with all my heart. I know also that death alone can -deliver me from my misfortune. If others are more hopeful, I rejoice -once again. - -_Tim_. We are all unhappy, and have always been so. I scarcely think -you can take credit for the novelty of your idea. But man's present -condition, superior as it is to his past, will be greatly improved in -the future. You forget, or seem to disregard the fact, that man is -perfectible. - -_Elean_. Perfectible he may be. But that he is capable of perfection, -which is of more importance, I know not who can convince me. - -_Tim_. He has not yet had time to reach perfection. Ultimately he will -no doubt attain to it. - -_Elean_. I do not doubt it. The few years that have passed since the -world began are, I agree with you, quite insufficient to complete -our education. We cannot judge from what seem to us the nature and -capabilities of man. Besides, humanity hitherto has been too occupied -with other business to give itself up to the task of attaining -perfection. But in future all its endeavours will be towards this one -aim. - -_Tim_. Yes, the whole civilised world is working zealously towards -this end. And, taking into consideration the number and sufficiency -of the means employed, which have indeed recently increased in an -astounding manner, we have every reason to think that the goal will be -reached, sooner or later. This conviction itself is by no means one -of the least stimulants to progress, because it gives birth to a host -of undertakings and labours useful for the common welfare. If, then, -at any time it was fatal and bl‚mable to manifest despair like yours, -and to teach men such doctrines as the absolute necessity of their -wretchedness, the vanity of life, the insignificance of their race, and -the evil of their nature, much more is it so in the present day. Such -conduct can only result in depriving us of courage, and that feeling of -self-esteem which is the foundation of an honest, useful, and glorious -life; it will also divert us from the path of our own welfare. - -_Elean_. Kindly say distinctly, whether or not you regard as true what -I have said about the unhappiness of mankind. - -_Tim_. You return to your old argument. Well, supposing I admit the -truth of what you say, how does that alter the matter? I would remind -you that it is not always well to preach truth simply because it is -truth. - -_Elean_. Answer me another question. Are these truths, which I merely -express, without any pretence of preaching, of primary or secondary -importance in philosophy? - -_Tim_. In my opinion they are the very essence of all philosophy. - -_Elean_. In that case, they greatly deceive themselves who affirm that -man's perfection consists in complete knowledge of the truth; that his -misfortunes are the consequence of his ignorance and prejudices; and -that the human race will be happy when men have discovered the truth, -and conform their lives to its teaching. Yet such doctrines are taught -by most philosophers, ancient and modern. But you are of opinion that -these truths, though confessedly the substance of all philosophy, -ought to be concealed from the majority of men. You would rather that -they were unknown or disregarded by all men, because of the baneful -influence they exercise over the mind. And this is equivalent to an -admission that philosophy ought to be banished from the earth. I grant -you, however, that the final conclusion to be drawn from true and -perfect philosophy is that it were better to dispense with philosophy. -It would therefore seem that, first of all, philosophy is superfluous, -since its conclusions are attainable without its assistance; secondly, -it is extremely injurious, because its conclusion is a very painful -one to be accepted, and when accepted is useless: nor is it in man's -power to disregard truths once recognised. Besides, the habit of -philosophising is one of the most difficult habits to throw off. Thus, -philosophy which at first inspires hope as a possible remedy for the -ills of humanity, ends by seeking in vain a cure for itself. And now -I would ask you why you imagine we are nearer perfection than our -ancestors were? Is it that we are better acquainted with the truth? -This cannot be, since we have seen that such knowledge is extremely -prejudicial to man's happiness. Perhaps, however, it is because some -few men in the present day have learnt that the truest philosopher -is he who abstains from philosophy? But in what then are we superior -to the men of primitive times, who were perfectly unacquainted -with philosophy? And even in the present day savages abstain from -philosophy, without feeling the least inconvenience. - -In what, therefore, are we more advanced than our ancestors; and what -means of attaining perfection do we possess, which they had not? - -_Tim_. We have many of great importance. To explain them would be a -work of considerable time. - -_Elean_. Put them aside for the moment, and reconsider my theory. I -say that if, on the one hand, I express in my writings certain hard -and bitter truths, whether to relieve my mind, or console myself -in laughing at them, I do not fail at the same time to deplore and -disadvise the search after that cold and miserable truth, acquaintance -with which reduces us to a state of either indifference and hypocrisy, -or baseness of soul, moral corruption, and depravity. And, on the other -hand, I praise and exalt those noble, if false ideas, which give birth -to high-minded and vigorous actions and thoughts, such as further the -welfare of mankind, or individuals; those glorious illusions, vain -though they be, which give value to life, and which are natural to -the soul; in short, the superstitions of antiquity, distinct from the -errors of barbarism. These latter should be rooted out, but the former -respected. Civilisation and philosophy having exceeded their natural -bounds, as is usual with all things pertaining to humanity, have drawn -us from one state of barbarism only to precipitate us into another, no -better than the first. This new barbarism, born of reason and science -instead of ignorance, manifests itself more in the mind than the body. -Yet I imagine, that though these superstitions become daily more -necessary for the well-being of civilised nations, the possibility of -their re-introduction diminishes daily. - -And as for man's perfection, I assure you if I had perceived any signs -of it, I would have written a volume in praise of the human race. But -since I have not yet seen it, and as it is improbable I ever shall -see it, I think of leaving in my will a certain sum of money for the -purpose of procuring an annual panegyric of the human race, to be -publicly recited from the time of its perfection, and to pay for the -erection of a temple, statue, or monument, as may be judged best, to -commemorate the event. - - - - -_COPERNICUS:_ - - -_A DIALOGUE IN FOUR SCENES._ - - -_Scene_ I.--_The First Hour and the Sun._ - - -_First Hour_. Good day, Excellency. - -_Sun_. Thanks; good-night as well. - -_First Hour_. The horses are waiting, your Excellency. - -_Sun_. Very well. - -_First Hour_. And the Morning Star has been up some time. - -_Sun_. All right. Let it rise and set, just as it pleases. - -_First Hour_. What do I hear your Excellency say? - -_Sun_. I wish you would leave me alone. - -_First Hour_. But, Excellency, the night has already lasted so long, -that it can last no longer; and if we delay, imagine, Excellency, the -confusion that will ensue. - -_Sun_. I don't mean to stir, whatever happens. - -_First Hour_.0 Excellency! what is this? Does your Excellency feel ill? - -_Sun_. No, no; I feel nothing, except that I don't wish to move. So you -can go and attend to your own affairs. - -_First Hour_. How can I go unless your Excellency comes? I am the first -Hour of the day, and how can the day exist, if your Excellency does not -deign to go forth as usual? - -_Sun_. If you will not be of the day, you shall be of the night; or -better, the hours of the night shall do double duty, and you and your -companions shall be idle. For you must know I am tired of this eternal -going round to give light to a race of little animals that live far -away in a ball of clay, so small that I, who have good sight, cannot -see it. During the night I have decided not to trouble myself any more -in this fashion. If men want light, let them make their own fires for -the purpose, or provide it in some other way. - -_First Hour_. But, Excellency, how can the little fellows manage that? -It will be a very great expense for them to keep lanterns or candles -burning all day long. If only they could now discover a certain -atmosphere to warm and illumine their streets, rooms, shops, taverns, -and everything else at little expense, then they would not be so badly -off. But men will have to wait some three hundred years, more or less, -before they discover this; and meanwhile, all the oil, wax, pitch, and -tallow of the earth will be exhausted, and they will have nothing more -to burn. - -_Sun_. Let them hunt the will-o-the-wisp, and catch those shining -things called glow-worms. - -_First Hour_. And how will they protect themselves against the cold? -For without the assistance of your Excellency, all the forests together -will not make a fire large enough to warm them. Besides, they will also -die of hunger, since the earth will no longer bring forth its fruits. -And so, after a few years, the seed of the poor little folk will be -lost. They will go groping about the earth, seeking food and warmth, -until having consumed every possible thing, and used up the last -flicker of fire, they will all die in the darkness, frozen like pieces -of rock-crystal. - -_Sun_. What is this to do with me? Am I the nurse of the human race; or -the cook, that I should look after the preparation of their food? And -why need I care if a few invisible little creatures, millions of miles -away from me, are unable to see, or bear the cold, when deprived of -my light and warmth? Besides, even supposing, as you say, that I ought -to act the part of stove or fireplace to this human family, surely it -is more reasonable, if men want to warm themselves, that they should -come to the stove, than that the stove should go whirling round them. -Therefore, if the Earth requires me, let it come hither to satisfy its -needs. I want nothing from the Earth, that I should thus trouble myself -to rotate round it. - -_First Hour_. Your Excellency means, if I understand rightly, that -henceforth the Earth must do for itself that which hitherto you have -done on its behalf. - -_Sun_. Yes: now and for the future. - -_First Hour_. Well, your Excellency knows best what is right, and can -do as it pleases you. But nevertheless, will your Excellency deign to -think what a number of beautiful and useful things will be destroyed -by this new decree. The day will be deprived of its handsome gilded -chariot, and beautiful horses, which bathe themselves in the sea. -Amongst other changes, we poor Hours must suffer; we shall no longer -have a place in heaven, but shall have to descend from our position -as celestial children to that of terrestrials, unless, as is more -probable, we dissolve into thin air instead. But be that as it may, the -difficulty will be to persuade the Earth to go round, necessarily a -hard thing, because it is unaccustomed to do so; and the experience of -rotating and exerting itself incessantly will be all the more strange, -seeing that hitherto it has never stirred from its present position. -If, then, your Excellency now begins to think of idleness, I fear the -Earth will be as little desirous of bestirring itself as ever it was. - -_Sun_. In that case, it must be pricked, and made to bestir itself -as much as is necessary. But the quickest and surest way is to find -a poet, or, better, a philosopher, who will persuade the Earth to -move itself, or persuasion being unsuccessful, will use force. For -philosophers and poets ordinarily manage these affairs. When I was -younger I used to have a great esteem for the poets, though they -rather caricatured me in representing me racing madly, great and -stout as I am, round and round a grain of sand, simply for the sake -of amusement or exercise. But now that I am older, I am more partial -to philosophy. I study to discern the utility, not the beauty of -things, and poetry seems to me either absurd or wearisome. I wish, -also, to have good substantial reasons for whatever I do. Now, I see -no reason why I should value a life of activity more than a life of -ease and idleness. I have determined, therefore, in future, to leave -the fatigues and discomforts to others, and for my own part to live -quietly at home, without undertaking business of any kind. This change -in me is partly due to my age, but has chiefly been brought about by -the philosophers, a race of people whose power and influence increase -daily. Consequently, to induce the Earth to rotate in my place, a poet -would intrinsically be better than a philosopher: because the poets -are accustomed to give a fictitious value to things by exaggerating -the truth, beauty, and utility of subjects about which they treat, and -because by raising a thousand pleasurable hopes, they often incite -people to fatigues they would else have avoided; whereas philosophers -weary them. But, now that the power of philosophers is so predominant, -I doubt whether a poet would be of much use, if even the Earth gave him -a hearing. Therefore, we had better have recourse to a philosopher. -It is true, philosophers are usually little suited, and still less -inclined, to stimulate other people to exertions; but possibly in so -extreme a case, they may be induced to act contrary to custom. The -Earth has, however, one alternative; it has the option of declining to -undertake all this hard labour. Its destruction will then ensue, and -I am far from sure that this would not be the best thing for it. But -enough of this: we shall see what will take place. Now, either you or -one of your companions had better go at once to the Earth. If there you -discover any one of these philosophers in the open air, regarding the -heavens, and wondering about the cause of this protracted night, as -well he may, take charge of him, and bring him hither on your back. Do -you clearly understand? - -_First Hour_. Yes, Excellency. You shall be obeyed. - - - -_Scene II.--Copernicus pacing the terrace of his house, with his eyes -anxiously directed towards the eastern horizon. A roll of paper in his -hand, which ever and anon he uses as a telescope._ - - -This is a marvellous thing. Either the clocks are all wrong, or else -the sun should have risen more than an hour ago. Yet not a gleam of -light is to be seen in the east, though the sky is as bright and clear -as a mirror. All the stars shine as if it were midnight. I must go and -consult the Almagest and Sacrobosco, and see what they say about this -event. I have often heard talk of the night Jove passed with the wife -of Amphitryon, and I also remember reading a little while ago, in a -modern Spanish book, that the Peruvians record a very long night, at -the end of which the sun proceeded forth from a certain lake called -Titicaca. Hitherto I have regarded these as mere tales, and have never -wavered in my belief. Now, however, that I perceive reason and science -to be absolutely useless, I am determined to believe the truth of -these, and similar things. I will also visit the lakes and puddles in -the neighbourhood, and see if I can fish out the sun. - -Ha! what is this that I hear? It is like the flapping of the wings of -some huge bird. - - -_Scene_ III.--_The Last Hour and Copernicus._ - - -_Last Hour_. Copernicus, I am the Last Hour. - -_Copernicus_. The Last Hour! Well, I suppose I must be resigned. But I -beg of you, if possible, to give me enough time to make my will, and -put my things in order, before I die. - -_Last Hour_. Die! What do you mean? I am not the last hour of your life. - -_Copernicus_. Oh, then, what are you? The last hour of the office of -the breviary? - -_Last Hour_. I can quite imagine you prefer that one to the others, -when you are in your stall. - -_Copernicus_. But how do you know I am a Canon? And how is it you know -my name? - -_Last Hour_. I procured my information about you, from certain people -in the street. I am, in fact, the Last Hour of day. - -_Copernicus_. Ah! now I understand. The First Hour is unwell; and that -is why day is not yet visible. - -_Last Hour_. I have news for you. There will never be any more daylight -unless you provide it yourself. - -_Copernicus_. You would throw on me the responsibility of making -daylight? A fine thing, indeed! - -_Last Hour_. I will tell you how. But first of all, you must come with -me at once to the house of the Sun, my father. You shall hear more when -we set out. His Excellency will explain everything when we arrive. - -_Copernicus_. I trust it is all right. But the journey, unless I am -mistaken, must be a very long one. And how can I take enough food -to prevent my dying of hunger a few years before reaching the Sun? -Besides, I doubt if his Excellency's lands produce the where-withal to -supply me with even a single meal. - -_Last Hour_. Do not trouble yourself with these doubts. You will not -stay long in my father's house, and the journey will be completed in a -moment. For you must know that I am a spirit. - -_Copernicus_. Maybe. But I am a body. - -_Last Hour_. Well, well: you are not a metaphysician that you need -excite yourself about these matters. Come now, mount on my shoulders, -and leave all the rest to me. - -_Copernicus_. Courage. There, it is done! I will pursue this novelty to -its issue. - - - -_Scene_ IV.--_Copernicus and the Sion._ - - -Copernicus_. Most noble Lord. - -_Sun_. Forgive me, Copernicus, if I do not offer you a chair: one does -not use such things here. But we will soon despatch our business. My -servant has already explained the matter to you; and from what the -child tells me, I imagine you will do very well for our purpose. - -_Copernicus_. My lord, I discern great difficulties in the matter. - -_Sun_. Difficulties ought not to frighten such a man as yourself. They -are even said to make the brave man still more courageous. But tell me -briefly of what these difficulties consist. - -_Copernicus_. In the first place, although philosophy is a great power, -I doubt whether it can persuade the Earth to change its comfortable -sitting posture for a state of restless activity; especially in these -times, which are not heroic. - -_Sun_. And if persuasion be ineffectual, you must try force. - -_Copernicus_. Willingly, Illustrious, if I were a Hercules, or even an -Orlando, instead of a mere Canon of Varmia. - -_Sun_. What has that to do with it? Did not one of your ancient -mathematicians say, that if he had standing room given him outside the -world, he would undertake to move heaven and earth? Now, you are not -required to move heaven, and behold, you are already in a place outside -the earth. Therefore, unless you are not so clever as that ancient, you -will no doubt be able to move the Earth, whether it be willing, or not. - -_Copernicus_. My lord, such a thing might be possible. But a lever -would be necessary, of such dimensions that neither I nor even -your Illustrious Lordship could pay half the cost of its materials -and manufacture. There are, however, other and far more serious -difficulties, which I will now mention. - -You know the Earth has hitherto occupied the principal position in -the Universe, that is the centre. Motionless, it has had nothing to -do but regard all the other spheres, great and small, brilliant and -obscure, continuously gyrating around and on all sides of it with a -marvellous regularity and speed. All things seem to be occupied in -its service; so that the Universe may be likened to a court, in the -midst of which the Earth sits as on a throne, surrounded by attendant -globes, like courtiers, guards, and servants, each of which fulfils -its respective office. Consequently, the Earth has always regarded -itself as Empress of the Universe. So far, indeed, little fault can be -found with its control, and I do not think your design an improvement -on the old state of affairs. But what shall I say to you about men? We -esteem ourselves (and shall always do so) to be in the same relation to -the rest of created beings as the Earth is to the Universe. And more -than this. Supreme among terrestrial creatures, we all, including the -ragged beggar who dines on a morsel of black bread, have a most exalted -idea of ourselves. We are each of us emperors, and our empire is only -bounded by the Universe, for it includes all the stars and planets, -visible and invisible. Man is, in his own > estimation, the final cause -of all things, including even your Illustrious Lordship. - -Now, if we remove the Earth from its place in the centre, and make it -whirl round and round unremittingly, what will be the consequence? -Simply, that it will act like all the other globes, and be enrolled -in the number of the planets. Then all its terrestrial majesty will -vanish, and the Earth will have to abdicate its imperial throne. Men, -too, will lose their human majesty, and be deprived of their supremacy; -they will be left alone with their rags, and miseries, which are not -insignificant. - -_Sun_. In short, Don Nicolas, what do you wish to prove by this -discourse? Is it that you have scruples of conscience lest the deed -should be treasonable? - -_Copernicus_. No, it is not that, Illustrious. For, to the best of my -knowledge neither the Codes, nor the Digest, nor the books of public, -imperial, international, or natural law, make any mention of such -treason. What I wanted to show was, that this action, subverting our -planetary relationships, will not only work alteration in the order -of nature; for it will change the position of things _inter se_, and -the ends for which created beings now exist; it will also necessarily -make a great revolution in the science of metaphysics, and everything -connected with the speculative part of knowledge. The result will be -that men, even if they are able and willing to critically examine into -the why and wherefore of life, will discover themselves and their aims -to be very different from what they are now, or from what they imagine -them to be. - -_Sun_. My dear child, the thought of these things does not disturb me -much; so little respect have I for metaphysics, or physics, or even -alchemy, necromancy, or any such things. Besides, men will in time -become content with their position; or, if they do not like it, they -may argue the matter to their hearts' content, and will doubtless -succeed in believing just what they please. In this way they may still -deceive themselves under the names of Barons, Dukes, Emperors, or -anything else. If, however, they are inconsolable, I confess it will -not give me much uneasiness. - -_Copernicus_. Well, then, apart from men and the Earth, consider, -Illustrious, what may reasonably be expected to happen in regard -to the other planets. These, when they see the Earth reduced to -their condition, and doing precisely what they do, just like one of -themselves, will be jealous of its apparent superiority. They will be -dissatisfied with their own naked simplicity and sad loneliness, and -will desire to have their rivers, mountains, seas, plants, animals, and -men; for they will see no reason why they should be in the smallest -degree less endowed than the Earth. Thereupon will ensue another great -revolution in the Universe: an infinite number of new races and people -will instantaneously proceed from their soil, like mushrooms. - -_Sun_. Well, let them come, and the more the merrier. My light and heat -will suffice for them all without any extra expense. The Universe shall -have food, clothes, and lodging amply provided gratis. - -_Copernicus_. But, if your Illustrious Lordship will reflect a moment, -yet another objection may be discerned. The stars, having rivalled the -Earth, will turn their attentions to you. They will notice your fine -throne, noble court, and numerous planetary satellites. Consequently, -they also will wish for thrones. And more, they will desire to rule, as -you do, over inferior planets, each of which must of course be peopled -and ornamented like the Earth. It is needless to mention the increased -unhappiness of the human race. Their insignificance will be greater -than ever. They will burst out in all these millions of new worlds, so -that even the tiniest star of the milky way will be provided with its -own race of mortals. Now, looking at this, solely as affecting your -interests, I affirm that it will be very prejudicial. Hitherto you have -been, if not the first, certainly the second in the Universe; that is, -after the Earth; nor have the stars aspired to rival you in dignity. In -this new state, however, you will have as many equals as stars, each -with their respective stars. Beware then lest this change be ruinous to -your supremacy. - -_Sun_. You remember CÊsar's remark, when, crossing the Alps, he -happened to pass a certain miserable little barbarian village. He said -that he would rather be the first in that village, than the second -in Rome. Similarly I would rather be first in this my own world than -second in the Universe. But you must not think it is ambition that -makes me desirous of changing the present state of things; it is solely -my love of peace, or, more candidly, idleness. Therefore it is a small -matter to me whether I am first or last in the Universe: unlike Cicero, -I care more for ease than dignity. - -_Copernicus_. I also, Illustrious, have striven my utmost to obtain -this ease. But, supposing your Lordship is successful in your -endeavour, I doubt whether it will be of long duration. For, in the -first place, I feel almost sure that before many years have elapsed -you will be impelled to go winding round and round like a windlass, -or a wheel, without however varying your locality. Then, after a -time, you will probably be desirous of rotating round something--the -Earth for instance. Ah! well, be that as it may; if you persist in -your determination, I will try to serve you, in spite of the great -difficulties necessarily to be overcome. If I fail, you must attribute -the failure to my inability, not unwillingness. - -_Sun_. That is well, my Copernicus. Do your best. - -_Copernicus_. There is however yet another obstacle. - -_Sun_. What is it? - -_Copernicus_. I fear lest I should be burnt alive for my pains. In -which case, it would be improbable that I, like the Phoenix, should -rise from my ashes. I should therefore never see your Lordship's face -again. - -_Sun_. Listen, Copernicus. You know that once upon a time I was a -prophet, when poetry ruled the world, and philosophy was scarcely -hatched. I will now utter my last prophecy. Put faith in me on the -strength of my former power. This is what I say. It may be that those -who come after you, and confirm your deeds, shall be burnt, or killed -in some other way; but you shall be safe, nor shall you suffer at -all on account of this undertaking. And to make your safety certain, -dedicate to the Pope the book[1] you will write on the subject. If you -do this, I promise that you will not even lose your canonry. - - -[Footnote 1: Copernicus did in effect dedicate his book on the -"Revolution of the Celestial Bodies," the printing of which was only -completed a few days before his death, to Pope Paul III. The system -expounded therein was condemned by a decree of Paul V. in 1616. This -condemnation remained in force until 1821, when it was revoked by Pius -VII. The sun is supposed to be in the centre, and motionless; the earth -and the rest of the planets move round it in elliptical orbits. The -heavens and stars are supposed to be stationary, and their apparent -diurnal motion from east to west is imputed to the earth's motion from -west to east.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY._ - - -_Almanac Seller_. Almanacs! New Almanacs! New Calendars! Who wants new -Almanacs? - -_Passer-by_. Almanacs for the New Year? - -_Alm. Seller_. Yes, Sir. - -_Passer_. Do you think this New Year will be a happy one? - -_Alm. Seller_. Yes, to be sure, Sir. - -_Passer_. As happy as last year? - -_Alm. Seller_. Much more so. - -_Passer_. As the year before? - -_Alm. Seller_. Still more, Sir. - -_Passer_. Why? Should you not like the New Year to resemble one of the -past years? - -_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, I should not. - -_Passer_. How many years have gone by since you began to sell almanacs? - -_Alm. Seller_. About twenty years, Sir. - -_Passer_. Which of the twenty should you wish the New Year to be like? - -_Alm. Seller_. I do not know. - -_Passer_. Do you not remember any particular year which you thought a -happy one? - -_Alm. Seller_. Indeed I do not, Sir. - -_Passer_. And yet life is a fine thing, is it not? - -_Alm. Seller_. So they say. - -_Passer_. Would you not like to live these twenty years, and even all -your, past life from your birth, over again? - -_Alm. Seller_. Ah, dear Sir, would to God I could! - -_Passer_. But if you had to live over again the life you have already -lived, with all its pleasures and sufferings? - -_Alm. Seller_. I should not like that. - -_Passer_. Then what other life would you like to live? Mine, or that of -the Prince, or whose? Do you not think that I, or the Prince, or any -one else, would reply exactly as you have done; and that no one would -wish to repeat the same life over again? - -_Alm. Seller_. I do believe that. - -_Passer_. Then would you recommence it on this condition, if none other -were offered you? - -_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, indeed I would not. - -_Passer_. Then what life would you like? - -_Alm. Seller_. Such an one as God would give me without any conditions. - -_Passer_. A life at hap-hazard, and of which you would know nothing -beforehand, as you know nothing about the New Year? - -_Alm. Seller_. Exactly. - -_Passer_. It is what I should wish, had I to live my life over again, -and so would every one. But this proves that Fate has treated us all -badly. And it is clear that each person is of opinion that the evil he -has experienced exceeds the good, if no one would wish to be re-born on -condition of living his own life over again from the beginning, with -just its same proportion of good and evil. This life, which is such a -fine thing, is not the life we are acquainted with, but that of which -we know nothing; it is not the past life, but the future. With the New -Year Fate will commence treating you, and me, and every one well, and -the happy life will begin. Am I not right? - -_Alm. Seller_. Let us hope so. - -_Passer_. Show me the best almanac you have. - -_Alm. Seller_. Here it is, Sir. This is worth thirty soldi. - -_Passer_. Here are thirty soldi. - -_Alm. Seller_. Thank you, Sir. Good day, Sir.--Almanacs! New Almanacs! -New Calendars! - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS._ - - - "One day when I, Porphyrius, was meditating about taking my - own life, Plotinus guessed my intention. He interrupted me, - and said that such a design could not proceed from a healthy - mind, but was due to some melancholy indisposition, and - that I must have change of air" (Ex. _Life of Plotinus_, by - Porphyrius). - - The same incident is recounted in the life of Plotinus by - Eunapius, who adds that Plotinus recorded in a book the - conversation he then held with Porphyrius on the subject. - -_Plotinus_. You know, Porphyrius, how sincerely I am your friend. You -will not wonder therefore that I am unquiet about you. For some time -I have noticed how sad and thoughtful you are; your expression of -countenance is unusual, and you have let fall certain words which make -me anxious. In short, I fear that you contemplate some evil design. - -_Porphyrius_. How! What do you mean? - -_Plotinus_. I think you intend to do yourself some injury; it were a -bad omen to give the deed its name. Listen to me, dear Porphyrius, and -do not conceal the truth. Do not wrong the friendship that has so long -existed between us. I know my words will cause you displeasure, and -I can easily understand that you would rather have kept your design -hid. But I could not be silent in such a matter, and you ought not to -refuse to confide in one who loves you as much as himself. Let us then -talk calmly, weighing our words. Open your heart to me. Tell me your -troubles, and let me be auditor of your lamentations. I have deserved -your confidence. I promise, on my part, not to oppose the carrying out -of your resolution, if we agree that it is useful and reasonable. - -_Porphyrius_. I have never denied a request of yours, dear Plotinus. I -will therefore confess to you what I would rather have kept to myself; -nothing in the world would induce me to tell it to anyone else. You are -right in your interpretation of my thoughts. If you wish to discuss -the subject, I will not refuse, in spite of my dislike to do so; for -on such occasions the mind prefers to encompass itself with a lofty -silence, and to meditate in solitude, giving itself up for the time to -a state of complete self-absorption. Nevertheless, I am willing to do -as you please. - -In the first place, I may say that my design is not the consequence of -any special misfortune. It is simply the result of an utter weariness -of life, and a continuous ennui which has long possessed me like a -pain. To this may be added a feeling of the vanity and nothingness -of all things, which pervades me in body and soul. Do not say that -this disposition of mind is unreasonable, though I will allow that it -may in part proceed from physical causes. It is in itself perfectly -reasonable, and therein differs from all our other dispositions; for -everything which makes us attach some value to life and human things, -proves on analysis to be contrary to reason, and to proceed from some -illusion or falsity. Nothing is more rational than ennui.[1] Pleasures -are all unreal. Pain itself, at least mental pain, is equally false, -because on examination it is seen to have scarcely any foundation, or -none at all. The same may be said of fear and hope. Ennui alone, which -is born from the vanity of things, is genuine, and never deceives. If, -then, all else be vain, the reality of life is summed up in ennui. - -_Plotinus_. It may be so. I will not contradict you as to that. But we -must now consider the nature of your project. You know Plato refused to -allow that man is at liberty to escape, like a fugitive slave, from the -captivity in which he is placed by the will of the gods, in depriving -himself of life. - -_Porphyrius_. I beg you, dear Plotinus, to leave Plate alone now, -with his doctrines and dreams. It is one thing to praise, explain, -and champion certain theories in the schools and in books, but quite -another to practically exemplify them. School-teaching and boots -constrain us to admire Plato, and conform to him, because such is the -custom in the present day. Bat in real life, far from being admired, -he is even detested. It is true Plato is said to have spread abroad by -his writings the notion of a future life, thus leaving men in doubt as -to their fate after death, and serving a good purpose in deterring men -from evil in this life, through fear of punishment in the next. If I -imagined Plato to have been the inventor of these ideas and beliefs, I -would speak thus to him:-- - -"You observe, O Plato, how inimical to our race the power which governs -the world has always been, whether known as Nature, Destiny, or Fate. -Many reasons contradict the supposition that man has that high rank -in the order of creation which we are pleased to imagine; but by no -reason can he be deprived of the characteristic attributed to him -by Homer--that of suffering. Nature, however, has given us a remedy -for all evils. It is death, little feared by those who are not fully -intelligent, and by all others desired. - -"But you have deprived us of this dearest consolation of our life, -full of suffering that it is. The doubts raised by you have torn this -comfort from our minds, and made the thought of death the bitterest -of all thoughts. Thanks to you, unhappy mortals now fear the storm -less than the port. Driven from their one place of repose, and robbed -of the only remedy they could look for, they resign themselves to the -sufferings and troubles of life. Thus, you have been more cruel towards -us than Destiny, Nature, or Fate. And since this doubt, once conceived, -can never be got rid of, to you is it due that your fellow-men regard -death as something more terrible than life. You are to blame that rest -and peace are for ever banished from the last moments of man, whereas -all other animals die in perfect fearlessness. This one thing, O Plato, -was wanting to complete the sum of human misery. - -"True, your intention was good. But it has failed in its purpose. -Violence and injustice are not arrested, for evil-doers only realise -the terrors of death in their last moments, when quite powerless to do -more harm. Your doubts trouble only the good, who are more disposed -to benefit than injure their fellow-men, and the weak and timid, who -are neither inclined by nature nor disposition to oppress anyone. Bold -and strong men, who have scarcely any power of imagination, and those -who require some other restraint than mere law, regard these fears as -chimerical, and are undeterred from evil doing. We see daily instances -of this, and the experience of all the centuries, from your time down -to the present, confirms it. Good laws, still more, good education, and -mental and social culture,--these are the things that preserve justice -and mildness amongst men. Civilisation, and the use of reflection and -reason, make men almost always hate to war with each other and shed one -another's blood, and render them disinclined to quarrel, and endanger -their lives by lawlessness. But such good results are never due to -threatening fancies, and bitter expectation of terrible chastisement; -these, like the multitude and cruelty of the punishments used in -certain states, only serve to increase the baseness and ferocity of -men, and are therefore opposed to the well-being of human society. - -"Perhaps, however, you will reply that you have promised a reward -in the future for the good. What then is this reward? A state of -life which seems full of ennui, even less tolerable than our present -existence! The bitterness of your punishments is unmistakable; but the -sweetness of your rewards is hidden and secret, incomprehensible to our -minds. How then can order and virtue be said to be encouraged by your -doctrine? I will venture to say that if but few men have been deterred -from evil by the fear of your terrible Tartarus, no good man has been -led to perform a single praiseworthy action by desire of your Elysium. -Such a Paradise does not attract us in the least. But, apart from the -fact that your heaven is scarcely an inviting place, who among the -best of us can hope to merit it? What man can satisfy your inexorable -judges, Minos, Eacus, and Rhadamanthus, who will not overlook one -single fault, however trivial? Besides, who can say that he has reached -your standard of purity? In short, we cannot look for happiness in the -world to come; and however clear a man's conscience may be, or however -upright his life, in his last hour he will dread the future with its -terrible incertitude. It is due to your teaching that fear is a much -stronger influence than hope, and may be said to dominate mankind. - -"This then is the result of your doctrines. Man, whose life on earth -is wretched in the extreme, anticipates death, not as an end to all -his miseries, but as the beginning of a condition more wretched still. -Thus, you surpass in cruelty, not only Nature and Destiny, but the most -merciless tyrant and bloodthirsty executioner the world has ever known. - -"But what cruelty can exceed that of your law, forbidding man to put -an end to his sufferings and troubles by voluntarily depriving himself -of life, thereby triumphing over the horrors of death? Other animals -do not desire to put an end to their life, because their unhappiness -is less than ours; nor would they even have sufficient courage to face -a voluntary death. But if they did wish to die, what should deter them -from fulfilling their desire? They are affected by no prohibition, nor -fear of the future. Here again you make us inferior to brute beasts. -The liberty they possess, they do not use; the liberty granted also to -us by Nature, so miserly in her gifts, you take away. Thus, the only -creatures capable of desiring death, have the right to die refused -them. Nature, Destiny, and Fortune overwhelm us with cruel blows, that -cause us to suffer fearfully; you add to our sufferings by tying our -arms and enchaining our feet, so that we can neither defend ourselves, -nor escape from our persecutors. - -"Truly, when I think over the great wretchedness of humanity, it seems -to me that your doctrines, above all things, O Plato, are guilty of -it, and that men may well complain of you more than of Nature. For the -latter, in decreeing for us an existence full of unhappiness, has left -us the means of escaping from it when we please. Indeed, unhappiness -cannot be called extreme, when we have in our hands the power to -shorten it at will. Besides, the mere thought of being able to quit -life at pleasure, and withdraw from the miseries of the world, is so -great an alleviation of our lot, that in itself it suffices to render -existence supportable. Consequently, there can be no doubt that our -chief unhappiness proceeds from the fear, that in abbreviating our life -we might be plunged into a state of greater misery than the present. -And not only will our misery be greater in the future, but it will -be so full of the refinement of cruelty, that a comparison of these -unexperienced tortures with the known sufferings of this life, reduces -the latter almost to insignificance. - -"You have easily, O Plato, raised this question of immortality; but -the human species will become extinct before it is settled. Your genius -is the most fatal thing that has ever afflicted humanity, and nothing -can ever exist more disastrous in its effects." - -That is what I would say to Plato, had he invented the doctrine we -are discussing; but I am well aware he did not originate it. However, -enough has been said. Let us drop the subject, if you please. - -_Plotinus_. Porphyrius, you know how I revere Plato; yet in talking to -you on such an occasion as this, I will give you my own opinion, and -will disregard his authority. The few words of his that I spoke were -rather as an introduction than anything else. Returning to my first -argument, I affirm that not only Plato and every other philosopher, -but Nature herself, teaches us that it is improper to take away our -own life. I will not say much on this point, because if you reflect a -little, I am sure you will agree with me that suicide is unnatural. It -is indeed an action the most contrary possible to nature. The whole -order of things would be subverted if the beings of the world destroyed -themselves. And it is repugnant and absurd to suppose that life is -given only to be taken away by its possessor, and that beings should -exist only to become non-existent. The law of self-preservation is the -strictest law of nature. Its maintenance is enjoined in every possible -way on man and all creatures of the universe. And, apart from anything -else, do we not instinctively fear, hate, and shun death, even in spite -of ourselves? Therefore, since suicide is so utterly contrary to our -nature, I cannot think that it is permissible. - -_Porphyrius_. I have already meditated on the subject from all points -of view; for the mind could not design such a step without due -consideration. It seems to me that all your reasoning is answerable -with just as much counter reasoning. But I will be brief. - -You doubt whether it be permissible to die without necessity. I ask -you if it be permissible to be unhappy? Nature, you say, forbids -suicide. It is a strange thing that since she is either unable or -unwilling to make me happy, or free me from unhappiness, she should -have the power to force me to live. If Nature has given us a love of -life, and a hatred of death, she has also given us a love of happiness, -and a hatred of suffering; and the latter instincts are much more -powerful than the former, because happiness is the supreme aim of all -our actions and sentiments of love or hatred. For to what end do we -shun death, or desire life, save to promote our well-being, and for -fear of the contrary? - -How then can it be unnatural to escape from suffering in the only way -open to man, that is, by dying; since in life it can never be avoided? -How, too, can it be true, that Nature forbids me to devote myself to -death, which is undoubtedly a good thing, and to reject life, which -is undoubtedly an evil and injurious thing, since it is a source of -nothing but suffering to me? - -_Plotinus_. These things do not persuade me that suicide is not -unnatural. Have we not a strong instinctive horror of death? Besides, -we never see brute beasts, which invariably follow the instincts of -their nature (when not contrarily trained by man), either commit -suicide, or regard death as anything but a condition to be struggled -against, even in their moments of greatest suffering. In short, all -men who commit this desperate act, will be found to have lived out of -conformity to nature. They, on the contrary, who live naturally, would -without exception reject suicide, if even the thought proposed itself -to them. - -_Porphyrius_. Well, if you like, I will admit that the action is -contrary to nature. But what has that to do with it, if we ourselves -do not conform to nature; that is, are no longer savages? Compare -ourselves, for instance, with the inhabitants of India or Ethiopia, who -are said to have retained their primitive manners and wild habits. You -would scarcely think that these people were even of the same species -as ourselves. This transformation of life, and change of manners and -customs by civilisation, has been accompanied, in my opinion, by an -immeasurable increase of suffering. Savages never wish to commit -suicide, nor does their imagination ever induce them to regard death -as a desirable thing; whereas we who are civilised wish for it, and -sometimes voluntarily seek it. - -Now, if man be permitted to live unnaturally, and be consequently -unhappy, why may he not also die unnaturally? For death is indeed -the only way by which he can deliver himself from the unhappiness -that results from civilisation. Or, why not return to our primitive -condition, and state of nature? Ah, we should find it almost impossible -as far as mere external circumstances are concerned, and in the more -important matters of the mind, quite impossible. What is less natural -than medicine? By this I mean surgery, and the use of drugs. They are -both ordinarily used expressly to combat nature, and are quite unknown -to brute beasts and savages. Yet, since the diseases they remedy are -unnatural, and only occur in civilised countries, where people have -fallen from their natural condition, these arts, being also unnatural, -are highly esteemed and even indispensable. Similarly, suicide, which -is a radical cure for the disease of despair, one of the outcomes of -civilisation, must not be blamed because it is unnatural; for unnatural -evils require unnatural remedies. It would indeed be hard and unjust -that reason, which increases our misery by forcing us to go contrary to -nature, should in this matter join hands with nature, and take from us -our only remaining hope and refuge, and the only resource consistent -with itself, and should force us to continue in our wretchedness. - -The truth is this, Plotinus. Our primitive nature has departed from us -for ever. Habit and reason have given us a new nature in place of the -old one, to which we shall never return. Formerly, it was unnatural -for men to commit suicide, or desire death. In the present day, both -are natural. They conform to our new nature, which however, like the -old one, still impels us to seek our happiness. And since death is our -greatest good, is it remarkable that men should voluntarily seek it? -For our reason tells us that death is not an evil, but, as the remedy -for all evils, is the most desirable of things. - -Now tell me: are all other actions of civilised men regulated by the -standard of their primitive nature? If so, give me a single instance. -No, it is our present, and not our primitive nature, that interprets -our actions; in other words, it is our reason. Why then should suicide -alone be judged unreasonably, and from the aspect of our primitive -nature? Why should this latter, which has no influence over our life, -control our death? Why should not the same reason govern our death -which rules our life? It is a fact, whether due to reason or our -unhappiness, that in many people, especially those who are unfortunate -and afflicted, the primitive hatred of death is extinguished, and -even changed into desire and love, as I have said. Such love, though -incompatible with our early nature, is a reality in the present day. -We are also necessarily unhappy because we live unnaturally. It were -therefore manifestly unreasonable to assert that the prohibition which -forbade suicide in the primitive state should now hold good. This seems -to me sufficient justification of the deed. It remains to be proved -whether or not it be useful. - -_Plotinus_. Never mind that side of the question, my dear Porphyrius, -because if the deed be permissible, I have no doubt of its extreme -utility. But I will never admit that a forbidden and improper action -can be useful. The matter really resolves itself into this: which is -the better, to suffer, or not to suffer? It is certain that most men -would prefer suffering mixed with enjoyment, to a state devoid of both -suffering and enjoyment, so ardently do we desire and thirst after -joy. But this is beside the question, because enjoyment and pleasure, -properly speaking, are as impossible as suffering is inevitable. I mean -a suffering as continuous as our never satisfied desire for pleasure -and happiness, and quite apart from the peculiar and accidental -sufferings which must infallibly be experienced by even the happiest of -men. In truth, were we certain that in continuing to live, we should -continue thus to suffer, we should have sufficient reason to prefer -death to life; because existence does not contain a single genuine -pleasure to compensate for such suffering, even if that were possible. - -_Porphyrius_. It seems to me that ennui alone, and the fact that we -cannot hope for an improved existence, are sufficiently cogent reasons -to induce a desire for death, even though our condition be one of -prosperity. And it is often a matter of surprise to me that we have no -record of princes having committed suicide through ennui and weariness -of their grandeur, like other men in lower stations of life. We read -how Hegesias, the Cyrenaic, used to reason so eloquently about the -miseries of life, that his auditors straightway went and committed -suicide; for which reason he was called the "death persuader," and -was at length forbidden by Ptolemy to hold further discourse on the -subject. Certain princes, it is true, have been suicides, amongst -others Mithridates, Cleopatra, and Otho. But these all put an end to -themselves to escape some peculiar evils, or from dread of an increase -of misfortune. Princes are, I imagine, more liable than other men to -feel a hatred of their condition, and to think favourably of suicide. -For have they not reached the summit of what is called human happiness? -They have nothing to hope for, because they have everything that -forms a part of the so-called good things of this life. They cannot -anticipate greater pleasure to-morrow than they have enjoyed to-day. -Thus they are more unfortunately situated than all less exalted people. -For the present is always sad and unsatisfactory; the future alone is a -source of pleasure. - -But be that as it may. We see then that there is nothing to prevent -men voluntarily quitting life, and preferring death, save the fear -of another world. All other reasons are palpably ill-founded. They -are due to a wrong estimate, in comparing the advantages and evils of -existence; and whoever at any time feels a strong attachment to life, -or lives in a state of contentment, does so under a mistake, either of -judgment, will, or even fact. - -_Plotinus_. That is true, dear Porphyrius. But nevertheless, let me -advise, nay implore, you to listen to the counsels of Nature rather -than Reason. Follow the instincts of that primitive Nature, mother of -us all, who, though she has manifested no affection for us in creating -us for unhappiness, is a less bitter and cruel foe than our own reason, -with its boundless curiosity, speculation, chattering, dreams, ideas, -and miserable learning. Besides, Nature has sought to diminish our -unhappiness by concealing or disguising it from us as much as possible. -And although we are greatly changed, and the power of nature within us -is much lessened, we are not so altered but that much of our former -manhood remains, and our primitive nature is not quite stifled within -us. In spite of all our folly, it will never be otherwise. So, too, -the mistaken view of life that you mention, although I admit that it -is in reality palpably erroneous, will continue to prevail. It is -held not only by idiots and the half-witted, but by clever, wise, and -learned men, and always will be, unless the Nature that made us--and -not man nor his reason--herself puts an end to it. And I assure you -that neither disgust of life, nor despair, nor the sense of the nullity -of things, the vanity of all anxiety, and the insignificance of man, -nor hatred of the world and oneself, are of long duration; although -such dispositions of mind are perfectly reasonable, and the contrary -unreasonable. For our physical condition changes momentarily in more or -less degree; and often without any especial cause life endears itself -to us again, and new hopes give brightness to human things, which once -more seem worthy of some attention, not indeed from our understanding, -but from what may be termed the higher senses of the intellect. This is -why each of us, though perfectly aware of the truth, continues to live -in spite of Reason, and conforms to the behaviour of others; for our -life is controlled by these senses, and not by the understanding. - -Whether suicide be reasonable, or our compromise with life -unreasonable, the former is certainly a horrible and inhuman action. It -were better to follow Nature, and remain man, than act like a monster -in following Reason. Besides, ought we not to give some thought to the -friends, relatives, acquaintance, and people with whom we have been -accustomed to live, and from whom we should thus separate for ever? And -if the thought of such separation be nothing to us, ought we not to -consider their feelings? They lose one whom they loved and respected; -and the atrocity of his death enhances their grief. I know that the -wise man is not easily moved, nor yields to pity and lamentation to -a disquieting extent; he does not abase himself to the ground, shed -tears immoderately, nor do other similar things unworthy of one who -clearly understands the condition of humanity. But such fortitude of -soul should be reserved for grievous circumstances that arise from -nature, or are unavoidable; it is an abuse of fortitude to deprive -ourselves for ever of the society and conversation of those who are -dear to us. He is a barbarian, and not a wise man, who takes no account -of the grief experienced by his friends, relations, and acquaintances. -He who scarcely troubles himself about the grief his death would cause -to his friends and family is selfish; he cares little for others, and -all for himself. And truly, the suicide thinks only of himself. He -desires nought but his personal welfare, and throws away all thought -of the rest of the world. In short, suicide is an action of the most -unqualified and sordid egotism, and is certainly the least attractive -form of self-love that exists in the world. - -Finally, my dear Porphyrius, the troubles and evils of life, although -many and inevitable, when, as in your case, unaccompanied by grievous -calamity or bodily infirmity, are after all easy to be borne, -especially by a wise and strong man like yourself. And indeed, life -itself is of so little importance, that man ought not to trouble -himself much either to retain or abandon it; and, without thinking -greatly about it, we ought to give the former instinct precedence over -the latter. - -If a friend begged you to do this, why should you not gratify him? - -Now I earnestly entreat you, dear Porphyrius, by the memory of our -long friendship, put away this idea. Do not grieve your friends, who -love you with such warm affection, and your Plotinus,[2] who has no -dearer nor better friend in the world. Help us to bear the burden -of life, instead of leaving us without a thought. Let us live, dear -Porphyrius,[3] and console each other. Let us not refuse our share of -the sufferings of humanity, apportioned to us by destiny. Let us cling -to each other with mutual encouragement, and hand in hand strengthen -one another better to bear the troubles of life. Our time after all -will be short; and when death comes, we will not complain. In the last -hour, our friends and companions will comfort us, and we shall be -gladdened by the thought that after death we shall still live in their -memory, and be loved by them. - - -[Footnote 1: "Ennui is a state only experienced by the intelligent. -The greater the mind, the more constant, painful, and terrible is the -ennui it suffers. Ennui is in some respects the sublimest of human -sentiments" (_Leopardi's "Pensieri_" Nos. lxvii. and lxviii.)] - -[Footnote 2: _Plotinus_ was born 204 A.D. He began teaching philosophy -in Rome, and was highly esteemed at court. Eunapius says of him, "The -heavenly elevation of his mind, and his perplexed style, made him very -tiresome and unpleasant." He was ascetic in his habits; disparaged -patriotism; depreciated material things; purposely forgot his birthday; -and acted altogether rather as a spectator of other men's lives than as -a living man himself.] - -[Footnote 3: _Porphyrius_ was born 233 A.D. He was a pupil of Plotinus, -and like him established a school of philosophy at Rome. From study of -the writings of Plotinus he fell into a state of disgust with life, -and retiring from Rome, lived alone in a solitary and wild part of -Sicily. Here he determined to put an end to his life by starvation. -He was found by Plotinus, who had followed him from Rome, in a state -of extreme weakness, and was, by his wise counsels, dissuaded from -completing his intention.] - - - - -_COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF MARCUS BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS._ - - -I think, in all ancient history there can be found no words more -lamentable and terrifying, yet withal, speaking humanly, more -true, than those uttered by Marcus Brutus shortly before death, in -disparagement of virtue. This is what, according to Dionysius Cassius, -he is reported to have said:-- - -"O miserable virtue! Thou art but a mere phrase, and I have followed -thee, as though thou wert a reality. Fate is stronger than thee." - -Plutarch, in his life of Brutus, makes no mention of this, which has -induced Pier Vettori to conclude that Cassius has here taken licence -in prose often accorded to poetry. But its truth is confirmed by the -witness of Florus, who states that Brutus, when at the point of death, -exclaimed, that virtue was "an expression, and not a reality." - -Many people are shocked at those words of Brutus, and blame him for -uttering them. They infer from their meaning, either that virtue -is a sealed book to them, or else that they have never experienced -ill-fortune. The former inference alone is credible. In any case, it -is certain they but slightly understand, and still less realise the -unhappiness of human affairs, or else they stupidly wonder why the -doctrines of Christianity were not in force before the time of Christ. - -Other people interpret these words as demonstrating that Brutus was -not after all the noble and pious man he was supposed to have been. -They imagine that just before death he threw off the mask. But they are -wrong; and if they give Brutus credit for sincerity in uttering these -words in repudiation of virtue, let them consider how it were possible -for him to abandon what he never possessed, or to disassociate himself -from that with which he never had any association. If they think he was -insincere, and spoke designedly and with ostentation, let them explain -what object he could have in speaking vain and fallacious words, and -immediately afterwards acting in accordance with them? Are facts -deniable, simply because they are not in harmony with words? - -Brutus was a man overwhelmed by a great and unavoidable catastrophe. -He was disheartened, and wearied with life and fortune, and having -abandoned all desires and hopes, the deceitfulness of which he had -experienced, he determined to take his destiny into his own hands, and -to put an end to his unhappiness. Why should he, at the very moment -of eternal separation from his fellows, trouble to hunt the phantom -of glory, and study to give forth words and thoughts to deceive those -around him, and to gain human esteem, when he was about to leave -humanity for ever? What was it to him that he might gain a reputation -on that earth which appeared so hateful and contemptible to him? - -These words of Brutus are well known to most of us. The following -utterance of Theophrastus at the point of death is, I believe, less -known, though very worthy of consideration. It forms a parallel with -that of Brutus, both as to its substance and time of delivery. Diogenes -Laertius mentions it, not, in my opinion, as original to himself, but -as an extract from some more ancient and important work. He says that -Theophrastus, just before death, being asked by his disciples whether -he would leave them any token or words of advice, replied: - -"None, except that man despises and rejects many pleasures for the sake -of glory. But no sooner does he begin to live than death overtakes him. -Hence the love of glory is as fatal a thing as possible. Strive to live -happily: abandon studies, which are a weariness; or cultivate them only -so that they may bring you fame. Life is more vain than useful. As for -me, I have no time to think more about it; you must study what is most -expedient." So saying, he died. - -Other sayings of Theophrastus on this occasion are mentioned by Cicero -and St. Jerome. These are better known, but have nothing to do with our -subject. - -It would seem that Theophrastus lived to the age of more than a -hundred, having devoted all his lifetime to study and writing, and -having been an unwearied pursuer of glory. Suidas says that his death -was due to the excess of his studies, and that he died surrounded by -about two thousand of his disciples and followers, reverenced for his -wisdom throughout the whole of Greece, regretting his pursuit of glory, -just as Brutus repented of virtue. These two words, glory and virtue, -were by the ancients regarded as almost synonymous in meaning, though -it is not so in the present day. Theophrastus did not indeed say that -glory is more frequently a matter of fortune than merit, which is -oftener true now than in former times; but had he said so, there would -have been no difference between his idea and that of Brutus. - -Such abjurations, or rather apostasies, of those noble errors which -beautify, nay compose our very life, are of daily occurrence. They -are due to the fact that the human intelligence in process of time -discovers, not only the nakedness, but even the skeleton of things: -wisdom also, which was regarded by the ancients as the consolation -and chief cure for our unhappiness, has been obliged to impeach our -condition, and almost requires a consolation for itself, since had -not men followed it, they would not have known the greatness of their -misfortune, or at least would have been able to remedy it with hope. -But the ancients used to believe, according to the teaching of Nature, -that things were things, and not appearances, and that human life was -destined to partake of happiness as well as unhappiness. Consequently, -such apostasies as these were very rare, and were the result not of -passions and vices, but of a sentiment and realisation of the truth of -things. Therefore they deserve careful and philosophical consideration. - -The words of Theophrastus are the more surprising when we think of -the circumstances in which he died. He was prosperous and successful; -and it would seem as though he could not have a single cause for -regret. His chief aim, glory, he had succeeded in acquiring long -ago. The utterance of Brutus, on the other hand, was one of those -inspirations of misfortune which sometimes open out a new world to -our minds, and persuade us of truths that require a long time for -the mere intelligence to discover. Misfortune may indeed be compared -in its effect to the frenzy of lyric poets, who at a glance, as if -situated in a lofty place, take in as much of the domain of human -knowledge as requires many centuries before it be discerned by -philosophers. In almost all ancient writings (whether philosophical, -poetical, historical, or aught else), we meet with many very sorrowful -expressions, common enough to us nowadays, but strange to the people of -those times. These sentences, however, were mostly due to the innate -or accidental misfortune of the writer, or the persons who spoke them, -whether imaginary or real. And rarely we find on the monuments of the -ancients any expression of the sadness or ennui which they felt because -of the unreality of happiness, or their misfortunes, whether natural, -or due to force of circumstances. For when they suffered, they lamented -their sufferings as the only hindrance to their happiness, which they -not only considered it possible to obtain, but even man's right, -although Fate proved sometimes too strong. - -Now, let us seek what could have placed in the mind of Theophrastus -this sentiment about the vanity of glory and life, which, considering -his epoch and nation, is an extraordinary one. In the first place, -we find that the studies of this philosopher were not limited to one -or two branches of science. The record of his writings, which are -mostly lost, informs us that his knowledge included little less than -everything then knowable. And this universal science was not like -that of Plato, subordinated to his imagination, but conformed to the -teaching of Aristotle in being the result of experience and reason; its -aim, too, was not the discovery of the beautiful, but that which is its -especial contrary, the useful. This being so, it is not wonderful that -Theophrastus should attain to the height of human wisdom,--that is, a -knowledge of the vanity of life, and wisdom itself. For it is a fact -that the numerous discoveries made recently by philosophers about the -nature of men and things, are chiefly the result of a comparison and -synthesis of the different sciences and studies, whereby the mutual -connection between the most distant parts of nature is demonstrated. - -Besides, from his book of "Characters" we learn how clearly -Theophrastus discerned the qualities and manners of men; indeed, with -the exception of the poets, very few ancient writers equal him in -this respect. And this faculty is the sure sign of a mind capable of -numerous, diverse, and powerful sensations. For, to produce a keen -representation of the moral qualities and passions of men, the writer -relies less on what actual facts he may have collected, or observations -made, about the manners of others, than on his own mind, even though -his personal habits be very different from those of his subjects. - -Massillon was asked one day what enabled him to describe so naturally -the habits and feelings of men, who, like himself, lived more in -solitude than society. He replied: "I contemplate myself." Dramatists -and other poets do the same thing. Now a many-sided mind, subtle in -discernment, cannot but feel the nakedness and absolute unhappiness -of life; it acquires a tendency to sadness after meditation excited -by numerous studies, especially such as are concerned with the very -essence of things, like the speculative sciences. - -It is certain that Theophrastus, who loved study and glory above -everything, and was master or rather founder of a very numerous school, -knew and formally announced the uselessness of human exertions, -including his own teaching and that of others; the little affinity -existing between virtue and happiness of life; and the superior power -of fortune to merit in the acquirement of happiness, equally among -the wise and others. In this respect, perhaps, he was superior to -all the Greek philosophers, especially those preceding Epicurus, -from whom both in manners and thought he was essentially different. -This is owing partly to circumstances already mentioned, and is also -due to other things referred to by ancient writers on the subject -of his teaching It would seem as though his own fate has proved the -truth of his doctrine. For he is not esteemed by modern philosophers -as he ought to be, since all his moral writings are lost, with the -exception of his "Characters." His writings, too, on the subjects of -politics and laws, and almost all those relating to metaphysics, are -also missing. Besides, the ancient philosophers were little inclined -to give him credit for keener perception than they possessed; on the -contrary, many of them, especially such as were shallow and conceited, -blamed and ill-treated him. These men taught that the wise man is -essentially happy, and that virtue and wisdom suffice to procure -happiness; although they were only too well aware of the contrary, even -supposing they had any real knowledge of either the one or the other. -Philosophers will never be cured of this idea. Even the philosophy of -the present day teaches the same thing; whereas, correctly speaking, it -can only say that everything beautiful, delightful, and great, is mere -falsity and nothingness. - -But to return to Theophrastus. Most of the ancients were incapable of -the profound and sorrowful sentiment that inspired him. "Theophrastus -is roughly handled by all the philosophers in their writings and -schools for having praised this saying of Callisthenes: 'Fortune, not -wisdom, is the mistress of life.' They consider that no philosopher -ever gave expression to a weaker sentiment." So says Cicero, who in -another place remarks that Theophrastus in his book about "The Happy -Life," attributed much influence to fortune, which he considered a most -important factor of happiness. Again, he adds, "Let us make much use of -Theophrastus; but give virtue more reality and value than he gave to -it." - -Perhaps it may be imagined from these remarks that Theophrastus had -little sympathy with the weaknesses of human nature, and that he -waged war against their influence in public and private life, both -by his writings and actions. It might also be thought that he would -restrict the empire of the imagination in favour of that of reason. As -a matter of fact, he did just the contrary. Concerning his actions, -we read in Plutarch's book against Colotes that our philosopher twice -freed his country from a tyranny. As for his teachings, Cicero says -that Theophrastus in a writing on the subject of "Wealth," dilated -at considerable length on the advantages of magnificence and pomp -at the shows and national festivals; indeed he considered the chief -usefulness of riches to lie in the consequent power of expenditure -that accompanied them. This idea is blamed and ridiculed by Cicero, -with whom, however, I will not discuss the question, for his -superficial knowledge of philosophy might have easily led him to a -wrong conclusion. I imagine Cicero to have been a man rich in civil and -domestic virtues, but ignorant of the greatest stimulants and bulwarks -of virtue that the world possesses, namely, those things that are -peculiarly adapted to excite and arouse the mind, and exercise the -powers of the imagination. - -I will merely say that those men among, the ancients and moderns -who knew best and realised most strongly and deeply the nullity of -everything, and the force of truth, have not only refrained from -endeavouring to lead others to their condition, but have even laboured -hard to conceal and disguise it from themselves. They acted like men -who had learnt from experience the wretchedness that resulted from -wisdom and knowledge. Many celebrated examples of this are furnished, -especially in recent times. Truly, if our philosophers fully understood -what they endeavour to teach, and realised in their own persons the -consequences of their philosophy, instead of welcoming their knowledge, -they would hate and abhor it. They would strive to forget what they -know, and to shut' their eyes to that which they see. They would take -refuge, as their best resource, in those sweet unrealities, which -Nature herself has placed in all our minds; nor would they think it -well to enforce on others the doctrine of the nothingness of all -things. If, however, desire of glory should incite them to do this -last, they will admit that in this part of the universe we can only -live by putting faith in things that are non-existent. - -There is another considerable difference between the circumstances -of Theophrastus and Brutus, that of time. When Theophrastus lived, -the influence of those fictions and phantoms which ruled the thoughts -and actions of the ancients, had not departed. The epoch of Brutus, -on the other hand, may be termed the last age of the imagination. -Knowledge and experience of the truth prevailed amongst the people. -Had it not been so, Brutus need not have fled from life as he did, -and the Roman republic would not have died with him. And not only the -republic, but also the whole of antiquity, that is, the old customs -and characteristics of the civilised world, were at the point of -death, together with the opinions which gave birth to, and supported -them. Life had already lost its value, and wise men sought to console -themselves not so much for their fate as for existence itself; because -they regarded it as incredible that man should be born essentially -and solely for misery. Thus they arrived at the conception of another -life, which might explain the reason of virtue and noble actions. Such -explanation had hitherto been found in life itself, but was so no -longer, nor was it ever again to be found there. - -To these ideas of futurity are due the noble sentiments often expressed -by Cicero, especially in his oration for Archias. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND._ - - -_Friend_. I have read your book. It is as melancholy as usual. - -_Tristano_. Yes, as usual. - -_Friend_. Melancholy, disconsolate, hopeless. It is clear that this -life appears to you an abominable thing. - -_Tristano_. How can I excuse myself? I was then so firmly convinced of -the truth of my notion about the unhappiness of life. - -_Friend_. Unhappy it may be. But even then, what good ... - -_Tristano_. No, no; on the contrary, it is very happy. I have changed -my opinion now. But when I wrote this book I had that folly in my -head, as I tell you. And I was so full of it, that I should have -expected anything rather than to doubt the truth of what I wrote on the -subject. For I thought the conscience of every reader would assuredly -bear witness to the truth of my statements. I imagined there might -be differences of opinion as to the use or harm of my writings, but -none as to their truth. I also believed that my lamentations, since -they were aroused by misfortunes common to all, would be echoed in -the heart of every one who heard them. And when I afterwards felt -impelled to deny, not merely some particular observation, but the whole -fabric of my book, and to say that life is not unhappy, and that if -it seemed so to me, it must have been the effect of illness, or some -other misfortune peculiar to myself, I was at first amazed, astonished, -petrified, and for several days as though transported into another -world. Then I began to think, and was a little irritated with myself. -Finally I laughed, and said to myself that the human race possesses -a characteristic common to husbands. For a married man who wishes -to live a quiet life, relies on the fidelity of his wife, even when -half the world knows she is faithless. Similarly, when a man takes -up his abode in any country, he makes up his mind to regard it as -one of the best countries in the world, and he does so. For the same -reason, men, desiring to live, agree to consider life a delightful and -valuable thing; they therefore believe it to be so, and are angry with -whoever is of the contrary opinion. Hence it follows, that in reality -people always believe, not the truth, but what is, or appears to be, -best for them. The human race, which has believed, and will continue -to put faith in so many absurdities, will never acknowledge that it -knows nothing, that it is nothing, and that it has nothing to hope. No -philosopher teaching any one of these three things would be successful, -nor would he have followers, and the populace especially would refuse -to believe in him. For, apart from the fact that all three doctrines -have little to recommend them to any one who wishes to live, the two -first offend man's pride, and they all require courage and strength -of mind in him who accepts them. Now, men are cowards, of ignoble and -narrow minds, and always anticipating good, because always ready to -vary their ideas of good according to the necessities of life. They -are very willing, as Petrarch says, to surrender to fortune; very -eager and determined to console themselves in any misfortune; and -to accept any compensation in exchange for what is denied them, or -for that which they have lost; and to accommodate themselves to any -condition of life, however wicked and barbarous. When deprived of any -desirable thing, they nourish themselves on illusions, from which they -derive as much satisfaction as if their conceptions were the most -genuine and real things in the world. As for me, I cannot refrain from -laughing at the human race, enamoured of life, just as the people in -the south of Europe laugh at husbands enamoured of faithless wives. -I consider men show very little courage in thus allowing themselves -to be deceived and deluded like fools; they are not only content to -bear the greatest sufferings, but also are willing to be as it were -puppets of Nature and Destiny. I here refer to the deceptions of the -intellect, not the imagination. Whether these sentiments of mine are -the result of illness, I do not know; but I do know that, well or ill, -I despise men's cowardice, I reject every childish consolation and -illusive comfort, and am courageous enough to bear the deprivation of -every hope, to look steadily on the desert of life, to hide no part of -our unhappiness, and to accept all the consequences of a philosophy, -sorrowful but true. This philosophy, if of no other use, gives the -courageous man the proud satisfaction of being able to rend asunder the -cloak that conceals the hidden and mysterious cruelty of human destiny. - -This I said to myself, almost as though I were the inventor of this -bitter philosophy, which I saw rejected by every one as a new and -unheard-of thing. But, on reflection, I found that it dated from the -time of Solomon, Homer, and the most ancient poets and philosophers, -who abound with fables and sayings which express the unhappiness of -human life. One says that "man is the most miserable of the animals." -Another that, "it were better not to be born, or, being born, to die in -the cradle." Again, "whom the gods love, die young;" besides numberless -other similar sayings. And I also remembered that from then even until -now, all poets, philosophers, and writers, great and small, have in one -way or another echoed and confirmed the same doctrines. - -Then I began to think again, and spent a long time in a state of -wonder, contempt, and laughter. At length I turned to study the matter -more deeply, and came to the conclusion that man's unhappiness is one -of the innate errors of the mind, and that the refutation of this idea, -through the demonstration of the happiness of life, is one of the -greatest discoveries of the nineteenth century. Now, therefore, I am at -peace, and confess I was wrong to hold the views I previously held. - -_Friend_. Then have you changed your opinion? - -_Tristano_. Of course. Do you imagine I should oppose the discoveries -of the nineteenth century? - -_Friend_. Do you believe all the century believes? - -_Tristano_. Certainly. Why not? - -_Friend_. You believe then in the infinite perfectibility of the human -race, do you not? _Tristano_. Undoubtedly. - -_Friend_. Do you also believe that the human race actually progresses -daily? - -_Tristano_. Assuredly. It is true that sometimes I think one of the -ancients was physically worth four of us. And the body is the man; -because (apart from all else) high-mindedness, courage, the passions, -capacity for action and enjoyment, and all that ennobles and vivifies -life, depend on the vigour of the body, without which they cannot -exist. The weak man is not a man, but a child, and less than a child, -because it is his fate to stand aside and see others live. All he can -do is to chatter. Life is not for him. Hence in olden times, and even -in more enlightened ages, weakness of body was regarded as ignominious. - -But with us, it is very long since education deigned to think of such -a base and abject thing as the body. The mind is its sole care. Yet, -in its endeavours to cultivate the mind, it destroys the body without -perceiving that the former is also necessarily destroyed. And even if -it were possible to remedy this false system of education, it would be -impossible to discover, without a radical change in the state of modern -society, any cure for the other inconveniences of life, whether public -or private. - -Everything that formerly tended to preserve and perfect the body, seems -to-day to be in conspiracy for its destruction. The consequence is, -that, compared with the ancients, we are little better than children, -and they in comparison with us may indeed be termed perfect men. I -refer equally to individuals in comparison with individuals, as to the -masses (to use this most expressive modern term) compared to the masses. - -I will add also that the superior vigour of the ancients is manifested -in their moral and metaphysical systems. - -But I do not allow myself to be influenced by such trifling objections, -and I firmly believe that the human race is perpetually in a state of -progression. - -_Friend_. You believe also, if I rightly understand you, that -knowledge, or, as, it is called, enlightenment, continually increases. - -_Tristano_. Assuredly. Although I observe that the desire of knowledge -grows in proportion as the appreciation for study diminishes. And, -astonishing to say, if you count up the number of truly learned men who -lived contemporaneously a hundred and fifty years ago, or even later, -you will find them incomparably more numerous than at present. It may -perhaps be said that learned people are rare nowadays because knowledge -is more universally disseminated, instead of being confined to the -heads of a few; and that the multitude of educated people compensate -for the rarity of learned people. But knowledge is not like riches, -which whether divided or accumulated, always make the same total. In a -country where every one knows a little, the total knowledge is small; -because knowledge begets knowledge, but will not bear dispersion. -For superficial instruction cannot indeed be divided amongst many, -though it may be common to many unlearned men. Genuine knowledge -belongs only to the learned, and depth in knowledge to the few that -are very learned. And, with rare exceptions, only the man who is very -learned, and possessed of an immense fund of knowledge, is able to add -materially to the sum of human science. Now, in the present time, it is -daily more difficult to discover a really learned man, save perhaps in -Germany, where science is not yet dethroned. - -I utter these reflections simply for the sake of a little talk and -philosophising, not because I doubt for a single moment the truth of -what you say. Indeed, were I to see the world quite full of ignorant -impostors on the one hand, and presumptuous fools on the other, I -should still hold to my present belief that knowledge and enlightenment -are on the increase. - -_Friend_. Of course, then, you believe that this century is superior to -all the preceding ones? - -_Tristano_. Decidedly. All the centuries have had this opinion of -themselves; even those of the most barbarous ages. The present century -thinks so, and I agree with it. But if you asked me in what it is -superior to the others, and whether in things pertaining to the body or -the mind, I should refer you to what I said just now on the subject of -progress. - -_Friend_. In short, to sum it up in two words, do you agree with what -the journals say about nature, and human destiny? We are not now -talking of literature or politics, on which subjects their opinion is -indisputable. - -_Tristano_. Precisely. I bow before the profound philosophy of -the journals, which will in time supersede every other branch of -literature, and every serious and exacting study. The journals are the -guides and lights of the present age. Is it not so? - -_Friend_. Very true. Unless you are speaking ironically, you have -become one of us. - -_Tristano_. Yes. Certainly I have. - -_Friend_. Then what shall you do with your book? Will you allow it to -go down to posterity, conveying doctrines so contrary to the opinions -you now hold? - -_Tristano_. To posterity? Permit me to laugh, since you are no doubt -joking; if I thought otherwise, I should laugh all the more. For it -is not a personal matter, but one relating to the individuals and -individual things of the nineteenth century; about whom and which there -is no fear of the judgment of posterity, since they will know no more -about the matter than their ancestors knew. "Individuals are eclipsed -in the crowd," as our modern thinkers elegantly say; which means, that -the individual need not put himself to any inconvenience, because, -whatever his merit, he can neither hope for the miserable reward of -glory, in reality, nor in his dreams. - -Leave therefore the masses to themselves; although I would ask the -wiseacres who illumine the world in the present day, to explain how the -masses can do anything without the help of the individuals that compose -them. - -But to return to my book, and posterity. Books now are generally -written in less time than is necessary for reading them. Their worth is -proportioned to their cost, and their longevity to their value. It is -my opinion that the twentieth century will make a very clean sweep of -the immense bibliography of the nineteenth. Perhaps however it will say -something to this effect: "We have here whole libraries of books which -have cost some twenty, some thirty years of labour, and some less, but -all have required very great exertion; let us read these first, because -it is probable there is much to be learnt from them. These at an end, -we will pass to lighter literature." - -My friend, this is a puerile age, and the few men remaining are -obliged to hide themselves for very shame, resembling, as they do, -a well-formed man in a land of cripples. And these good youths of -the century are desirous of doing all that their ancestors did. Like -children they wish to act on the spur of the moment, without any -laborious preparation. They would like the progress of the age to be -such as to exempt them and their successors from all fatiguing study -and application in the acquirement of knowledge. For instance, a -commercial friend of mine told me the other day that even mediocrity -has become very rare. Scarcely any one is fit to fulfil properly the -duty which devolves upon him, either by necessity or choice. This -seems to me to mark the true distinction between this century and -the preceding ones. At all times greatness has been rare; but in -former centuries mediocrity prevailed, whereas in our century nullity -prevails. All people wish to be everything. Hence, there is such -confusion and riot, that no attention is paid to the few great men -who are still to be found, and who are unable to force a way through -the vast multitude of rivals. Thus, whilst the lowest people believe -themselves illustrious, obscurity and success in nothing is the common -fate both of the highest and lowest. - -But, long live statistics! Long live the sciences, economical, moral, -and political; the pocket encyclopÊdias; the manuals of everything; -and all the other fine creations of our age! And may the nineteenth -century live for ever! For though poor in results, it is yet very rich -and great in promise, which' is well known to be the best of signs. Let -us therefore console ourselves that for sixty-six[1] more years this -admirable century will have the talking to itself, and will be able to -utter its own opinions. - -_Friend_. You speak, it seems, somewhat ironically. But you ought at -least to remember that this is a century of transition. - -_Tristano_. What do you infer from that? All centuries have been, and -will be, more or less transitional; because human society is never -stationary, and will never at any time attain to a fixed condition. -It follows therefore that this fine word is either no excuse for the -nineteenth century, or is one common to all the centuries. It remains -to be seen whether the transition now in progress is from good to -better, or from bad to worse. - -But perhaps you mean to say that the present age is especially -transitional, inasmuch as it is a rapid passage from one state of -civilisation to another, absolutely different. In which case I would -ask your permission to laugh at this rapidity. Every transition -requires a certain amount of time, and when too rapidly accomplished, -invariably relapses, and the progress has to recommence from the -very beginning. Thus it has always been. For nature does not advance -by leaps; and when forced, no durable result is obtained. In short, -precipitous transitions are only apparent transitions, and do not -represent genuine progress. - -_Friend_. I advise you not to talk in this fashion with every one, -because if you do you will gain many enemies. - -_Tristano_. What does it matter? Henceforth, neither enemies nor -friends can do me much harm. - -_Friend_. Very probably you will be despised as one incapable of -comprehending the spirit of modern philosophy, and who cares little for -the progress of civilisation and the sciences. - -_Tristano_. I should be very sorry for that; but what can I do? If I am -despised, I will endeavour to console myself. - -_Friend_. But have you, or have you not, changed your opinions? And -what is to be done about your book? - -_Tristano_. It would be best to burn it. If it be not burnt, it may be -preserved as a book full of poetic dreams, inventions, and melancholy -caprices; or better, as an expression of the unhappiness of the writer. -Because, I will tell you in confidence, my dear friend, that I believe -you and every one else to be happy. As for myself, however, with your -permission, and that of the century, I am very unhappy, and all the -journals of both worlds cannot persuade me to the contrary. - -_Friend_. I do not know the cause of this unhappiness of which you -speak. But a man is the best judge of his own happiness or unhappiness, -and his opinion cannot be wrong. - -_Tristano_. Very true. And more, I tell you frankly that I do not -submit to my unhappiness, nor bow the head, and come to terms with -Destiny, like other men. I ardently wish for death above everything, -with such warmth and sincerity as I firmly believe few have desired it. - -I would not speak to you thus, if I were not sure that when the time -came I should not belie my words. I may add that although I do not -yet foresee the end of my life, I have an inward feeling that almost -assures me the hour of which I speak is not far distant. I am more -than ripe for death, and it seems to me too absurd and improbable, -that being dead spiritually, as I am, and the tale of my life being -told in every part, I should linger out the forty or fifty years with -which Nature threatens me. I am terrified at the mere thought of such -a thing. But, like all evils that exceed the power of imagination, -this seems to me a dream and illusion, devoid of truth. So that if any -one speaks to me about the distant future, as though I were to have a -part in it, I cannot help smiling to myself, so sure am I that I have -not long to live. This thought, I may say, alone supports me. Books -and studies, which I often wonder I ever loved, great designs, and -hopes of glory and immortality, are things now undeserving of even a -smile. Nor do I now laugh at the projects and hopes of this century. I -cordially wish them every possible success, and I praise, admire, and -sincerely honour their good intentions. But I do not envy posterity, -nor those who have still a long life before them. Formerly I used to -envy fools, imbeciles, and people with a high opinion of themselves, -and I would willingly have changed my lot with any one of them. Now, -I envy neither fools, nor the wise, the great, the small, the weak, -the powerful. I envy the dead, and with them alone would I exchange my -lot. Every pleasurable fancy, every thought of the future that comes -to me in my solitude, and with which I pass away the time, is allied -with the thought of death, from which it is inseparable. And in this -longing, neither the remembrance of my childish dreams, nor the thought -of having lived in vain, disturbs me any more as formerly. When death -comes to me, I shall die as peacefully and contentedly as if it were -the only thing for which I had ever wished in the world. This is the -sole prospect that reconciles me to Destiny. - -If, on the one hand, I were offered the fortune and fame of CÊsar or -Alexander, free from the least stain; and, on the other hand, death -to-day, I should unhesitatingly choose to die to-day. - - -[Footnote 1: Written in 1834.] - - - -THE END. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES *** - -***** This file should be named 52356-0.txt or 52356-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/3/5/52356/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Essays and Dialogues</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Giacomo Leopardi</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: Charles Edwardes</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: June 17, 2016 [eBook #52356]<br /> -[Most recently updated: January 19, 2021]</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Marc D'Hooghe</div> -<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> -<h1>ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES</h1> - -<h3>OF</h3> - -<h2>GIACOMO LEOPARDI.</h2> - -<h4><i>TRANSLATED</i></h4> - -<h4>BY</h4> - -<h4>CHARLES EDWARDES.</h4> - -<h4><i>With Biographical Sketch.</i></h4> - -<h5>LONDON:</h5> - -<h5>TRÜBNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL.</h5> - -<h5>1882.</h5> -<hr class="full" /> - - -<p style="font-size: 0.8em;"> -CONTENTS.<br /> -<br /> -<a href="#BIOGRAPHICAL_SKETCH">BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH</a> <span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_xii"> vii</a></span><br /> -<a href="#HISTORY_OF_THE_HUMAN_RACE">HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_1"> 1</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_HERCULES_AND_ATLAS">DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_15"> 15</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_FASHION_AND_DEATH">DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_19"> 19</a></span><br /> -<a href="#PRIZE_COMPETITION_ANNOUNCED_BY_THE_ACADEMY_OF_SILLOGRAPHS">PRIZE COMPETITION ANNOUNCED BY THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_24"> 24</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_A_GOBLIN_AND_A_GNOME">DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_28"> 28</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_MALAMBRUNO_AND_FARFARELLO">DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_33"> 33</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_NATURE_AND_A_SOUL">DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_36"> 36</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_THE_EARTH_AND_THE_MOON">DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_41"> 41</a></span><br /> -<a href="#THE_WAGER_OF_PROMETHEUS">THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_48"> 48</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_A_NATURAL_PHILOSOPHER_AND_A_METAPHYSICIAN">DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_58"> 58</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_TASSO_AND_HIS_FAMILIAR_SPIRIT1">DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_65"> 65</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_NATURE_AND_AN_ICELANDER">DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_73"> 73</a></span><br /> -<a href="#PARINI_ON_GLORY">PARINI ON GLORY.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_80"> 80</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_FREDERIC_RUYSCH_AND_HIS_MUMMIES">DIALOGUE BETWEEN FREDERIC RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></span><br /> -<a href="#REMARKABLE_SAYINGS_OF_PHILIP_OTTONIERI1">REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_117">117</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_CHRISTOPHER_COLUMBUS_AND_PIETRO_GUTIERREZ">DIALOGUE BETWEEN CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND PIETRO GUTIERREZ.</a><span class="linenum">139</span><br /> -<a href="#PANEGYRIC_OF_BIRDS">PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></span><br /> -<a href="#THE_SONG_OF_THE_WILD_COCK">THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_TIMANDRO_AND_ELEANDRO">DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></span><br /> -<a href="#COPERNICUS">COPERNICUS:</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_167">167</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_AN_ALMANAC_SELLER_AND_A_PASSER-BY">DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_179">179</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_PLOTINUS_AND_PORPHYRIUS">DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></span><br /> -<a href="#COMPARISON_OF_THE_LAST_WORDS_OF_MARCUS_BRUTUS_AND_THEOPHRASTUS">COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF MARCUS BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_196">196</a></span><br /> -<a href="#DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_TRISTANO_AND_A_FRIEND">DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND.</a><span class="linenum"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></span><br /> -</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<h4><a id="BIOGRAPHICAL_SKETCH"></a>BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.</h4> - -<blockquote> -<p>"Manure with Despair, but let it be genuine, and you will have a noble -harvest."—<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">RAHEL.</span></p> - -</blockquote> -<p>The name of Giacomo Leopardi is not yet a household word in the mouths -of Englishmen. Few of us have heard of him; still fewer have read -any of his writings. If known at all, he is probably coupled, in a -semi-contemptuous manner, with other foreign representatives of a phase -of poetic thought, the influence of which has passed its zenith. As -a contemporary of Byron, Leopardi is perhaps credited with a certain -amount of psychological plagiarism, and possibly disregarded as a mere -satellite of the greater planet. But if this be so, it is unjust. His -fame is his own, and time makes his isolation and grand individuality -more and more prominent. What Byron and Shelley, Millevoye, Baudelaire -and Gautier, Heine and Platen, Pouchkine and Lermontoff, are to -England, France, Germany, and Russia respectively, Leopardi is, in a -measure, to Italy. But he is more than this. The jewel of his renown -is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span> triple-faceted. Philology, poetry, and philosophy were each in turn -cultivated by him, and he was of too brilliant an intellect not to -excel in them all. As a philologist he astonished Niebuhr and delighted -Creuzer; as a poet he has been compared with Dante; as a philosopher -he takes high rank among the greatest and most original men of modern -times. One of his biographers (Dovari: "Studio di G. Leopardi," Ancona, -1877) has termed him "the greatest philosopher, poet, and prose-writer -of the nineteenth century." Though such eulogy may be, and doubtless -is, excessive, the fact that it has been given testifies to the -extraordinary nature of the man who is its subject.</p> - -<p>In Germany and France, Leopardi is perhaps as well known and highly -appreciated as in Italy. His poems have been translated into the -languages of those countries; and in France, within the last year, two -more or less complete versions of his prose writings have appeared. -Biographies, reviews, and lighter notices of the celebrated Italian -are of repeated and increasing occurrence on the Continent. England, -however, knows little of him, and hitherto none of his writings have -been made accessible to the English reading public. The following brief -outline of his life may in part help to explain the peculiarly sombre -philosophical views which he held, and of which his works are chiefly -an elaboration.</p> - -<p>Giacomo Leopardi was born at Recanati, a small town about fifteen miles -from Ancona, on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span> 29th June 1798. He was of noble birth, equally on -the side of his father and mother. Provided with a tutor at an early -age, he soon left him far behind in knowledge; and when only eight -years old, he discarded the Greek grammar he had hitherto used, and -deliberately set himself the task of reading in chronological order the -Greek authors of his father's library. It was due to his own industry, -and his father's care, that later he acquired a perfect acquaintance -with classical literature. In 1810 he received his first tonsure, in -token of his dedication to the Church; but this early promise was not -destined to be fulfilled. Before he was eighteen years of age Leopardi -had attained recognised distinction for the amount and matter of his -erudition. The mere catalogue of his writings—chiefly philological—by -that time is of sufficient length to excite wonder, and their -nature is still more surprising. Latin commentaries and classical -annotations were apparently child's play to him. Writing in 1815 to -the Roman scholar Cancellieri, who had noticed one of these classical -productions, Leopardi says: "I see myself secured to posterity in -your writings.... Commerce with the learned is not only useful, but -necessary for me." He was only seventeen when he completed a task -which represented the sum of all his early study. This was an "Essay -on the Popular Errors of the Ancients," of considerable length (first -published posthumously), in the course of which he cites more than four -hundred authors, ancient and modern. A single extract will suffice to -show<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span> that his youthful powers of expression were as precocious as his -learning, though his judgment was doubtless at fault. He thus reviews -the wisdom of the Greeks:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"The philosophy of the ancients was the science of -differences; and their academies were the seats of confusion -and disorder. Aristotle condemned what Plato had taught. -Socrates mocked Antisthenes; and Zeno scandalised Epicurus. -Pythagoreans, Platonians, Peripatetics, Stoics, Cynics, -Epicureans, Sceptics, Cyrenaics, Megarics, Eclectics -scuffled with and ridiculed one another; while the truly -wise laughed at them all. The people, left to themselves -during this hubbub, were not idle, but laboured silently to -increase the vast mound of human errors."</p></blockquote> - -<p>He ends this Essay with a eulogy of the Christian religion: "To live -in the true Church is the only way to combat superstition." Shortly -afterwards, increasing knowledge, which Goethe has called "the -antipodes of faith," enabled him to perceive that Roman Catholicism, -the antidote which he then prescribed for superstition, was itself full -charged with the poison he sought to destroy.</p> - -<p>In 1817 Leopardi made acquaintance by letter with Pietro Giordani, one -of the leading literary men of the day, and a man of varied experience -and knowledge. In his first letter Leopardi opens his heart to his new -friend:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p>"I have very greatly, perhaps immoderately, yearned for glory ... I -burn with love for Italy, and thank Heaven that I am an Italian. If I -live, I will live for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span> literature; for aught else, I would not live if -I could."</p> -<p class="right">(21st March 1817.)</p></blockquote> - -<p>A month later, from the same source we are able to discern traces -of that characteristic of Leopardi's temperament which by certain -critics is thought to explain his philosophy. Writing to Giordani, -he expatiates on the discomforts of Recanati and its climate; and -proceeds:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Added to all this is the obstinate, black, and barbarous -melancholy which devours and destroys me, which is nourished -by study, and yet increases when I forego study. I have in -past times had much experience of that sweet sadness which -generates fine sentiments, and which, better than joy, may -be said to resemble the twilight; but my condition now is -like an eternal and horrible night. A poison saps my powers -of body and mind."—</p></blockquote> - -<p>In the same letter he gives his opinion on the relative nature of prose -and poetry.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Poetry requires infinite study and application, and its art -is so profound, that the more you advance in proficiency, so -much the further does perfection seem to recede.... To be a -good prose writer first, and a poet later, seems to me to be -contrary to nature, which first creates the poet, and then -by the cooling operation of age concedes the maturity and -tranquillity necessary for prose."</p> -<p class="right">(30th April 1817.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>The correspondence between Leopardi and Giordani lasted for five years, -and it is from their published letters that we are able to form the -best possible estimate of Leopardi's character and aspirations. His own -letters serve as the index of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</a></span> his physical and mental state. In them -we trace the gradual failure of his health, the growth of sombreness -in his disposition, and the change which his religious convictions -underwent. During his twentieth year he suffered severely in mind and -body. Forced to lay aside his studies, he was constantly a prey to -ennui, with all its attendant discomforts. He thus writes to Giordani -of his condition, in August 1817:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"My ill-health makes me unhappy, because I am not a -philosopher who is careless of life, and because I am -compelled to stand aloof from my beloved studies.... Another -thing that makes me unhappy, is thought. I believe you know, -but I hope you have not experienced, how thought can crucify -and martyrise any one who thinks somewhat differently from -others. I have for a long time suffered such torments, -simply because thought has always had me entirely in its -power; and it will kill me unless I change my condition. -Solitude is not made for those who burn and are consumed in -themselves."</p> -<p class="right">(1st August 1817.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>His mental activity was numbed by his physical incapacity; the two -combined reduced him to a state of despair. There is a noble fortitude -in the following words of another letter addressed to Giordani:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I have for a long time firmly believed that I must die -within two or three years, because I have so ruined myself -by seven years of immoderate and incessant study.... I am -conscious that my life cannot be other than unhappy, yet I -am not frightened; and if I could in any way be useful, I -would endeavour to bear my condition without losing heart. -I have passed years so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[Pg xiii]</a></span> full of bitterness, that it seems -impossible for worse to succeed them; nevertheless I will -not despair even if my sufferings do increase ... I am born -for endurance."</p> -<p class="right">(2d March 1818.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Leopardi was now of age, and at the time of life when mans aspirations -are keenest. He had repeatedly tried to induce his father to let him go -forth into the world, and take his place in the school of intellect; -but all his endeavours were in vain. Though seconded by Giordani, who -some months before had become personally acquainted with his young -correspondent during a visit of a few days to Casa Leopardi, the Count -was resolute in refusing to grant his son permission to leave Recanati. -Giacomo, driven to desperation, conceived a plan by which he hoped to -fulfil his desire in spite of the paternal prohibition. The following -extract from the Count's diary furnishes the gist of the matter, and -also gives us some small insight into his own character:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Giacomo, wishing to leave the country, and seeing that I -was opposed to his doing so, thought to obtain my consent by -a trick. He requested Count Broglio to procure a passport -for Milan, so that I might be alarmed on hearing of it, -and thus let him go. I knew about it, because Solari wrote -unwittingly to Antici, wishing Giacomo a pleasant journey. I -immediately asked Broglio to send me the passport, which he -did with an accompanying letter. I showed all to my son, and -deposited the passport in an open cupboard, telling him he -could take it at his leisure. So all ended."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Thus the plot failed, and Giacomo was constrained to resign himself, -as best he could, to a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">[Pg xiv]</a></span> continuance of the "life worse than death" -which he lived in Recanati. Two letters written in anticipation of the -success of his scheme, one to his father, and the other to Carlo, his -brother, are of most painful interest. They suggest unfilial conduct -on his part, and unfatherly treatment of his son on the part of Count -Monaldo.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I am weary of prudence," he writes in the letter to Carlo, -"which serves only as a clog to the enjoyment of youth ... -How thankful I should be if the step I am taking might act -as a warning to our parents, as far as you and our brothers -are concerned! I heartily trust you will be less unhappy -than myself. I care little for the opinion of the world; -nevertheless, exonerate me if you have any opportunity of -doing so.... What am I? a mere good-for-nothing creature. -I realise this most intensely, and the knowledge of -it has determined me to take this step, to escape the -self-contemplation which so disgusts me. So long as I -possessed self-esteem I was prudent; but now that I despise -myself, I can only find relief by casting myself on fortune, -and seeking dangers, worthless thing that I am.... It were -better (humanly speaking) for my parents and myself that I -had never been born, or had died ere now. Farewell, dear -brother."</p></blockquote> - -<p>The letter to his father is in a different key. It is stern and severe, -and contains reproofs, direct and inferential, for his apparent -indifference to his sons' future prospects. Giacomo upbraids him with -intentional blindness to the necessities of his position as a youth of -generally acknowledged ability, for whom Recanati could offer no scope, -or chance of renown. He goes on to say:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[Pg xv]</a></span></p><blockquote> - -<p>"Now that the law has made me my own master, I have -determined to delay no longer in taking my destiny on my -own shoulders. I know that man's felicity consists in -contentment, and that I shall therefore have more chance -of happiness in begging my bread than through whatever -bodily comforts I may enjoy here.... I know that I shall be -deemed mad; and I also know that all great men have been -so regarded. And because the career of almost every great -genius has begun with despair, I am not disheartened at -the same commencement in mine. I would rather be unhappy -than insignificant, and suffer than endure tedium.... -Fathers usually have a better opinion of their sons than -other people; but you, on the contrary, judge no one so -unfavourably, and therefore never imagined we might be born -for greatness.... It has pleased Heaven, as a punishment, -to ordain that the only youths of this town with somewhat -loftier aspirations than the Recanatese should belong to -you, as a trial of patience, and that the only father who -would regard such sons as a misfortune should be ours."</p></blockquote> - -<p>The relationship between Giacomo and his parents has been a vexed -question with all his biographers, who, for the most part, are of the -opinion that they had little sympathy with him in the mental sufferings -he underwent. The Count has been called "despota sistematico" in the -administration of his household; and the most favourably disposed -writers have agreed to regard him as somewhat of a Roman father. But -there does not seem to be sufficient evidence to support the theory -that he was intentionally harsh and repressive to the extent of cruelty -in his treatment of his children. He was an Italian of the old school, -and as such his conduct was probably different from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[Pg xvi]</a></span> that of more -modern Italian fathers; but that was all.</p> - -<p>In 1819, when his whole being was in a turmoil of disquiet, Leopardi -made his début as a poet, with two Odes—the one addressed to Italy, -and the other on the monument to Dante, then recently erected in -Florence. The following literal translation of the first stanza of the -Ode to Italy gives but a faint echo of the original verse:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"O my country, I see the walls and arches, the columns, -the statues, and the deserted towers of our ancestors; but -their glory I see not, nor do I see the laurel and the iron -which girt our forefathers. To-day, unarmed, thou showest a -naked brow and naked breast. Alas! how thou art wounded! How -pale thou art, and bleeding! That I should see thee thus! -O queen of beauty! I call on heaven and earth, and ask who -thus has humbled thee. And as a crowning ill, her arms are -weighed with chains; her hair dishevelled and unveiled; and -on the ground she sits disconsolate and neglected, her face -hid in her knees, and weeping. Weep, Italia mine, for thou -hast cause, since thou wert born to conquer 'neath Fortune's -smiles and frowns.</p></blockquote> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;" > -O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archi<br /> -E le colonne e i simulacri e l' erme<br /> -Torri degli avi nostri,<br /> -Ma la gloria non vedo,<br /> -Non vedo il lauro e il ferro ond' eran carchi<br /> -I nostri padri antichi. Or fatta inerme,<br /> -Nuda la fronte e nudo il petto mostri.<br /> -Oimè quante ferite,<br /> -Che lividor, che sangue! oh qual ti veggio,<br /> -Formosissima donna! Io chiedo al cielo,<br /> -E al mondo: dite, dite:<br /> -Chi la ridusse a tale? E questo è peggio,<br /> -Che di catene ha carene ambe le braccia.<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii">[Pg xvii]</a></span>Si che sparte le chiome e senza velo<br /> -Siede in terra negletta e sconsolata,<br /> -Nascondendo la faccia<br /> -Tra le ginocchia, e piange.<br /> -Piangi, che ben hai donde, Italia mia,<br /> -Le genti a vincer nata<br /> -Et nella fausta sorte e nella ria."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="p2">These odes, which represent the first fruits of his muse, ring with -enthusiasm. They are the expression of a soul fired with its own flame, -which serves to illumine and vivify a theme then only too real in his -country's experience, the sufferings of Italy. Patriotism pervades -his earliest verse; sadness and hopelessness that of later times. For -these two odes Giordani bestowed unsparing eulogy on his young protégé. -Before their appearance he had begun to regard Leopardi as the rising -genius of Italy, and had not hesitated to say to him, "Inveni hominem!" -Now, however, his admiration was unbounded; he thus apostrophised him: -"O nobilissima, e altissima, e fortissima anima!" He referred to the -reception of his poems at Piacenza in these terms: "They speak of you -as a god."</p> - -<p>In 1822 Leopardi first left home. Repeatedly, year after year, he -had besought his father to permit him to see something of the world. -He longed to associate with the men who represented the intellect of -his country. With his own fellow-townsmen he had little sympathy, and -they on their part regarded him as a phenomenon, eccentric rather than -remarkable. They gave him the titles of "little pedant," "philosopher," -"hermit," &c., in half ironical appreciation of his learning. As<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xviii" id="Page_xviii">[Pg xviii]</a></span> he -was naturally very sensitive, these petty vexations became intensified -to him, and were doubtless one of the chief reasons of his unfailing -dislike for his native place. In one of his essays, that of "Parini -on Glory," we discover a reference to Leopardi's life at Recanati, -which place is really identical with the Bosisio of the essay. Yet the -prophet who is not a prophet in his own country when living, seldom -fails of recognition after death. A statue is now raised to Leopardi -in the place that refused to honour him in life. The appreciative -recognition he failed to attract in Recanati, he hoped to obtain at -Rome. But Count Monaldo, his father, long maintained his resistance to -his son's wishes. Himself of a comparatively unaspiring mind, content -with the fame he could acquire in his own province, he saw no necessity -why his son should be more ambitious. Probably also his paternal love -made him fearful of the dangers of the world, to which his son would -be exposed. Of these hazards he knew nothing from experience; and -they were doubtless magnified to him by his imagination. Yet, though -naturally a man rather deficient in character than otherwise, Count -Monaldo was, as we have seen, in his own household, a stern not to -say unreasonable disciplinarian. Only after repeated solicitations -from his son, and remonstrances from his friends, did he give Giacomo -the desired permission, chiefly in the hope that at Rome he might be -induced to enter the Church, towards which he had latterly manifested -some signs of repugnance. The five months<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xix" id="Page_xix">[Pg xix]</a></span> spent by Leopardi in Rome -sufficed to disenchant him of his ideas of the world of life. A day or -two after his arrival he writes to Carlo his brother:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I do not derive the least pleasure from the great things I -see, because I know that they are wonderful, without feeling -that they are so. I assure you their multitude and grandeur -wearied me the first day."</p> -<p class="right">(25th November 1822.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Again, to Paulina his sister: "The world is not beautiful; rather it is -insupportable, unless seen from a distance."</p> - -<p>Ever prone to regard the real through the medium of the ideal, he was -bitterly disappointed with his first experience of men. The scholar, -whom he was prepared to revere, proved on acquaintance to be—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"a blockhead, a torrent of small talk, the most wearisome -and afflicting man on earth. He talks about the merest -trifles with the deepest interest, of the greatest things -with an infinite imperturbability. He drowns you in -compliments and exaggerated praises, and does both in so -freezing a manner, and with such nonchalance, that to hear -him one would think an extraordinary man the most ordinary -thing in the world."</p> -<p class="right">(25th November 1822.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>The stupidest Recanatese he termed wiser and more sensible than the -wisest Roman. Again, to his father he complains of the superficiality -of the so-called scholars of Rome.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"They all strive to reach immortality in a coach, as bad -Christians would fain enter Paradise. According to them, the -sum of human wisdom, indeed the only true science of man, -is antiquity. Hitherto I have not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xx" id="Page_xx">[Pg xx]</a></span> encountered a lettered -Eoman who understands the term literature as meaning -anything except archæology. Philosophy, ethics, politics, -eloquence, poetry, philology, are unknown things in Rome, -and are regarded as childish playthings compared to the -discovery of some bit of copper or stone of the time of Mark -Antony or Agrippa. The best of it is that one cannot find -a single Eoman who really knows Latin or Greek; without a -perfect acquaintance with which languages, it is clear that -antiquity Cannot be Studied."</p> -<p class="right">(9th December 1822.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>He was disheartened by the depraved condition of Roman literature. -Everywhere he saw merit disregarded or trodden under foot. The city was -full of professional poets and poetesses, and literary cliques formed -for the purpose of the self-laudation of their members. Illustrious -names of the past were insulted by the pseudo-great men of the day, -whose fame was founded on writings of the most contemptible nature. -These circumstances made Leopardi confess, in a letter to his brother, -that had he not</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"the harbour of posterity, and the conviction that in time -all would take its proper place (illusory hope, but the -only, and most necessary one for the true scholar),"</p> -<p class="right">(16th December 1822.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>he would abandon literature once for all. But it was only during -moments of depression that such words as these escaped him. He -loved study for its own sake; fame was, after all, but a secondary -consideration. Nor were men of genuine worth entirely wanting in Rome. -Niebuhr, then Prussian ambassador at the Papal Court, Reinhold, the -Dutch ambassador, Mai, subsequently a cardinal, were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxi" id="Page_xxi">[Pg xxi]</a></span> noble exceptions -to the general inferiority. By them Leopardi was highly esteemed. -Niebuhr especially was profoundly struck with his genius. "I have at -last seen a modern Italian worthy of the old Italians and the ancient -Romans," was his remark to De Bunsen after his first interview with the -young scholar. Both he and De Bunsen became firm friends with Leopardi. -They endeavoured their utmost to procure for him some official -appointment from Cardinal Consalvi, then Secretary of State, and his -successor; but owing to the intrigues, prejudices, and disturbances of -the Papal Court they were unable to effect anything on his behalf. It -was an unfulfilled intention of De Bunsen's, later in life, to write -a memoir of Leopardi, for whom he always felt the highest esteem and -admiration.</p> - -<p>Count Monaldo's wish that his son should become an ecclesiastic was -never realised. Leopardi was of too honest a nature to profess what was -not in accordance with his convictions. The secular employment that he -sought, he could not obtain, so perforce he seems to have turned his -mind towards literary work—the drudgery of letters as distinct from -the free, untrammelled pursuit of literature. He obtained the charge -of cataloguing the Greek manuscripts of the Barberine Library, and his -spirits rose in anticipation of some discovery he hoped to make which -might render him famous. "In due time we will astonish the world," he -writes to his father. He was indeed successful in finding a fragment -of Libanius hitherto<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxii" id="Page_xxii">[Pg xxii]</a></span> unpublished; but the glory seems to have been -stolen from him, since the manuscript was ushered forth to the world by -alien hands. Poor Leopardi! all his hopes seemed destined to be proved -illusive. It was time for him to leave a place that could furnish him -with no other pleasure than that of tears. "I visited Tasso's grave, -and wept there. This is the first and only pleasure I have experienced -in Rome" (Letter to Carlo, February 15, 1823). Already he had begun -to steel himself to the shocks of fortune; suffering and misfortune -he could bear; mental agony and despair were too strong for him. In a -long letter to his sister Paulina, he tries to impart to her a little -of the philosophy of Stoicism which he had taken to himself. She was -distressed about the rupture of a matrimonial arrangement contracted -by the Count between her and a certain Roman gentleman of position and -fortune. Leopardi thus consoles her:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Hope is a very wild passion, because it necessarily carries -with it very great fear.... I assure you, I Paolina mia,' -that unless we can acquire a little indifference towards -ourselves, life is scarcely possible, much less can it be -happy. You must resign yourself to fortune, and not hope too -deeply.... I recommend this philosophy to you, because I -think you resemble me in mind and disposition."</p> -<p class="right">(19th April 1823.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Four years later Leopardi confesses the insufficiency of his own -remedies. Writing to Dr. Puccinotti in 1827, he says:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I am weary of life, and weary of the philosophy of -indifference which is the only cure for misfortune and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxiii" id="Page_xxiii">[Pg xxiii]</a></span> -ennui, but which at length becomes an ennui itself. I look -and hope for nothing but death."</p> -<p class="right">(16th August 1827.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>In May 1823, he left Rome, and returned to Recanati.</p> - -<p>The succeeding ten years of Leopardi's life were, during his intervals -of health, devoted to poetry and literature. He had passed the Rubicon -of his hopes; henceforth he studied to expound to the world the -uselessness of its own anticipations, and its essential unhappiness. -His bodily infirmities increased with years. His frame, naturally -weak, suffered from the effects of early over-application; his eyes -and nerves were a constant trouble to him. To obtain what relief was -possible from change of air, and to remove himself from Recanati, -which he detested increasingly, Leopardi went to Bologna, Florence, -Milan, and Pisa, wintering now at one place, now at another. From -family reasons, his father was unable to supply him with sufficient -money to secure his independence. Consequently he was obliged to -turn to literature for a livelihood. The publisher Stella, of Milan, -willingly engaged his services, and for several years Leopardi was -in receipt of a small but regular payment for his literary labours. -He compiled Chrestomathies of Italian prose and poetry, and made -numerous fragmentary translations from the classics. A commentary on -Petrarch, to which he devoted much time and care, is, in the words -of Sainte-Beuve, "the best possible guide through such a charming -labyrinth." As he said of himself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxiv" id="Page_xxiv">[Pg xxiv]</a></span> "mediocrity is not for me," so in -all that he undertook the mark of his genius appeared. At Florence -Leopardi was honoured by the representatives of Italian literature and -culture, who there formed a brilliant coterie. Colletta was desirous -of his co-operation in the "History of Naples," with which he was -occupying the last years of his life. The "Antologia" and "Nuove -Ricoglitore" reviews were open to contributions from his pen. Giordani, -Niccolini, Capponi, and Gioberti, amongst others, welcomed him with -open arms. To these his Tuscan friends he dedicated his "Canti" in -1830, with the following touching letter:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">"MY DEAR FRIENDS</span>,—Accept the dedication of this book. -Herein I have striven, as is often done in poetry, to hallow -my sufferings. This is my farewell (I cannot but weep in -saying it) to literature and studies. Once I hoped these -dear resources would have been the support of my old age: -pleasures of childhood and youth might vanish, I thought, -and their loss would be supportable if I were thus cherished -and strengthened. But ere I was twenty years of age, my -physical infirmities deprived me of half my powers; my life -was taken, yet death was not bestowed on me. Eight years -later I became totally incapacitated; this, it seems, will -be my future state. Even to read these letters you know -that I make use of other eyes than mine. Dear friends, my -sufferings are incapable of increase; already my misfortune -is too great for tears. I have lost everything, and am but a -trunk that feels and suffers." ...</p></blockquote> - -<p>It is scarcely wonderful that, under such circumstances, his philosophy -should fail him. A code of ethics, however admirable intrinsically, has -but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxv" id="Page_xxv">[Pg xxv]</a></span> cold consolation to offer to one whose life is prolonged pain. -Leopardi at one time allowed the idea of suicide to rest, and almost -take root, in his mind. He describes the incident: "A great desire -comes into my mind to terminate once for all these wretched years of -mine, and to make myself more completely motionless." But he was of a -nature noble and strong enough to resist such temptation.</p> - -<p>He left Recanati for the last time in 1830. The next two years were -passed in Florence, Rome, and Pisa. Whilst in Rome, Leopardi received -substantial proof of his fame in being elected an Academician of the -Crusca. At length the doctors recommended him to try Naples, from the -mild air and general salubrity of which place they anticipated much -improvement in his condition. Thither he went in company with a young -friend, Antonio Ranieri, whose acquaintance he had made in Florence. -In the house of Ranieri he stayed from 1833 until his death in 1837, -tended by him and his sister Paulina (his <i>second</i> Paulina, as he used -to call her) with a devotedness and affection as rare as it was noble. -Posterity will couple together the names of Ranieri and Leopardi as -naturally as we associate together those of Severn and Keats. All that -could be done for the unfortunate poet, Ranieri did. His condition was -a singular one. Before he left Florence for Naples, the doctor said of -him that his frame did not possess sufficient vitality to generate a -mortal illness; yet he was seldom, if ever, free from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxvi" id="Page_xxvi">[Pg xxvi]</a></span> suffering. He -died on the 14th June 1837, as he and his friend were on the point of -setting out from Naples to a little villa that Ranieri possessed on one -of the slopes of Vesuvius. On the night of the 15th he was buried, in -the church of St. Vitale, near the reputed grave of Virgil. His tomb is -marked by a stone erected at the expense of Ranieri, bearing the signs -of the cross, and the owl of Minerva, together with an inscription from -the pen of Giordani. The few following lines from his own verse would -form a suitable epitaph for one whose life was spent in bodily and -mental disquietude:—</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%;"> -"O weary heart, for ever shalt thou rest<br /> -Henceforth. Perished is the great delusion<br /> -That I thought would ne'er have left me. Perished!<br /> -Nought now is left of all those dear deceits;<br /> -Desire is dead, and not a hope remains.<br /> -Rest then for ever. Thou hast throbbed enough;<br /> -Nothing here is worth such palpitations.<br /> -Our life is valueless, for it consists<br /> -Of nought but ennui, bitterness, and pain.<br /> -This world of clay deserveth not a sigh.<br /> -Now calm thyself; conceive thy last despair,<br /> -And wait for death, the only gift of Fate."<br /> -<br /> -(Poem "A Se Stesso.")<br /> -</p> - -<p>These words might have been an echo of Çâkyamuni's utterance beneath -the sacred fig-tree of Bôdhimanda, when, according to the legend, he -was in process of transformation from man to Buddha: the resemblance is -at any rate a remarkable one.</p> - -<p>In 1846, the Jesuits made an impudent attempt to convince the public -that Leopardi died<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxvii" id="Page_xxvii">[Pg xxvii]</a></span> repenting of his philosophical views, and that he -had previously expressed a desire to enter the Society of Jesus. A -long letter from a certain Francesco Scarpa to his Superior, giving -a number of pretended details of Leopardi's history, conversion, and -death, appeared in a Neapolitan publication, entitled "Science and -Faith." Ranieri came forward to show the entire falsity of these -statements; and to give a more authoritative denial to them, he engaged -the willing help of Vicenzo Gioberti. The latter in his "Modern Jesuit" -contested their truth in every respect. He said: "The story put forward -in this letter is a tissue of lies and deliberate inventions; it is -sheer romance from beginning to end." It is thought by some people -that Leopardi's father was concerned in this Jesuit manifesto. But, -although the Count was doubtless shocked beyond measure that his son -did not hold the same beliefs as himself, it is scarcely credible that -he should concoct a series of such absurdities as were contained in -Scarpa's letter.</p> - -<p>Leopardi anticipated that posterity, and even his contemporaries, would -endeavour to explain the pessimism of his philosophy by his personal -misfortunes and sufferings. Accordingly, in a letter to the philologist -Sinner, he entered a protest against such a supposition:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"However great my sufferings may have been, I do not seek -to diminish them by comforting myself with vain hopes, -and thoughts of a future and unknown happiness. This same -courage of my convictions has led me to a philosophy -of despair, which I do not hesitate to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxviii" id="Page_xxviii">[Pg xxviii]</a></span> accept. It is -the cowardice of men, who would fain regard existence -as something very valuable, that instigates them to -consider my philosophical opinions as the result of my -sufferings, and that makes them persist in charging to my -material circumstances that which is due to nothing but my -understanding. Before I die, I wish to make protest against -this imputation of weakness and trifling; and I would beg of -my readers to burn my writings rather than attribute them to -my sufferings."</p> -<p class="right">(24th May 1832.) -</p></blockquote> - -<p>Ranieri thus describes Leopardi's personal appearance:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"He was of middle height, inclined to stoop, and fragile; -his complexion was pale; his head was large, and his brow -expansive; his eyes were blue and languid; his nose was well -formed (slightly aquiline), and his other features were very -delicately chiselled; his voice was soft and rather weak; -and he had an ineffable and almost celestial smile."</p></blockquote> - -<p>His friend here scarcely even suggests what others have perhaps unduly -emphasised, that is, Leopardi's deformity. He was slightly humpbacked; -doubtless the consequence of those studies which simultaneously ruined -him and made him famous.</p> - -<p>It were an omission not to refer to the influence which love exerted -over Leopardi's life. So strong was this, in the opinion of one of his -critics, that he even ascribes his philosophy to an "infelicissimo -amore." Another writer says of him that "his ideal was a woman." -Ranieri asserts that he died unmarried, after having twice felt the -passion of love as violently as it was ever realised by any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxix" id="Page_xxix">[Pg xxix]</a></span> man. His -poems also testify how omnipotent at one time was this bitter-sweet -sensation.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I recall to mind the day when love first assaulted me; when -I said, Alas! if this be love, how it pains me!"</p> - -<p class="right">(The First Love.)</p></blockquote> - -<p>Again:</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"It was morning, the time when a light and sweeter sleep -presses our rested lids. The sun's first grey light began to -gleam across the balcony, through the closed windows into -my still darkened chamber. Then it was that I saw close by, -regarding me with fixed eyes, the phantom form of her who -first taught me to love, and left me Weeping."</p> -<p class="right">(The Dream.)</p></blockquote> - -<p>His poem to Aspasia is a frank confession of love, and the humiliation -he suffered in its rejection. It is a noble, yet a terrible poem. -Opening with a description of the scene that met his eye as he entered -the room where his charmer sat, "robed in the hue of the melancholy -violet, and surrounded by a wondrous luxury," pressing "tender and -burning kisses on the round lipsé" of her children, and displaying "her -snowy neck," he saw as it were "a new heaven, and a new earth, and the -lustre of a celestial light."</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Like a divine ray, O woman, thy beauty dazzled my thought. -Beauty is like such music as seems to open out to us an -unknown Elysium. He who loves is filled with the ecstasy -of the phantom love conceived by his imagination. In the -woman of his love he seeks to discover the beauties of -his inspired vision; in his words and actions he tries -to recognise the personality of his dreams. Thus when he -strains her to his bosom, it is not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxx" id="Page_xxx">[Pg xxx]</a></span> the woman, but the -phantom of his dream that he embraces."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Then comes the awakening. He vituperates the reality for not attaining -to the standard of his ideal.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Rarely the woman's nature is comparable with that of the -dream image. No thought like ours can dwell beneath those -narrow brows. Vain is the hope that man forges in the fire -of those sparkling eyes. He errs in seeking profound and -lofty thoughts in one who is by nature inferior to man in -all things. As her members are frailer and softer, so is her -mind more feeble and confined."</p></blockquote> - -<p>He betrays his position, and gives the key to his unjust censure of -woman's powers.</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"Now, boast thyself, for thou canst do so. Tell how thou art -the only one of thy sex to whom I have bent my proud head, -and offered my invincible heart. Tell how thou hast seen me -with beseeching brows, timid and trembling before thee (I -burn with indignation and shame in the avowal), watching -thy every sign and gesture, beside myself in adoration of -thee, and changing expression and colour at the slightest of -thy looks. The charm is broken; my yoke is on the ground, -sundered at a single blow." (Aspasia.)</p></blockquote> - -<p>Who were the real objects of Leopardi's affection, is not at all clear. -Certain village girls of Recanati, immortalised in his verse as Nerina -and Silvia, were the inspirers of his first love; but his brother Carlo -bears witness to the superficial nature of his affection in their -cases. They merely served as the awakeners of the sensation; his own -mind and imagination magnified it into a passion. True it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxi" id="Page_xxxi">[Pg xxxi]</a></span> that his -nature was one that yearned and craved for love in no ordinary degree. -When at Rome, isolated from his family, he wrote to Carlo: "Love me, -for God's sake. I need love, love, love, fire, enthusiasm, life." He -addressed similar demands to Giordani and others with whom he was -on the most intimate terms. Indeed we are tempted to conjectures as -to what might have been the fruit of Leopardi's life had he found a -helpmate and a consoler in his troubles.</p> - -<p>A brief consideration of the general nature of Leopardi's poetry and -prose may not be out of place in this short summary.</p> - -<p>His poems are masterpieces of conception and execution. Their matter -may be open to criticism; but their manner is beyond praise. His odes -are of the nobler kind. Full of fire and vigour, they reach the sublime -where he stimulates his fellow-countrymen to action, and urges them -to aspire to a freedom, happily now obtained. His elegies breathe out -an inspired sorrow. They are the pro-duct of a mind filled with the -sense of the misery that abounds on earth, and unable, though desirous, -to discern a single ray of light in the gloom of existence. His -lyrical pieces are the most beautiful and emotional of his poems. The -following, entitled "The Setting of the Moon," though pervaded with the -spirit of sadness that is so predominant a characteristic of Leopardi's -verse, contains some charming imagery:—</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxii" id="Page_xxxii">[Pg xxxii]</a></span></p><blockquote> - -<p>"As in the lonely night, over the silvered fields and the -waters where the zephyrs play, where the far-off shades take -a thousand vague appearances and deceitful forms, amid the -tranquil waves, the foliage and the hedges, the hill-slopes -and the villages, the moon arrived at heaven's boundary -descends behind the Alps and Apennines into the infinite -bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea; whilst the world grows pale, -and the shadows disappear, and a mantle of darkness shrouds -the valley and the hills; night alone remains, and the -carter singing on his way salutes with a sad melody the last -reflection of that fleeing light which hitherto had led his -steps: So vanishes our youth, and leaves us solitary with -life. So flee away the shadows which veiled illusive joys; -and so die too the distant hopes on which our mortal nature -rested. Life is left desolate and dark, and the traveller, -trying to pierce the gloom, looks here and there, but seeks -in vain to know the way, or what the journey yet before him; -he sees that all on earth is strange, and he a stranger -dwelling there.... You little hills and strands, when falls -the light which silvers in the west the veil of night, shall -not for long be orphaned. On the other side of heaven the -first grey light of dawn shall soon be followed by the sun, -whose fiery rays shall flood you and the ethereal fields -with a luminous stream. But mortal life, when cherished -youth has gone, has no new dawn, nor ever gains new light; -widowed to the end it stays, and on life's other shore, made -dark by night, the gods have set the tomb's dark seal."</p></blockquote> - -<p>In his interpretation of nature he is literal, but withal truly poetic: -he worships her in the concrete, but vituperates her in the abstract, -as representative to him of omnipresent Deity, creative, but also -destructive. The two or three poems that may be termed satirical, -are at the same time half elegiac. In them he ridicules and censures -the folly of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxiii" id="Page_xxxiii">[Pg xxxiii]</a></span> contemporaries, and mourns over the mystery of -things. To these, however, there is one exception, the longest of all -his poems. This is known as the "Continuation of the Battle of the -Frogs and Mice," It consists of eight cantos, comprising about three -thousand lines, and was first published posthumously. The abruptness -of its ending gives the idea, erroneous or not, of incompleteness. -Leopardi had, several years before, translated and versified Homer's -"Batrachomyomachia," and this satire takes up the story where Homer -ends. It is exclusively a ridicule of the times, with especial -reference to his own country and her national enemy, Austria. In style -and treatment it has been compared with Byron's "Don Juan," from which, -however, it totally differs in its intrinsic character. It abounds in -beauties of description, sentiment, and expression, and well deserves -to be considered his <i>chef d'oeuvre</i>. Leopardi thus describes his -method of poetic composition:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>"I compose only when under an inspiration, yielding to -which, in two minutes, I have designed and organised -the poem. This done, I wait for a recurrence of such -inspiration, which seldom happens until several weeks have -elapsed. Then I set to work at composition, bub so slowly -that I cannot complete a poem, however short, in less than -two or three weeks. Such is my method; without inspiration -it were easier to draw water from a stone than a single -verse from my brain."</p></blockquote> - -<p>Leopardi's reputation was firmly established by the appearance of his -"Operette morali," as his prose writings were termed. Monti classed -them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxiv" id="Page_xxxiv">[Pg xxxiv]</a></span> as the best Italian prose compositions of the century. Gioberti -compared them to the writing of Machiavelli. Giordani, with his usual -tendency to extravagance, gives his friend the following pompous -panegyric:—"His style possesses the conciseness of Speroni, the -grandiloquence of Tasso, the smoothness of Paruta, the purity of Gelli, -the wit of Firenzuola, the solidity and magnificence of Pallavicino, -the imagination of Plato, and the elegance of Cicero." Leopardi has -been aptly termed an aristocrat in his writing. Too much of a reasoner -to be very popular with the masses, who do not care for the exertion of -sustained thought, his logic is strikingly clear to the intelligent. -His periods are occasionally as long as those of Machiavelli or -Guicciardini, but their continuity and signification are never obscure. -Ranieri bears witness to the fact that his prose was the fruit of very -great labour.</p> - -<p>The subject and tendency of Leopardi's writings will be evident to -the reader of the following dialogues. Framed on the model of Lucian, -they will compare favourably with the writings of the Greek satirist -in subtlety and wit, in spite of their sombre tone. They cannot be -said to possess much originality, save in treatment. The subjects -discussed, and even the arguments introduced, are mostly old. Every -acute moraliser since the world began has, in more or less degree -commensurate with his ability, debated within himself the problems -here considered. Facts, beliefs, opinions, theories, may be marshalled -to produce<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxv" id="Page_xxxv">[Pg xxxv]</a></span> an infinite number of diverse harmonies; but no one such -combination formed by the mind of man may be put forward as the true -and ultimate explanation of the mystery of life. Leibnitz, with his -harmony of universal good, is as fallible as Leopardi or Schopenhauer -with their harmonies of evil. In either case the real is sacrificed -to the ideal, whether of good or evil. Either from temperament or -circumstances, these philosophers were predisposed to give judgment on -life, favourably or adversely, without duly considering the attributes -of existence. As M. Dapples, in his French version of Leopardi, has -remarked, he early withdrew from actual life, <i>i.e.</i>, life with all -those manifold sensations which he himself defines to be the only -constituents of pleasure in existence. His body proved little else than -the sensation of suffering. All his vitality was concentrated in his -mind; so that he was scarcely a competent and impartial judge of the -ordinary pleasures and ills of life. He could not be otherwise than -prejudiced by his own experiences, or rather lack of experiences. Yet, -though Leopardi was physically incapable of many of life's pleasures, -he none the less passionately yearned for them. Strength and desire -struggled within him, and the former only too frequently proved weaker -than the latter. Thus he was innately adapted for pessimism.</p> - -<p>We consider Leopardi to have been a man of the grandest intellectual -powers, capable originally of almost anything to which the human mind -could attain; but that his reason, later in life, became<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxvi" id="Page_xxxvi">[Pg xxxvi]</a></span> somewhat -perverted by his sufferings. Were human life as absolutely miserable -a thing as he represents it to be, it would be insupportable. That -he should so regard it does not seem remarkable when we consider his -circumstances; he was poor, seldom free from pain, and unsupported by -a creed. For the sufferings of his life, he could see no shadow of -atonement or compensation: a future state was incomprehensible to him. -He bestows much gratuitous pity on the human race, which we, though -revering his genius, may return to him as more deserving of it than -ourselves. His heart was naturally full of the most lively affection; -but he could never sufficiently satisfy the yearnings of his nature. -Like Ottonieri, whose portrait is his own to a great extent, his -instincts were noble; like him also he died without effecting much in -proportion to his powers.</p> - -<p>The conclusions of Leopardi's philosophy may be thus summed up. The -universe is an enigma, totally insoluble. The sufferings of mankind -exceed all good that men experience, estimating the latter in -compensation for the former. Progress, or, as we call it, civilisation, -instead of lightening man's sufferings, increases them; since it -enlarges his capacity for suffering, without proportionately augmenting -his means of enjoyment.</p> - -<p>How far are these conclusions refutable? It may be regarded as -indubitable that the first two cannot be refuted without the aid -of revelation. Science is incompetent to explain the "why" and the -"wherefore" of the universe; it is yet groping to discover<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxvii" id="Page_xxxvii">[Pg xxxvii]</a></span> the "how." -Still less can any satisfactory explanation be given of the purpose -for which suffering exists, unless we rely on revelation. Religion, -which modern philosophers somewhat contemptuously designate as "popular -metaphysics," can alone afford an explanation of these problems. -Çâkyamuni, nearly 2500 years ago, asked, "What is the cause of all the -miseries and sufferings with which man is afflicted?" He himself gave -what he considered to be the correct answer: "Existence;" and then he -traced existence to the passions and desires innate in man. These last -were to be conquered in the condition of insensibility to all material -things called "Nirvana," Truly his remedy was a radical one, and had -he succeeded in procuring universal acceptance for his doctrines, the -human race would have become extinct a few generations later than his -own time. But "Nirvana" is unnatural if it be nothing else; unnatural -in itself and in the steps that lead up to it. And although it is -due to Schopenhauer, and his more or less heterodox disciples, that -this Buddhistic dogma is regarded theoretically by some people with a -certain amount of favour, we think the instincts of life are strong -enough within them all to resist any decided inclination on their part -to carry it into effect.</p> - -<p>As for the third conclusion, it must be admitted that man's -susceptibilities of suffering are enlarged with increasing culture. -Leopardi has shown us that the more vividly we realise the evils that -surround and affect us, so much the more keenly do they arouse in us -sensations of pain. Knowledge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxviii" id="Page_xxxviii">[Pg xxxviii]</a></span> of them makes us suffer from them. The -bliss of ignorance is rudely dispelled by the cold hand of science. But -must this necessarily continue? May not the same progress which exposes -the wound find the salve to heal it? We trust and think so, in spite -of all assertions to the contrary. There is nothing in the near future -of humanity that need alarm us: men will not work less because they -think more; nor is there any sufficient reason to show that increasing -knowledge must represent increasing sorrow. As Johnson has said: -"The cure for the greatest part of human miseries is not radical but -palliative." For the material means of palliation we look to science. -We hope and think that there is good to be gained from these writings -of Leopardi, in spite of the tone of despair that rings throughout -them. His theory of the "infelicità" of things, cheerless though it -be, often suggests ideas, sublime in themselves and noble in their -effect; and the very essence of his philosophy resolves itself into a -recommendation to act, rather than by contemplation to lose the power -of action; for, as he says, "A life must be active and vigorous, else -it is not true life, and death is preferable to it."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxix" id="Page_xxxix">[Pg xxxix]</a></span></p> - -<p>A brief reference to the most recent publications on Leopardi may be -interesting as tending to throw light on his domestic relationships, -and as giving us an idea of his own habits in private life. Antonio -Ranieri (now in his seventy-sixth year) in a book<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> published at -Naples in 1880 gives many interesting details of the poet's life. -He first met him at Florence, and was touched with compassion for -his unfortunate state. Ill and helpless, he was incapable of doing -anything but weep in despair at the thought of being obliged to return -to his native place. "Recanati and death are to me one and the same -thing," he exclaimed through his tears. Ranieri in a generous moment -replied: "Leopardi, you shall not return to Recanati. The little that -I possess is enough for two. As a benefit to me, not to yourself, we -will henceforth live together." This was the beginning of what Ranieri -calls his "vita nuova." He conducted Leopardi from Florence to Rome; -thence back to Florence; and finally from Florence to Naples. The -doctors everywhere shrugged their shoulders at his case, and suggested, -as delicately as possible, the mortal nature of his maladies. At Naples -Ranieri and his sister Paulina did all they could for Leopardi, and -from 1833 to his death in 1837 supplied all his wants. He could seldom -see to read or write. "We used to read to him constantly and regularly, -and were fortunately conversant with the languages he knew," says -Ranieri. Occasionally he was able to go to the theatre, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xl" id="Page_xl">[Pg xl]</a></span> enjoyed -it greatly. In his habits he seems to have tried his friend's temper -and patience considerably. He was wont to turn night into day, and -day into night. Ranieri and his sister often did the same in order to -read, work, and talk with him. He breakfasted between three and five -o'clock in the afternoon, and dined about midnight. Like Schopenhauer, -he delighted in after-dinner conversation, which he termed "one of -the greatest pleasures of life." He was very obstinate in personal -matters, disobeying the doctors in his diet and everything else. His -fondness for his old clothes was remarkable; he loved them for their -associations. Ranieri mentions "a certain very ancient overcoat which -for seven years" had tormented him, and which he used to entreat -Leopardi to lay aside, but which he clung to with an incredible -affection, preferring it to a new one that he allowed the moths to -destroy. The mere names of wind, cold, and snow were enough to pale -him. He could not bear fire, and formerly used to pass the winters -three parts submerged in a sack of feathers, reading and writing thus -the greater part of the day. He was very terrified when the cholera -appeared at Naples, to avoid which he and Ranieri went to a country -house of the latter's on one of the slopes of Vesuvius. Here Leopardi -wrote his poem "La Ginestra," inspired by the desolate scenes at the -foot of the mountain. He died suddenly at Naples, as he and Ranieri's -household were about to set off again for the country. The Neapolitan -Journal "Il Progresso,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xli" id="Page_xli">[Pg xli]</a></span> in an article on Lis death, remarked of him -that "such brilliancy is not allowed to illumine the earth for long."</p> - -<p>"Notes Biographiques sur Leopardi et sa Famille" (Paris, 1881). This -is a book of considerable value. Written by the widow of Count Carlo -Leopardi, Giacomo's younger brother, and his "other self," it is -most valuable as delineating the characters of Leopardi's father and -mother. A softer light is shed on the character of Leopardi's mother. -We learn that she was not passionless, hard, and unsympathetic, as we -had previously supposed her to be. On the contrary, she was a good -woman, of deep affection, who made it the aim of her married life -to work for the welfare of the family of which she became a member. -Weighted with debt almost to the point of exhaustion, the estates of -Casa Leopardi needed a skilful and vigorous administrator, if they were -to continue in the hands of their old owners. Count Monaldo Leopardi -was not such an administrator. He was a man devoted "tout entier à -science," and occupying himself more with bibliology and archæology -than with the finances of his estate. The Jews of Perousa, Milan, and -the March towns would, sooner or later, have tightened their hold on -the Leopardi patrimony to such a degree that the ancient family could -only have continued to exist as proprietors on sufferance. But, in the -words of the authoress of this book, Providence watched over the house -"en lui envoyant dans la jeune marquise Adelaide Antici l'ange qui<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xlii" id="Page_xlii">[Pg xlii]</a></span> -devait la sauver." The young bride accepted her position with an entire -knowledge of the responsibilities that would accompany it. She took -the reins of the neglected administration, and set herself the task -of restoring the fortunes of Casa Leopardi. By her exertions the Pope -was made acquainted with their difficulties, and by his intervention -an arrangement was made between the creditors and the Leopardi family, -whereby the former were restrained from demanding the amount of their -debt for forty years, receiving thereon in the mean time interest at -8 per cent, per annum. This was the life-work of Countess Leopardi. -During forty years she administered the finances of Casa Leopardi, and -by the end of that time succeeded in freeing the family from the burden -with which it had been long encumbered. She died in 1857, ten years -after her husband, and twenty years later than her eldest son, Giacomo.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%; font-size: 0.8em;">ST. MARK'S PLACE, WOLVERHAMPTON,</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"><i>December</i>, 1881.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> <i>Sette anni di Sodalizio con Giacomo Leopardi.</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xliii" id="Page_xliii">[Pg xliii]</a></span></p></div> - - -<p>The following works, amongst others, have been made use of in the -preparation of this volume:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Opere Leopardi. 6 vols. Firenze, 1845.</p> - -<p>Opere inedite Leopardi. Cugnoni: Halle, 1878.</p> - -<p>Studio di Leopardi. A. Baragiola: Strasburg, 1876.</p> - -<p>Traduction complète de Leopardi. F. A. Aulard: Paris, 1880.</p> - -<p>Opuscules et Pensées de Leopardi. A. Dapples: Paris, 1880.</p> - -<p>G. Leopardi: sa Vie et ses Oeuvres. Bouché Leclercq: Paris, -1874.</p> - -<p>Le Pessimisme. E. Caro: Paris, 1878.</p> - -<p>Pessimism. Jas. Sully: London, 1877.</p> - -<p>La Philosophie de Schopenhauer. Th. Ribot: Paris, 1874.</p> - -<p>Il Buddha, Confucio, e Lao-Tse. C. Puini: Firenze, 1878.</p> - -<p>Article in Quarterly Review on Leopardi. 1850.</p> - -<p>Article in Fraser's Magazine, Leopardi and his Father: a -Study, by L. Villari. November 1881.</p></blockquote> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xliv" id="Page_xliv">[Pg xliv]</a><br /><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> -<h4><a name="HISTORY_OF_THE_HUMAN_RACE" id="HISTORY_OF_THE_HUMAN_RACE"><i>HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE.</i></a></h4> - - -<p>It is said that the first inhabitants of the earth were everywhere -created simultaneously. Whilst children they were fed by bees, goats, -and doves, as the poets say the infant Jove was nourished. The earth -was much smaller than it is at present, and devoid of mountains and -hills. The sky was starless. There was no sea; and the world as a whole -was far less varied and beautiful than it now is.</p> - -<p>Yet men were never weary of looking at the sky and the earth, which -excited within them feelings of wonder and admiration. They considered -them both to be of infinite extent, majesty, and magnificence. Their -souls were filled with joyous hopes, and every sensation of life gave -them inexpressible pleasure. Their contentment daily increased, so that -they at length thought themselves supremely happy. In this peaceful -state of mind they passed their infancy and youth.</p> - -<p>Arrived at a mature age, their feelings began to experience some -alteration. As their early hopes, to which they had perseveringly -adhered, failed of realisation, they no longer put faith in them. But, -on the other hand, present happiness isolated from anticipation of -the future, did not suffice them; especially seeing that, either from -habit or because the charm of a first acquaintanceship had worn off, -nature and all the incidents of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> life gave them much less pleasure than -at first. They travelled over the earth, and visited the most distant -lands. This they could easily do, because there were neither seas, -mountains, nor obstacles of any kind to oppose them. After a few years, -most men had proved the finite nature of the earth, the boundaries of -which were by no means so remote as to be unattainable. They found -too, that all countries of the world, and all men, with but slight -differences, were alike. These discoveries I so greatly increased their -discontent, that a weariness of life became prevalent among men even -before they had passed the threshold of manhood. And as men grew older, -this feeling gradually transformed itself into a hatred of existence, -so that at length, seized by despair, they in one way or another -hesitated not to abandon the light and life once so beloved.</p> - -<p>It seemed to the gods a shocking thing that living creatures should -prefer death to life, and should destroy themselves for no other -reason than that they were weary of existence. It also amazed them -beyond measure to find their gifts held in such contempt, and so -unequivocally rejected by men. They thought the world had been endowed -with sufficient beauty, goodness, and harmony to make it not merely -a bearable, but even a highly enjoyable place of residence for every -living thing, and especially for man, whom they had fabricated with -peculiar care, and a marvellous perfection. At the same time, touched -with a deep feeling of compassion for the distress men exhibited, they -began to fear lest the renewal and increase of these deplorable actions -might not soon result in the extinction of the human race, contrary -to destiny, and they would thus lose the most perfect work of their -creation, and be deprived of the honours they received from men.</p> - -<p>Jove determined therefore to improve the condition of men, since it -seemed necessary, and to increase the means whereby they might obtain -happiness. They complained of the deceitfulness of things; which were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> -neither as great, beautiful, perfect, nor varied as they at first -imagined them to be; but were, on the contrary, small, imperfect, and -monotonous. They derived no pleasure from their youth; still less -were they satisfied with the times of maturity, and old age. Their -infancy alone gave them pleasure, and yearning for the sweetness of -their early days, they besought Jove to make their condition one of -perpetual childhood. But the god could not satisfy them in this matter; -for it was contrary to the laws of nature, and the divine decrees and -intentions. Neither could he communicate his own infinity to mortal -creatures, nor the world itself, any more than he could bestow infinite -happiness and perfection on men and things. It seemed best to him to -extend the limits of creation, at the same time increasing the world's -diversity and beauty. In fulfilment of this intention, he enlarged -the earth on all sides; and made the sea to flow as a separation -between inhabited places, so that it might vary the aspect of things, -and by severing their roads, prevent men from easily discovering the -confines of the world. He also designed the sea to serve as a vivid -representation of the infinity which they desired. Then it was that the -waters covered the island Atlantis, as well as many other vast tracts -of country; but the remembrance of this island alone has survived the -multitude of centuries that have passed since that time.</p> - -<p>Jove formed valleys by lowering certain places; and by exalting others -he created hills and mountains. He bespread the night with stars; -purified the atmosphere; increased the brilliancy and light of day; -intensified the colours of the sky and the country, and gave them -more variety. He also mixed the generations of men, so that the aged -of one generation were contemporaneous with the children of another. -Above all, Jove determined to multiply resemblances of that infinity -for which men so eagerly craved. He could not really satisfy them, but -wishing to soothe and appease their imagination, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> he knew had -been the chief source of their happiness in childhood, he employed many -expedients like that of the sea. He created the echo, and hid it in -valleys and caverns, and gave to the forests a dull deep whispering, -conjoined with a mysterious undulation of their tree-tops. He created -also the gorgeous land of dreams, and gave men power to visit it in -their sleep. There they could experience such perfect happiness as -could not in reality be accorded to them. This served as a substitute -for the vague unrealisable conception of felicity formed by men within -themselves, and to which Jove himself could not have given any real -expression, had he desired to do so.</p> - -<p>By these means the god infused new strength and vigour into the minds -of men, and endeared life to them again, so that they were full of -admiration for the beauty and immensity of nature. This happy state -lasted longer than the previous one. Its duration was chiefly due to -the diversity of ages among men, whereby those who were chilled and -wearied with their experience of the world, were comforted by the -society of others full of the ardency and hopefulness of youth.</p> - -<p>But in process of time this novelty wore off, and men again became -discontented and wearied with life. So despondent did they become, -that then is said to have originated the custom attributed by history -to certain ancient nations; the birth of a child was celebrated with -tears, and the death of a parent was the occasion of rejoicing for his -deliverance.<a name="FNanchor_1_2" id="FNanchor_1_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_2" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> At length wickedness became universal. This was either -because men thought that Jove disregarded them, or because it is the -nature of misfortune to debase even the noblest minds.</p> - -<p>It is a popular error to imagine that man's misfortunes are the result -of his impiety and iniquity. On the contrary, his wickedness is the -consequence of his misfortunes.</p> - -<p>The gods avenged themselves for their injuries, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> punished mortals -for their renewed perverseness, by the deluge of Deucalion. There were -only two survivors of this shipwreck of the human race, Deucalion -and Pyrrha. These unhappy ones were filled with the sense of their -wretchedness, and far from regretting the loss of all their fellows, -themselves loudly invoked death from the summit of a rock. But Jove -commanded them to remedy the depopulation of the earth, and seeing that -they had not the heart to beget a new generation, directed them to take -stones from the hill-sides, and cast them over their shoulders. From -these stones men were created, and the earth was again peopled.</p> - -<p>The history of the past had enlightened Jove as to the nature of men, -and had shown him that it is not sufficient for them, as for other -animals, merely to live in a state of freedom from sorrow and physical -discomfort. He knew that whatever their condition of life, they would -seek the impossible, and if unpossessed of genuine evils, would -torment themselves with imaginary ones. The god resolved therefore -to employ new means for the preservation of the miserable race. For -this purpose he used two especial artifices. In the first place, he -strewed life with veritable evils; and secondly, instituted a thousand -kinds of business and labour, to distract men as much as possible from -self-contemplation, and their desires for an unknown and imaginary -happiness.</p> - -<p>He began by sending a multitude of diseases, and an infinite number -of other calamities among them, with the intention of varying the -conditions of life so as to obviate the feeling of satiety which had -resulted before, and to induce men to esteem the good things they -possessed so much the more by contrast with these new evils. The -god hoped that men would be better able to bear the absence of the -happiness they longed for, when occupied and under the discipline of -suffering. He also determined by means of these physical infirmities -and exertions, to reduce the vigour of men's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> minds, to humble their -pride, to make them bow the head to necessity, and be more contented -with their lot. He knew that disease and misfortune would operate as a -preventive to the committal of those acts of suicide which had formerly -been rife; for they would not only make men cowardly and weak, but -would help to attach them to life by the hope of an existence free from -such sufferings. For it is a characteristic of the unfortunate that -they imagine happiness will wait on them as soon as the immediate cause -of their present misfortune is removed.</p> - -<p>Jove then created the winds and the rain-clouds, prepared the thunder -and lightning, gave the trident to Neptune, launched comets, and -arranged eclipses. By means of these and other terrible signs, he -resolved to frighten mortals from time to time, knowing that fear -and actual danger would temporarily reconcile to life, not only the -unhappy, but even those who most detested and were most disposed to put -an end to their existence.</p> - -<p>As a cure for the idleness of the past, Jove gave to men a taste and -desire for new foods and drinks, unprocurable, however, without the -greatest exertions. Previous to the deluge men had lived on water, -herbs, and such fruits as were yielded by the earth and the trees, -just as certain people of California and other places live even in the -present day. He assigned different climates to different countries, -and appointed the seasons of the year. Hitherto there had been no -diversity of temperature in any place, but the atmosphere was uniformly -so equable and mild that men were ignorant of the use of clothing. Now, -however, they were obliged to exert themselves industriously to remedy -the inclemency and changeability of the weather.</p> - -<p>Jove gave Mercury command to lay the foundations of the first cities, -and to divide men into different races, nations, and languages, -separated by feelings of rivalry and discord. He was also commissioned -to teach them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> music and those other arts, which, owing to their nature -and origin, are still called divine. Jove himself distributed laws and -constitutions to the new nations. Finally, as a supreme gift, he sent -among men certain sublime and superhuman Phantoms, to whom he committed -very great influence and control over the people of the earth. They -were called Justice, Virtue, Glory, Patriotism, &c. Among these -Phantoms was one named Love, which then first entered the world. For -previous to the introduction of clothes, the sexes were drawn towards -one another by merely a brute instinct, far different from love. The -feeling was comparable to that which we experience towards articles of -food and such things, that we desire, but do not love.</p> - -<p>By these divine decrees the condition of man was infinitely -ameliorated, and rendered easier and pleasanter than before; in spite -of the fatigues, sufferings, and terrors which were now inseparable -from humanity. And this result was chiefly due to the wonderful -chimeras, whom some men regarded as genii, others as gods, and whom -they followed with an intense veneration and enthusiasm for a very long -time. To such a pitch was their ardour excited by the poets and artists -of the times, that numbers of men did not hesitate to sacrifice their -lives to one or other of these Phantoms. Far from displeasing Jove, -this fact gratified him exceedingly, for he judged that if men esteemed -their life a gift worthy of sacrifice to these fine and glorious -illusions, they would be less likely to repudiate it as before. This -happy state of affairs was of longer duration than the preceding -ages. And even when after the lapse of many centuries, a tendency to -decline became apparent, existence, thanks to these bright illusions, -was still easy and bearable enough, up to a time not very far distant -from the present. This decline was chiefly due to the facility with -which men were able to satisfy their wants and desires; the growing -inequality between men in their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> social and other conditions, as -they receded farther and farther from the republican models founded -by Jove; the reappearance of vanity and idleness as a consequence of -this retrocession; the diminishing interest with which the variety of -life's incidents inspired them; and many other well-known and important -causes. Again men were filled with the old feeling of disgust for their -existence, and again their minds clamoured for an unknown happiness, -inconsistent with the order of nature.</p> - -<p>But the total revolution of the fortunes of men, and the end of that -epoch which we nowadays designate as the "old world," was due to one -especial influence. It was this. Among the Phantoms so appreciated -by the ancients was a certain one called Wisdom. This Phantom had -duly contributed to the prosperity of the times, and like the others -received high honour from men, a number of whom consecrated themselves -to her service. She had frequently promised her disciples to show -them her mistress, the Truth, a superior spirit who associated with -the gods in heaven, whence she had never yet descended. The Phantom -assured them that she would bring Truth among men, and that this spirit -would exercise so marvellous an influence over their life, that in -knowledge, perfection, and happiness they would almost rival the gods -themselves. But how could a shadow fulfil any promise, much less induce -the Truth to descend to earth? So after a long confiding expectancy, -men perceived the falseness of Wisdom. At the same time, greedy of -novelty because of the idleness of their life, and stimulated partly -by ambition of equalling the gods, and partly by the intensity of -their yearning for the happiness they imagined would ensue from the -possession of Truth, they presumptuously requested Jove to lend them -this noble spirit for a time, and reproached him for having so long -jealously withheld from men the great advantages that would follow from -the presence of Truth. They with one accord expressed dissatisfaction -with their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> lot, and renewed their former hateful whinings about the -meanness and misery of human things. The Phantoms, once so dear to -them, were now almost entirely abandoned, not that men had discerned -the unreality of their nature, but because they were so debased in -mind and manners as to have no sympathy with even the appearance of -goodness. Thus they wickedly rejected the greatest gift of gods to -men, and excused themselves by saying that none but inferior genii had -been sent on earth, the nobler ones, whom they would willingly have -worshipped, being retained in heaven.</p> - -<p>Many things long before this had contributed to lessen the goodwill -of Jove towards men, especially the magnitude and number of their -vices and crimes, which were far in advance of those punished by the -deluge. He was out of patience with the human race, the restless -and unreasonable nature of which exasperated him. He recognised the -futility of all effort on his part to make men happy and contented. -Had he not enlarged the world, multiplied its pleasures, and increased -its diversity? Yet all things were soon regarded by men (desirous and -at the same time incapable of infinity) as equally restricted and -valueless. Jove determined therefore to make a perpetual example of the -human race. He resolved to punish men unsparingly, and reduce them to -a state of misery far surpassing their former condition. Towards the -attainment of this end, he purposed sending Truth among men, not for -a time only as they desired, but for eternity, and giving her supreme -control and dominion over the human race, instead of the Phantoms that -were now so greatly despised.</p> - -<p>The other gods marvelled at this decision of Jove, as likely to -exalt the human race to a degree prejudicial to their own dignity. -But he explained to them that all genii are not beneficial, and that -apart from this, it was not of the nature of Truth to produce the -same results among men as with the gods. For whereas to the gods<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> -she unveiled the eternity of their joy, to mortals she would expose -the immensity of their unhappiness, representing it to them not as a -matter of chance, but as an inevitable and perpetual necessity. And -since human evils are great in proportion as they are believed to -be so by their victims, it may be imagined how acute an affliction -Truth will prove to men. The vanity of all earthly things will be -apparent to them; they will find that nothing is genuine save their -own unhappiness. Above all, they will lose hope, hitherto the greatest -solace and support of life. Deprived of hope, they will have nothing -to stimulate them to any exertions; consequently work, industry, and -all mental culture will languish, and the life of the living will -partake of the inertness of the grave. Yet in spite of their despair -and inactivity, men will still be tormented by their old longing -for happiness intensified and quickened, because they will be less -distracted by cares, and the stir of action. They will also be deprived -of the power of imagination, which in itself could mysteriously -transport them into a state of happiness comparable to the felicity for -which they long.</p> - -<p>"And," said Jove, "all those representations of infinity which I -designedly placed in the world to deceive and satisfy men, and all the -vague thoughts suggestive of happiness, which I infused into their -minds, will yield to the doctrines of Truth. The earth, which formerly -displeased them for its insignificance, will do so increasedly when its -true dimensions are known, and when all the secrets of nature are made -manifest to them. And finally, with the disappearance of those Phantoms -that alone gave brightness to existence, human life will become aimless -and valueless. Nations and countries will lose even their names, for -with Patriotism will vanish all incentive to national identities. Men -will unite and form one nation and one people (as they will say), and -will profess a universal love for the race. But in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> reality there will -be the least possible union amongst them; they will be divided into as -many peoples as there are individuals. For having no special country -to love, and no foreigners to hate, every man will hate his neighbour, -and love only himself. The evil consequences of this are incalculable. -Nevertheless, men will not put an end to their unhappiness by depriving -themselves of life, because under the sway of Truth they will become -as cowardly as miserable. Truth will increase the bitterness of their -existence, and at the same time bereave them of sufficient courage to -reject it."</p> - -<p>These words of Jove moved the gods to compassion for the human race. -It seemed to them that so great inflictions were inconsistent with the -divine attribute of mercy.</p> - -<p>But Jove continued: "There will remain to humanity a certain -consolation proceeding from the Phantom Love, which alone I purpose -leaving among men. And even Truth, in spite of her almost omnipotence, -will never quite prevail over Love, nor succeed in chasing this Phantom -from the earth, though the struggle between them will be perpetual. -Thus the life of man, divided betwixt the worship of Truth and Love, -will consist of two epochs, during which these influences will -respectively control his mind and actions. To the aged, instead of -the solace of Love, will be granted a state of contentment with their -existence, similar to that of other animals. They will love life for -its own sake, not for any pleasure or profit they derive from it."</p> - -<p>Accordingly, Jove removed the Phantoms from earth, save only Love, -the least noble of all, and sent Truth among men to exercise over -them perpetual rule. The consequences foreseen by the god were not -long in making themselves manifest. And strange to say, whereas the -spirit before her descent on earth, and when she had no real authority -over men, was honoured by a multitude of temples and sacrifices, her -presence had the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> effect of cooling their enthusiasm on her behalf. -With the other gods this was not so; the more they made themselves -manifest, the more they were honoured; but Truth saddened men, and -ultimately inspired them with such hatred that they refused to worship -her, and only by constraint rendered her obedience. And whereas -formerly, men who were under the especial influence of any one of -the ancient Phantoms, used to love and revere that Phantom above the -others, Truth was detested and cursed by those over whom she gained -supreme control. So, unable to resist her tyranny, men lived from -that time in the complete state of misery, which is their fate in the -present day, and to which they are eternally doomed.</p> - -<p>But not long ago, pity, which is never exhausted in the minds of -the gods, moved Jove to compassionate the wretchedness of mortals. -He noticed especially the affliction of certain men, remarkable for -their high intellect, and nobility, and purity of life, who were -extraordinarily oppressed by the sway of Truth. Now in former times, -when Justice, Virtue, and the other Phantoms directed humanity, the -gods had been accustomed at times to visit the earth, and sojourn -with men for awhile, always on such occasions benefiting the race, or -particular individuals, in some especial manner. But since men had -become so debased, and sunk in wickedness, they had not deigned to -associate with them. Jove therefore, pitying our condition, asked the -immortals whether any one of them would visit the earth as of old, -and console men under their calamities, especially such as seemed -undeserving of the universal affliction. All the gods were silent. -At length Love, the son of celestial Venus, bearing the same name as -the Phantom Love, but very different in nature and power, and the -most compassionate of the immortals, offered himself for the mission -proposed by Jove. This deity was so beloved by the other gods, that -hitherto they had never allowed him to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> quit their presence, even for -a moment. The ancients indeed imagined that the god had appeared to -them from time to time; but it was not so. They were deceived by the -subterfuges and transformations of the Phantom Love. The deity of the -same name first visited mankind after they were placed under the empire -of Truth.</p> - -<p>Since that time the god has rarely and briefly descended, because of -the general unworthiness of humanity, and the impatience with which -the celestials await his return. When he comes on earth he chooses the -tender and noble hearts of the most generous and magnanimous persons. -Here he rests for a short time, diffusing in them so strange and -wondrous a sweetness, and inspiring them with affections so lofty and -vigorous, that they then experience what is entirely new to mankind, -the substance rather than the semblance of happiness. Sometimes, though -very rarely, he brings about the union of two hearts, abiding in them -both simultaneously, and exciting within them a reciprocal warmth and -desire. All within whom he dwells beseech him to effect this union; -but Jove forbids him to yield to their entreaties, save in very few -instances, because the happiness of such mutual love approaches too -nearly to the felicity of the immortals.</p> - -<p>The man in whom Love abides is the happiest of mortals. And not only is -he blessed by the presence of the deity, but he is also charmed by the -old mysterious Phantoms, which, though removed from the lot of men, by -Jove's permission follow in the train of Love, in spite of the great -opposition of Truth, their supreme enemy. But Truth, like all the other -genii, is powerless to resist the will of the gods. And, since destiny -has granted to Love a state of eternal youth, the god can partially -give effect to that first desire of men, that they might return to the -happiness of their childhood. In the souls he inhabits, Love awakens -and vivifies, so long as ha stays there, the boundless hopes, and the -sweet and fine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> illusions of early life. Many persons, ignorant and -incapable of appreciating Love, vituperate and affront the god, even to -his face. But he disregards these insults, and exacts no vengeance for -them, so noble and compassionate is his nature. Nor do the other gods -any longer trouble themselves about the crimes of men, being satisfied -with the vengeance they have already wrought on the human race, and -the incurable misery which is its portion. Consequently, wicked and -blasphemous men suffer no punishment for their offences, except that -they are absolutely excluded from being partakers of the divine favours.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_2" id="Footnote_1_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_2"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See Herodotus, Strabo, &c.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_HERCULES_AND_ATLAS" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_HERCULES_AND_ATLAS"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS.</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. Father Atlas, Jove's compliments, and in case you should be -weary of your burden, I was to relieve you for a few hours, as I did -I don't know how many centuries ago, so that you may take breath, and -rest a little.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. Thanks, dear Hercules, and I am very much obliged to Jove. -But the world has become so light, that this cloak which I wear as a -protection against the snow, incommodes me more. Indeed, were it not -Jove's will that I should continue to stand here, supporting this ball -on my back, I would put it under my arm, or in my pocket, or suspend it -from a hair of my beard, and go about my own affairs.</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. How has it become so light? I can easily see it has changed -shape, and has become a sort of roll, instead of being round as when I -studied cosmography in preparation for that wonderful voyage with the -Argonauts. But still I cannot see why its weight should have diminished.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. I am as ignorant of the reason as you are. But take the thing -for a moment in your hand, and satisfy yourself of the truth of my -assertion.</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. Upon my word, without this test, I would not have believed -it. But what is this other novelty that I discover? The last time I -bore it, I felt a strong pulsation on my back, like the beat of an -animal's heart;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> and I heard a continuous buzzing like a wasp's nest. -But now, it throbs more like a watch with a broken spring, and as for -the buzzing, I don't hear a sound of it.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. I know nothing of this either, except that long ago, the world -ceased making any motion, or sensible noise. I even had very great -suspicions that it was dead, and expecting daily to be troubled by -its corruption, I considered how and where I should bury it, and what -epitaph I should place on its tomb. But when I saw that it did not -decompose, I came to the conclusion that it had changed from an animal -into a plant, like Daphne and others; and this explained its silence -and immobility. I began to fear lest it should soon wind its roots -round my shoulders, or bury them in my body.</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. I am rather inclined to think it is asleep, and that its -repose is like that of Epimenides,<a name="FNanchor_1_3" id="FNanchor_1_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_3" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> which lasted more than half a -century. Or perhaps it is like Hermotimus,<a name="FNanchor_2_4" id="FNanchor_2_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_4" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> whose soul used to leave -his body when it pleased, and stay away many years, disporting itself -in foreign lands. To put an end to this game, the friends of Hermotimus -burned the body; so that the spirit returning, found its home -destroyed, and was obliged to seek shelter in another body, or an inn. -So, to prevent the world from sleeping for ever, or lest some friend, -thinking it were dead, should set it on fire, let us try to arouse it.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. I am willing. But how shall we do it?</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. I would give it a good blow with this club, if I were not -afraid of smashing it, and were I not sure that it would crack under -the stroke like an egg. Besides, I fear lest the men, who in my time -used to wrestle with lions, but are now only a match for fleas, should -faint from so sudden a shock. Suppose I lay aside my club, and you your -cloak, and we have a game at ball with the poor little sphere. I wish -I had brought the rackets<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> that Mercury and I use in the celestial -courts, but we can do without them.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. A likely thing indeed! So that your father seeing our game, -may make a third, and with his thunderbolt precipitate us both I do not -know where, as he did Phaeton into the Po!</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. That might be, if, like Phaeton, I were the son of a poet, -and not his own son; and if there were not this difference between -us, that whereas poets formerly peopled cities by the melody of their -art, I could depopulate heaven and earth by the power of my club. And -as for Jove's bolt, I would kick it hence to the farthest quarter of -the empyrean. Be assured that even if I wished to appropriate five -or six stars for the sake of a game, or to make a sling of a comet, -taking it by the tail, or even to play at ball with the sun, my father -would make no objection. Besides, our intention is to do good to the -world, whereas Phaeton simply wished to show off his fleetness before -the Hours, who held the steps for him when he mounted his chariot. He -also wanted to gain reputation as a skilful coach-man, in the eyes of -Andromeda, Callisto, and the other beautiful constellations, to whom, -it is said, he threw, in passing, lustre bonbons, and comfits of light; -and to make a fine parade of himself before the celestial gods during -his journey that day, which chanced to be a festival. In short, don't -give a thought to the possibility of my father's wrath. In any case, I -will bear all the blame; so throw off your cloak, and send me the ball.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. Willingly or not, I must do as you wish; since you are strong -and armed, whereas I am old and defenceless. But do take care lest it -fall, in which case it will have fresh swellings, or some new fracture, -like that which separated Sicily from Italy, and Africa from Spain. And -if it should get chipped in any way, there might be a war about what -men would call the detachment of a province or kingdom.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. Rely on me.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. Then here goes. See how it quivers on account of its altered -shape!</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. Hit a little harder; your strokes scarcely reach me.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. It is the fault of the ball. The south-west wind catches it, -because of its lightness.</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. It is its old failing to go with the wind.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. Suppose we were to inflate the ball, since it has no more -notion of a bounce than a melon.</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. A new shortcoming! Formerly it used to leap and dance like -a young goat.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. Look out! Run quickly after that. For Jove's sake, take care -lest it fall! Alas! it was an evil hour when you came here.</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. You sent me such a bad stroke that I could not possibly -have caught it in time, even at the risk of breaking my neck. Alas, -poor little one!... How are you? Do you feel bad anywhere? I don't hear -a sigh, nor does a soul move. They are all still asleep.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. Give it back to me, by all the horns of the Styx, and let me -settle it again on my shoulders. And you, take your club, and hasten -to heaven to excuse me with Jove for this accident, which is entirely -owing to you.</p> - -<p><i>Hercules</i>. I will do so. For many centuries there has been in my -father's house a certain poet, named Horace. He was made court poet -at the suggestion of Augustus, who has been deified by Jove for his -augmentation of the Eoman power. In one of his songs, this poet says -that the just man would stir not, though the world fell. Since the -world has now fallen, and no one has moved, it follows that all men are -just.</p> - -<p><i>Atlas</i>. Who doubts the justice of men? But do not lose time; run -and exculpate me with your father, else I shall momentarily expect a -thunderbolt to transform me from Atlas into Etna.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_3" id="Footnote_1_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_3"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See Pliny, Diogenes Laertius, Apollonius, Varrò, &c.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_4" id="Footnote_2_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_4"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> See Apollonius, Pliny, Tertullian, &c.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_FASHION_AND_DEATH" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_FASHION_AND_DEATH"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH.</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. Madam Death, Madam Death!</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. Wait until your time comes, and then I will appear without -being called by you.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. Madam Death!</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. Go to the devil. I will come when you least expect me.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. As if I were not immortal!</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. Immortal?</p> - -<p> -"Already has passed the thousandth year,"<br /> -</p> - -<p>since the age of immortals ended.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. Madam is as much a Petrarchist as if she were an Italian -poet of the fifteenth or eighteenth century.</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. I like Petrarch because he composed my triumph, and because he -refers so often to me. But I must be moving.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. Stay! For the love you bear to the seven cardinal sins, stop -a moment and look at me.</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. Well. I am looking.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. Do you not recognise me?</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. You must know that I have bad sight, and am without -spectacles. The English make none to suit me; and if they did, I should -not know where to put them.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. I am Fashion, your sister.</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. My sister?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. Yes. Do you not remember we are both born of Decay?</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. As if I, who am the chief enemy of Memory, should recollect it!</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. But I do. I know also that we both equally profit by the -incessant change and destruction of things here below, although you do -so in one way, and I in another.</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. Unless you are speaking to yourself, or to some one inside -your throat, raise your voice, and pronounce your words more -distinctly. If you go mumbling between your teeth with that thin -spider-voice of yours, I shall never understand you; because you ought -to know that my hearing serves me no better than my sight.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. Although it be contrary to custom, for in France they do -not speak to be heard, yet, since we are sisters, I will speak as you -wish, for we can dispense with ceremony between ourselves. I say then -that our common nature and custom is to incessantly renew the world. -You attack the life of man, and overthrow all people and nations from -beginning to end; whereas I content myself for the most part with -influencing beards, head-dresses, costumes, furniture, houses, and -the like. It is true, I do some things comparable to your supreme -action. I pierce ears, lips, and noses, and cause them to be torn -by the ornaments I suspend from them. I impress men's skin with hot -iron stamps, under the pretence of adornment. I compress the heads -of children with tight bandages and other contrivances; and make it -customary for all men of a country to have heads of the same shape, as -in parts of America and Asia. I torture and cripple people with small -shoes. I stifle women with stays so tight, that their eyes start from -their heads; and I play a thousand similar pranks. I also frequently -persuade and force men of refinement to bear daily numberless fatigues -and discomforts, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> often real sufferings; and some even die -gloriously for love of me. I will say nothing of the headaches, colds, -inflammations of all kinds, fevers—daily, tertian, and quartan—which -men gain by their obedience to me. They are content to shiver with -cold, or melt with heat, simply because it is my will that they cover -their shoulders with wool, and their breasts with cotton. In fact, they -do everything in my way, regardless of their own injury.</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. In truth, I believe you are my sister; the testimony of a -birth certificate could scarcely make me surer of it. But standing -still paralyses me, so if you can, let us run; only you must not creep, -because I go at a great pace. As we proceed you can tell me what you -want. If you cannot keep up with me, on account of our relationship I -promise when I die to bequeath you all my clothes and effects as a New -Year's gift.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. If we ran a race together, I hardly know which of us would -win. For if you run, I gallop, and standing still, which paralyses you, -is death to me. So let us run, and we will chat as we go along.</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. So be it then. Since your mother was mine, you ought to serve -me in some way, and assist me in my business.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. I have already done so—more than you,—imagine. Above all, -I, who annul and transform other customs unceasingly, have nowhere -changed the custom of death; for this reason it has prevailed from the -beginning of the world until now.</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. A great miracle forsooth, that you have never done what you -could not do!</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. Why cannot I do it? You show how ignorant you are of the -power of Fashion.</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. Well, well: time enough to talk of this when you introduce the -custom of not dying. But at present, I want you, like a good sister, -to aid me in rendering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> my task more easy and expeditious than it has -hitherto been.</p> - -<p><i>Fashion</i>. I have already mentioned some of my labours which are a -source of profit to you. But they are trifling in comparison with those -of which I will now tell you.</p> - -<p>Little by little, and especially in modern times, I have brought into -disuse and discredit those exertions and exercises which promote bodily -health; and have substituted numberless others which enfeeble the -body in a thousand ways, and shorten life. Besides, I have introduced -customs and manners, which render existence a thing more dead than -alive, whether regarded from a physical or mental point of view; -so that this century may be aptly termed the century of death. And -whereas formerly you had no other possessions except graves and vaults, -where you sowed bones and dust, which are but a barren seed, now you -have fine landed properties, and people who are a sort of freehold -possession of yours as soon as they are born, though not then claimed -by you. And more, you, who used formerly to be hated and vituperated, -are in the present day, thanks to me, valued and lauded by all men of -genius. Such an one prefers you to life itself, and holds you in such -high esteem that he invokes you, and looks to you as his greatest hope.</p> - -<p>But this is not all. I perceived that men had some vague idea of an -after-life, which they called immortality. They imagined they lived in -the memory of their fellows, and this remembrance they sought after -eagerly. Of course this was in reality mere fancy, since what could it -matter to them when dead, that they lived in the minds of men? As well -might they dread contamination in the grave! Yet, fearing lest this -chimera might be prejudicial to you, in seeming to diminish your honour -and reputation, I have abolished the fashion of seeking immortality, -and its concession, even when merited. So that now, whoever dies may -assure himself that he is dead altogether, and that every bit of him -goes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> into the ground, just as a little fish is swallowed, bones and -all.</p> - -<p>These important things my love for you has prompted me to effect. I -have also succeeded in my endeavour to increase your power on earth. I -am more than ever desirous of continuing this work. Indeed, my object -in seeking you to-day was to make a proposal that for the future we -should not separate, but jointly might scheme and execute for the -furtherance of our respective designs.</p> - -<p><i>Death</i>. You speak reasonably, and I am willing to do as you propose.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="PRIZE_COMPETITION_ANNOUNCED_BY_THE_ACADEMY_OF_SILLOGRAPHS" id="PRIZE_COMPETITION_ANNOUNCED_BY_THE_ACADEMY_OF_SILLOGRAPHS"><i>PRIZE COMPETITION ANNOUNCED BY THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS.</i></a></h4> - - -<p>The Academy of Sillographs, ardently desiring to advance the common -welfare, and esteeming nothing more conformable to this end than the -promotion of the progress</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -"Of the happy century in which we live,"<br /> -</p> - -<p>as says an illustrious poet, has taken in hand the careful -consideration of the nature and tendency of our time. After long and -mature consultation, the Academy has resolved to call our era the -age of machines; not only because the men of to-day live and move -perhaps more mechanically than in past times, but also on account of -the numerous machines now invented and utilised for so many different -purposes. To such an extent indeed is this carried, that machines and -not men may be said to manage human affairs, and conduct the business -of life. This circumstance greatly pleases the said Academy, not so -much because of the manifest convenience of the arrangement, as for two -reasons, which it thinks very important, although ordinarily they are -not so regarded. The one is the possibility that in process of time the -influence and usefulness of machines may extend to spiritual as well -as material things. And as by virtue of these machines and inventions, -we are already protected from lightning, storms, and other such evils -and terrors; similarly there may be discovered some cure for envy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> -calumny, perfidy, and trickery; some safety-cord or other invention -to deliver us from egotism, from the prevalence of mediocrity, from -prosperous fools, bad and debased persons, from the universal spirit -of indifference, from the wretchedness peculiar to the wise, the -cultivated, the noble-minded, and from other discomforts which for many -centuries have been more invincible than either lightning or tempests. -The other and chief reason concerns the unhappy condition of the human -race. Most philosophers despair of its improvement, or the cure of its -defects, which probably equal or exceed in number its virtues. They -believe it would be easier to entirely re-create the race in another -way, or to substitute a different "genus" altogether, than to amend -it. The Academy of Sinographs is therefore of opinion that it is very -expedient for men to withdraw from the business of life as much as -possible, and gradually to resign in favour of machines. And being -resolved to support with all its might the progress of this new order -of things, it now begs to offer three prizes for the inventors of the -three following machines.</p> - -<p>The aim of the first machine must be to represent a friend warranted -not to abuse or ridicule his absent friend; nor forsake his friend when -he hears him made the subject of jest; nor to seek the reputation of -acuteness, sarcasm, and the power of exciting men's laughter at his -friend's expense; nor to divulge or boast of secrets confided to him; -nor to take advantage of his friend's intimacy and confidence in order -to supplant and surpass him; nor to envy his friend's good fortune. -But it must be solicitous for his friend's welfare, join issue with -him against his misfortunes, and assist him in deeds as well as words. -Reference to the treatises of Cicero and the Marquise of Lambert on -"Friendship" may be advantageously made for further suggestions as to -the manufacture of this automaton. The Academy thinks the invention -of this machine ought not to be regarded as either<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> impossible, or -even very difficult, seeing that besides the automata of Regiomontano, -Vaucanson, and others, and the one in London which drew figures and -portraits, and wrote from dictation, there are machines that can even -play chess unassisted. Now in the opinion of many "savants," human -life is a game, and some assert it to be a thing even more frivolous. -They say that the game of chess is a more rationally conceived thing, -and its hazards are less uncertain than those of life. Besides, -Pindar has called life a thing of no more substance than the dream of -a shadow; in which case it ought not to be beyond the capacity of a -vigilant automaton. As to speech, there is no reason why men should -not be able to communicate this to machines of their manufacture. For -amongst examples of manufactures so endowed, we may number the statue -of Memnon, and the head formed by Albertus Magnus; this latter was -so loquacious that St. Thomas Aquinas, irritated at its incessant -tittle-tattle, broke it in pieces. And if the parrot of Nevers (though -certainly this was an animal, however small a one) could converse, how -much more credible that a machine, conceived by the mind of man, and -constructed by his hands, should be able to acquire such attainments? -The machine ought not to be so talkative as the parrot of Nevers, and -other similar ones, which we see and hear everywhere; nor as the head -made by Albertus Magnus; for it must not weary its friend, thereby -inciting him to its destruction.</p> - -<p>The inventor of this machine shall receive a reward of a gold medal -weighing four hundred sequins, which on the one side shall have a -representation of the figures of Pylades and Orestes, and on the other -side the name of the person rewarded, together with the inscription, -"First verifier of the ancient fables."</p> - -<p>The second machine must be an artificial man worked by steam, adapted -and constructed for virtuous and magnanimous actions. The Academy is of -opinion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> that since no other method appears to exist, steam ought to -be capable of directing an animated automaton in the paths of virtue -and glory. Candidates for this competition are referred to books of -poems and romances for suggestions as to the qualities and powers with -which to endow the figure. The reward to be a gold medal weighing four -hundred and fifty sequins, stamped on the one side with some fanciful -design significative of the age of gold, and on its reverse the name of -the inventor of the machine, together with this inscription from the -fourth eclogue of Virgil: "Quo ferrea primum desinet ac toto surget -gens aurea mundo."</p> - -<p>The third machine should be empowered to act as a woman, realising -the conception formed partly by Count Baldassar Castiglione, who -describes his idea in the book of the "Cortegiano," and partly by -others, easily discoverable in various writings which must be consulted -and combined with those of the Count. Nor ought the invention of this -machine to appear impossible to men of our times, when it be remembered -that Pygmalion long ago, in an age far from scientific, was able to -fabricate a spouse with his own hands, who was considered to be the -best woman that had ever existed. To the originator of this machine -a gold medal weighing five hundred sequins is assigned, on the one -side of which shall be represented the Arabian Phoenix of Metastasio, -perched on a tree of some European species, and on the other side shall -be written the name of the recipient, with the inscription, "Inventor -of faithful women, and conjugal happiness." The Academy decrees that -the cost of these prizes must be defrayed with what was discovered in -the satchel of Diogenes, late Secretary of this Academy, or by means -of one of the three golden asses that belonged to three Sillographic -Academicians, Apuleius, Firenzuola, and Macchiavelli; all which -property passed to the Sillographists by will of the deceased, as may -be read in the Chronicles of the Academy.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_A_GOBLIN_AND_A_GNOME" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_A_GOBLIN_AND_A_GNOME"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME.</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. You here, son of Beelzebub! where are you going?</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. My father has sent me to find out what these rascals of men -are doing. He is inclined to suspect something, because it is so -long since they gave us any trouble, and in all his realms there is -not a single one to be seen. He wonders whether any great change has -taken place, and thinks perhaps they have returned to the primitive -system of barter, whereby they use sheep instead of gold and silver; -or the civilised people have become dissatisfied with paper notes for -money, as they have often been, or have taken to cowrie shells such as -savages use; or the laws of Lycurgus have been re-established. The last -possibility seems to him the least likely.</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. "You seek them in vain, for they are all dead," as said the -survivors in a tragedy where the principal personages died in the last -act.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. What do you mean?</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. I mean that men are all dead, and the race is lost.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. My word! what news for the papers! But how is it they have not -already mentioned it?</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. Stupid. Do you not see that if there are no men there will be -no more newspapers?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. Yes, that is true. But how shall we know in future the news of -the world?</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. News! what news? That the sun rises and sets? That it is hot -or cold? That here or there it has rained or snowed, or been windy?</p> - -<p>Since men disappeared, Fortune has unbandaged her eyes, put on -spectacles, and attached her wheel to a pivot. She sits with arms -crossed, watching the world go round without troubling herself in the -least as to its affairs. There are no more kingdoms nor empires to -swell themselves, and burst like bubbles, for they have all vanished. -There is no more war; and the years are as like one another as two peas.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. No one will know the day of the month, since there will be no -more calendars printed!</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. What a misfortune! Nevertheless, the moon will continue her -course.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. And the days of the week will be nameless!</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. What does it matter? Do you think they will not come unless -you call them? Or, that once passed, they will return if you call out -their names?</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. And no one will take any count of the years!</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. We shall be able to say we are young when we are old; and we -shall forget our cares when we cannot fix their anniversary. Besides, -when we are very old, we shall not know it, nor be expecting death -daily.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. But how is it these rogues have disappeared?</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. Some killed themselves with fighting; others were drowned in -the sea. Some ate each other. Not a few committed suicide. Some died of -ennui in idleness; and some turned their brains with study. Debauch, -and a thousand other excesses, put an end to many more. In short, they -have arrived at their end, by endeavouring, as long as they lived, to -violate the laws of nature, and to go contrary to their welfare.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. Still, I do not understand how an entire race<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> of animals can -become extinct without leaving any trace behind it.</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. You who are a specialist in geology ought to know that the -circumstance is not a new one, and that many kinds of animals lived -anciently, which to-day are nowhere to be found except in the remains -of a few petrified bones. Moreover, these poor creatures employed none -of the means used by men for their destruction.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. It may be so. I should dearly like to resuscitate one or two -of the rascals, just to know what they would think when they saw all -going on as before, in spite of the disappearance of the human race. -Would they then imagine that everything was made and maintained solely -for them?</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. They would not like to realise that the world exists solely -for the use of the Goblins.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. You are joking, my friend, if you mean what you say.</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. Why? Of course I do.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. Go along with you, buffoon! who does not know that the world -is made for the Gnomes?</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. For the Gnomes, who live underground! That is one of the best -jokes I have ever heard. What good are the sun, moon, air, sea, and -country to the Gnomes?</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. And pray of what use to the Goblins are the mines of gold and -silver, and the whole body of earth, except the outer skin?</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. Well, well: suppose we abandon the discussion. It is -unimportant after all. For I imagine even the lizards and gnats think -the whole world was created for their exclusive service. Let each of us -believe what we please, for nothing will make us change our opinion. -But, between ourselves, if I had not been born a Goblin, I should be in -despair.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. And I, had I not been born a Gnome. But I should like to -know what men would say of their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> impertinence in former times, when, -besides other misdeeds, they sank thousands of underground shafts, and -stole our goods from us by force, asserting that they belonged to the -human race. Nature, they said, concealed and buried the things down -below, as a sort of game at hide and seek, just to see if they could -discover and abstract them.</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. I do not wonder at that, since they not only imagined the -things of the world were at their service, but they also regarded -them as a mere trifle compared to the human race. They called their -own vicissitudes "revolutions of the world;" and histories of their -nations, "histories of the world;" although the earth contained about -as many different species of animals as living individual human beings. -Yet these animals, though made expressly for the use of men, were never -conscious of the so-called revolutions of the world!</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. Then even the fleas and gnats were made for the service of men?</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. Just so. To exercise their patience, men said.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. As if, apart from fleas, man's patience were not tried -sufficiently!</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. And a certain man named Chrysippus termed pigs pieces of meat -expressly prepared by nature for man's table. Their souls, he said, -served the purpose of salt, in preserving them from decay.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. In my opinion, if Chrysippus had had a little sense (salt) in -his brain, instead of imagination (soul), he would never have conceived -such an idea.</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. Here is another amusing circumstance. An infinite number -of species of animals were never seen, nor heard of by men their -masters, either because they lived where man never set foot, or because -they were too small to be observed. Many others were only discovered -during the last days of the human race. The same may be said of -plants, minerals, &c. Similarly, from time to time, by means of their -telescopes, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> perceived some star or planet, of the existence of -which hitherto, during thousands and thousands of years, they had been -ignorant. They then immediately entered it on the catalogue of their -possessions; for they regarded the stars and planets as so many candles -placed up above to give light to their dominions, because they were -wont to transact much business in the night.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. And in summer, when they saw those little meteor flames -that rush through the air at night, they imagined them to be sprites -employed in snuffing the candles for the good of mankind.</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. Yet now that they are all gone, the earth is none the worse -off. The rivers still flow, and the sea, although no longer used for -navigation and traffic, is not dried up.</p> - -<p><i>Gnome</i>. The stars and planets still rise and set; nor have they gone -into mourning.</p> - -<p><i>Goblin</i>. Neither has the sun put on sackcloth and ashes, as it did, -according to Virgil, when Cæsar died; about whom I imagine it concerned -itself as little as Pompey's Pillar.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_MALAMBRUNO_AND_FARFARELLO" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_MALAMBRUNO_AND_FARFARELLO"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO.</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Malambruno</i>. Spirits of the deep, Farfarello, Ciriatto, Raconero, -Astarotte, Alichino, or whatever else you are called, I adjure you in -the name of Beelzebub, and command you by virtue of my art, which can -unhinge the moon, and nail the sun in the midst of the heavens, come -one of you with your prince's permission, to put all the powers of hell -at my disposal.</p> - -<p><i>Farfarello</i>. Here I am.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. Who are you?</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Farfarello, at thy service.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. Have you the mandate of Beelzebub?</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. I have; and can thus do for thee all that the king himself could -do, and more than lies in the power of all other creatures together.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. It is well. I wish to be satisfied in but one desire.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Thou shalt be obeyed. What is it? Dost thou wish for majesty -surpassing that of the Atrides?</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. No.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. More wealth than shall be found in El Dorado, when it is -discovered? <i>Mal</i>. No.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. An empire as large as that of which Charles V. dreamt one night?</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. No.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. A mistress chaster than Penelope?</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. No: methinks the devil's aid were superfluous for that.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Honours and success, however wicked thou mayst be?</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. I should rather more need the devil, if I wished the contrary, -under such circumstances.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Then what dost thou want?</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. Make me happy for a moment.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. I cannot.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. Why?</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. I give you my word of honour—I cannot do it.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. The word of honour of a good demon?</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Yes, to be sure. Thou shouldest know that there are good devils -as well as good men.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. And you must know that I will hang you by the tail to one of -these beams if you do not instantly obey me without more words.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. It were easier for you to kill me, than for me to satisfy your -demands.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. Then return with my malediction, and let Beelzebub come himself.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Beelzebub and the whole army of hell would be equally powerless -to render you or any of your race happy.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. Not even for a single moment?</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. As impossible for a moment, half a moment, or the thousandth -part of a moment, as for a lifetime.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. Well, since you cannot make me happy in any way, at least free -me from unhappiness.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. On condition that you no longer love yourself above everything -else.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. I shall only cease doing that when I die.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. But as long as you live you will be unable to do it. Your nature -would tolerate anything rather than that.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. So it is.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Consequently, loving yourself above everything, you desire your -own happiness more than anything. But because this is unattainable, you -must necessarily be unhappy.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. Even when engaged in pleasure; since no gratification can make -me happy, or satisfy me.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Truly none.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. And because pleasure cannot satisfy my soul's innate desire for -happiness, it is not true pleasure, and during its continuance I shall -still be unhappy.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. As you say: because in men and other living beings, the -deprivation of happiness, even though pain and misfortune be wanting, -implies express unhappiness. This, too, during the continuance of -so-called pleasures.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. So that from birth to death our unhappiness never ceases for an -instant.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Yes, it ceases whenever you sleep dreamlessly, or when, from one -cause or another, you are deprived of your senses.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. But never, so long as we are sensible that we live.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Never.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. So that in fact it were better not to live than to live.</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. If the absence of unhappiness be better than unhappiness itself.</p> - -<p><i>Mal</i>. Then?</p> - -<p><i>Far</i>. Then if you would like to give me your soul before its time, I -am ready to carry it away with me.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_NATURE_AND_A_SOUL" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_NATURE_AND_A_SOUL"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL.</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Nature</i>. Go, my beloved child. You shall be regarded as my favoured -one for very many centuries. Live: be great and unhappy.</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. What evil have I done before beginning to live, that you -condemn me to this misery?</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. What misery, my child?</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. Do you not ordain that I am to be unhappy?</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. Yes; but only so far as to enable you to be great, which you -cannot become without unhappiness. Besides, you are destined to animate -a human body, and all men are of necessity unhappy from their birth.</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. It were more reasonable that you made happiness a necessity; or -this being impossible, it were better not to bring men into the world.</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. I can do neither the one thing nor the other, because I am -subordinate to Destiny, who decrees the contrary. The reason of this -is as much a mystery to myself as to you. Now that you are created and -designed to animate a human being, no power in the world can save you -from the unhappiness common to men. Moreover, your infelicity will be -especially great, owing to the perfection with which I have fashioned -you.</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. I know nothing yet, because I have only just begun to live. -Doubtless this is why I do not understand you. But tell me, is -greatness the same thing as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> extreme unhappiness? If, however, they are -different, why could not the one be separated from the other?</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. In the souls of men, and proportionately in those of all -animals, they are inseparable, because excellence of soul implies great -capacity for knowledge, which in exposing to men the unhappiness of -humanity may be termed unhappiness itself. Similarly, a life of greater -intensity involves a greater love of self, manifested in different -ways. An increased desire for happiness is a consequence of this -self-love and increased unhappiness, because of the impossibility of -satisfying this desire, and as the unfortunate condition of humanity -becomes realised. All this is decreed from the beginning of creation, -and is unalterable by me.</p> - -<p>Moreover, the keenness of your intellect and the strength of your -imagination will lessen considerably your power of self-control. Brute -animals readily adapt all their faculties and powers to the attainment -of their ends; but men rarely do so, being usually prevented by their -reason and imagination, which give birth to a thousand doubts in -deliberation, and a thousand hindrances in execution. The less men -are inclined or accustomed to deliberate, the more prompt are they in -decision, and the more vigorous in action. But such souls as yours, -self-contained, and proudly conscious of their greatness, are really -powerless for self-rule, and often succumb to irresolution both in -thought and action. This temperament is one of the greatest curses of -human life.</p> - -<p>Added to this, although by your noble talents you will easily and -quickly excel most men in profound knowledge and works of the greatest -difficulty, you will yet find it almost impossible to learn, or put in -practice, a host of things, trivial enough, but very essential, for -your intercourse with others. At the same time, you; will see your -inferiors, and even men of scarcely any intelligence, perfectly at home -with these things. Such difficulties and miseries as these occupy and -surround<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> great souls; but they are amply atoned for by fame, praise, -and honours paid to their greatness, and by the lasting memory they -leave behind them.</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. Whence will come these praises and honours,—from heaven, from -you, or from whom?</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. From men, who alone can dispense them.</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. But I thought my ignorance of those things necessary for the -intercourse of life, which intellects inferior to mine so easily -comprehend, would cause me to be despised and shunned, not praised by -men. I thought too that I should surely live unknown to most of them, -because of my unfitness for their society.</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. I have not the power to foresee the future, so I cannot say -exactly how men will behave to you whilst you are on earth. But judging -from past experience, I think they will probably be jealous of you. -This is another misfortune to which great minds are peculiarly liable. -Perhaps too, they will despise you, and treat you with indifference. -Fortune herself, and even circumstances, are usually unfriendly to such -as you.</p> - -<p>But directly after your death, as happened to one named Camoens, or a -few years later, like Milton, you will be eulogised and lauded to the -skies, if not by every one, at any rate by the few men of noble minds. -Perhaps the ashes of your body will be deposited in a magnificent tomb, -and your likeness reproduced in many different forms, and passed about -from hand to hand. Men will also study your life and writings, and at -length the world will ring with your name. Always provided you are not -hindered by evil fortune, or even by the very excess of your genius, -from leaving undoubted testimonies of your merit; instances are not -wanting of such unfortunates, known only to myself and Destiny.</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. O mother, I care not if I be deprived of all knowledge, so long -as I obtain what I most desire, happiness. And as for glory, I know not -whether it be a good or evil thing, but I do know that I shall only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> -value it in so far as it procures me happiness, directly or indirectly. -Now, on your own showing, the excellence with which you have endowed -me, though it may be fruitful of glory, is also productive of the -greatest unhappiness. Yet even this paltry glory I may not gain until -I am dead, when I fail to see how I shall benefit by it. And besides, -there is the probability that this phantom glory, the price of so much -suffering, may be obtained neither in life nor after death.</p> - -<p>In short, from what you yourself have said, I conclude that far from -loving me with peculiar affection, as you affirmed, you bear me greater -malice than that of which I can be the victim, either at the hands -of men or Destiny. Why else should you have endowed me with this -disastrous excellence, about which you boast so much, and which will be -the chief stumbling-block in the road to happiness, the only thing for -which I care?</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. My child, all men are destined to be unhappy, as I have said, -without any fault of mine. But in the midst of this universal misery, -and amid the infinite vanity of all their pleasures and joys, glory -is by most men considered to be the greatest good of life, and the -worthiest object of ambition and fatigue. Therefore, not hatred but a -feeling of especial kindliness, has prompted me to assist you as far as -I could in your attainment of this glory.</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. Tell me: among the animals you mentioned, are there any of less -vitality and sensibility than men?</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. All are so, in more or less degree, beginning with plants. -Man, being the most perfect of them all, has greater life and power of -thought than all other living beings.</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. Then if you love me, place me in the most imperfect thing -existing, or that being impossible, at least deprive me of this -terrible excellence, and make me like the most stupid and senseless -soul you have ever created!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. I can satisfy your second request, and will do so, since you -reject the immortality I would have given you.</p> - -<p><i>Soul</i>. And instead of the immortality, I beseech you to hasten my -death as much as possible.</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. I will consult Destiny about that.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_THE_EARTH_AND_THE_MOON" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_THE_EARTH_AND_THE_MOON"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Dear Moon, I know that you can speak and answer questions like -a human being, for I have heard so from many of the poets. Besides, our -children say you have really a mouth, nose, and eyes like every one -else, and that they see them with their own eyes, which at their time -of life ought to be very sharp. As for me, no doubt you know that I am -a person; indeed, when I was young, I had a number of children; so you -will not be surprised to hear me speak. And the reason, my fine Moon, -why I have never uttered a word to you before, although I have been -your neighbour for I don't know how many centuries, is that I have been -so occupied as to have no time for gossip. But now my business is so -trifling that it can look after itself. I don't know what to do, and am -ready to die of ennui. So in future, I hope we may often have some talk -together; and I should like to know all about your affairs, if it does -not inconvenience you to recount them to me.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Be easy on that score. May the Fates never trouble me more -than you are likely to! Talk as much as you please, and although, as I -believe you know, I am partial to silence, I will willingly listen and -reply, to oblige you.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Do you hear the delightful sound made by the heavenly bodies -in motion?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. To tell you the truth, I hear nothing.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Nor do I; save only the whistling of the wind, which blows -from my poles to the equator, and from the equator to the poles, and -which is far from musical. But Pythagoras asserts that the celestial -spheres make an incredibly sweet harmony, and that you take part in the -concert, and are the eighth chord of this universal lyre. As for me, I -am so deafened by my own noise that I hear nothing.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. I also am doubtless deafened, since I hear no more than you. -But it is news to me that I am a chord.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Now let us change the subject. Tell me; are you really -inhabited, as thousands of ancient and modern philosophers affirm—from -Orpheus to De Lalande? In spite of all my efforts to prolong these -horns of mine, which men call mountains and hills, and from the summits -of which I look at you in silence, I have failed to discern a single -one of your inhabitants. Yet I am told that a certain David Fabricius, -whose eyes were keener than those of Lynceus, at one time observed your -people extending their linen to be dried by the sun.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. I know nothing about your horns. I will admit that I am -inhabited.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. What colour are your men?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. What men?</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Those that you contain. Did you not say you were inhabited?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Yes, what then?</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Does it not follow that all your inhabitants are animals?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Neither animals nor men, though I am really in ignorance as to -the nature of either the one or the other. As for the men you speak of, -I have not an idea what you mean.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Then what sort of creatures are yours?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. They are of very many different kinds, as unknown to you, as -yours are to me.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. This is so strange that if you yourself had not informed me of -it, I would never have believed it. Were you ever conquered by any of -your inhabitants?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Not that I know of. But how? And for what reason?</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Through ambition and jealousy; by means of diplomacy and arms.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. I do not know what you mean by arms, ambition, and diplomacy. -Indeed, I understand nothing of what you say.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. But surely if you do not understand the meaning of arms, -you know something of war; because, not long ago, a certain doctor -discovered through a telescope, which is an instrument for seeing a -long distance, that you possessed a fine fortress with proper bastions. -Now this is certain proof that your races are at any rate accustomed to -sieges and mural battles.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Pardon me, Mother Earth, if I reply to you a little more at -length than would be expected from one so subjugated as it seems I -am. But in truth, you appear to me more than vain to imagine that -everything in the world is conformable to your things; as if Nature -had no other intention than to copy you exactly in each of her -creations. I tell you I am inhabited, and you jump to the conclusion -that my inhabitants are men. I assert that they are not, and whilst -admitting that they may be another race of beings, you endow them with -qualities and customs similar to those of your people. You also speak -to me about the telescope of a certain doctor. But it seems to me the -sight of these telescopes is about as good as that of your children, -who discover that I have eyes, a mouth, and a nose, all of which I am -ignorant of possessing.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Then it is not true that your provinces are intersected by -fine long roads, and that you are cultivated;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> which things are clearly -discernible with a telescope from Germany.<a name="FNanchor_1_5" id="FNanchor_1_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_5" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. I do not know whether I am cultivated, and I have never -observed my roads.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Dear Moon, you must know that I am of a coarse composition, -and very simple-minded. No wonder therefore that men easily deceive -me. But I can assure you that if your own inhabitants do not care -to conquer you, you are by no means free from such danger; for at -different times many people down here have thought of subduing you, -and have even made great preparations for doing so. Some have tried -to reach you by going to my highest places, standing on tiptoe, and -stretching out their arms. Besides, they have made a careful study of -your surface, and drawn out maps of your countries. They also know -the heights of your mountains, and even their names. I warn you of -these things out of pure goodwill, so that you may be prepared for any -emergency.</p> - -<p>Now, permit me to ask you another question or two. Are you much -disturbed by the dogs that bay at you? What do you think of those -people who show you another moon in a well? Are you masculine or -feminine<a name="FNanchor_2_6" id="FNanchor_2_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_6" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>—because anciently there was a difference of opinion. Is -it true that the Arcadians came into the world before you?<a name="FNanchor_3_7" id="FNanchor_3_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_7" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> Are your -women, or whatever I should call them, oviparous, and did one of their -eggs fall down to us, once upon a time?<a name="FNanchor_4_8" id="FNanchor_4_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_8" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> Are you perforated like -a bead, as a modern philosopher believes?<a name="FNanchor_5_9" id="FNanchor_5_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_9" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> Are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> you made of green -cheese, as some English say? Is it true that Mahomet one fine night cut -you in two like a water melon, and that a good piece of your body fell -into his cloak? Why do you like to stay on the tops of minarets? What -do you think of the feast of Bairam?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. You may as well go on. I need not answer such questions, nor -depart from my accustomed habit of silence. If you wish to be so -frivolous, and can find nothing else to talk to me about except matters -incomprehensible to me, your people had better construct another planet -to rotate round them, which they can design and populate as they -please. You seem unable to talk of anything but men, and dogs, and such -things, of which I know as much as of that one great being round which -I am told our sun turns.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Truly the more I determine not to touch on personal matters, -the less I succeed in my resolution. But for the future I will be more -careful. Tell me; do you amuse yourself by drawing up my sea-water, and -then letting it fall again?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. It may be. But if I have done this, or other such things, I am -unaware of it. And you, it seems to me, do not consider what you effect -here, which is of so much the more importance as your size and strength -are greater than mine.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. I know nothing of these effects, except that from time to -time I deprive you of the sun's light, and myself of yours, and that I -illumine you during your nights, as is sometimes evident to me.</p> - -<p>But I am forgetting one thing, which is the most important of all. I -should like to know if Ariosto is correct in saying that everything man -loses, such as youth, beauty, health, the vigour and money spent in -the pursuit of glory, in the instruction of children, and founding or -promoting useful institutions, flies to you; so that you possess all -things pertaining to man, except<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> folly, which has never left mankind. -If this be true, I reckon you ought to be so full as to have scarcely -any space unoccupied, especially since men have recently lost a great -many things (such as patriotism, virtue, magnanimity, righteousness), -not merely in part, or singly, as in former times, but completely, and -without exception. And certainly if you have not got these things, I do -not know where else they can be. But supposing you have them, I wish -we could come to an agreement whereby you might soon return the lost -things to me; for I imagine you must be greatly encumbered, especially -with common sense, which I understand crowds you very much. In return -for this, I will see that men pay you annually a good sum of money.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Men again! Though folly, as you say, has not left your domains, -you wish nevertheless to make an utter fool of me, by depriving me of -what reason I possess, to supply the deficiency in your people. But I -do not know where this reason of yours is, nor whether it can be found -in the universe. I know well that it is not here, any more than the -other things you mention.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. At least, you can tell me if your inhabitants are acquainted -with vices, misdeeds, misfortunes, suffering, and old age; in short, -evils? Do you understand these names?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Yes, I understand these well enough, and not only the names. I -am full of them, instead of the other things.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Which are the more numerous among your people, virtues or -vices?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Vices, by a long way.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Does pleasure or pain predominate?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Pain is infinitely more prevalent.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. And your inhabitants, are they mostly happy or unhappy?</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. So unhappy that I would not exchange my lot with the happiest -of them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. It is the same here. I wonder why we differ so much in other -things, yet agree in this.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. I am also like you in shape, I rotate like you, and am -illumined by the same sun. It is no more wonderful that we should -resemble each other in these things, than that we should possess -common failings; because evil is as common to all the planets of the -universe, or at least of the solar system, as rotundity, movement, and -light. And if you could speak loud enough for Uranus or Saturn, or -any other planet, to hear you, and were to ask them if they contained -unhappiness, and whether pleasure or pain predominated, each would -answer as I have done. I speak from experience, for I have already -questioned Venus and Mercury, to whom I am now and then nearer than -you. I have also asked certain comets which have passed by me; they all -replied to the same effect. I firmly believe even the sun and every -star would make the same response.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Still I am very hopeful. In future I trust men will permit me -to experience much happiness.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Hope as much as you please. I will answer for it you may hope -for ever.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Ha! Did you hear that? These men and animals of mine are -making an uproar. It is night on the side from which I am speaking -to you, and at first they were all asleep. But, thanks to our -conversation, they are now wide awake, and very frightened.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. And here, on the other side, you see it is day.</p> - -<p><i>Earth</i>. Yes. Now I do not wish to terrify my people, or interrupt -their sleep, which is the best thing they possess; so let us postpone -conversation until another opportunity. Adieu, and good-day to you.</p> - -<p><i>Moon</i>. Adieu. Good-night.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_5" id="Footnote_1_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_5"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See German newspapers of March 1824, for particulars of -the discoveries attributed to Gruithuisen.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_6" id="Footnote_2_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_6"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> See Macrobius, <i>Saturnal</i>: lib. 3. cap. 8; Tertullian, -<i>Apolog</i>., cap. 15. The moon was also honoured as the god moon. In the -German language moon is masculine.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_7" id="Footnote_3_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_7"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> See Menander, lib. 1. cap. 15, <i>in Rhetor</i>, graec. veter.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4_8" id="Footnote_4_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_8"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Athen: lib. 2. <i>ed. Casaub</i>. p. 57.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_5_9" id="Footnote_5_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_9"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Antonio di Ulloa. See Carli, <i>Lettere Americane</i>, par. 4. -lett. 7. Milan, 1784.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="THE_WAGER_OF_PROMETHEUS" id="THE_WAGER_OF_PROMETHEUS"><i>THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS.</i></a></h4> - - -<p>In the year 833,265 of the reign of Jove, the College of the Muses -caused certain notices to be printed and affixed in the public places -of the city and suburbs of Hypernephelus. These notices contained an -invitation to all the gods, great and small, and the other inhabitants -of the city, who had recently or anciently originated some praiseworthy -invention, to make representation thereof, either actually, or by model -or description, to certain judges nominated by this College. And, -regretting that its well-known poverty prevented it from displaying the -liberality it would have liked to show, the College promised to reward -the one whose invention should be judged the finest or most useful, -with a crown of laurel. In addition to the prize itself, the College -would give the victor permission to wear the crown, day and night, in -public and private life, and both in the city and outside it; he might -also be painted, sculptured, or modelled in any manner or material -whatever, with the emblem of victory on his brow.</p> - -<p>Not a few of the gods contested the prize, simply to kill time, a -thing as necessary for the citizens of Hypernephelus, as for the -people of other towns. They had no wish for the crown, which was about -as valuable as a cotton night-cap; and as for the glory, if even men -despise it as soon as they become philosophers, it may be imagined in -what esteem the phantom was held by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> gods, who are so much wiser -than the wisest of men, if indeed they are not the sole possessors of -wisdom, as Pythagoras and Plato affirm.</p> - -<p>The prize was awarded with an unanimity hitherto unheard of in cases of -reward bestowed on the most meritorious. Neither were there any unfair -influences exercised, such as favouritism, underhand promises, or -artifice. Three competitors were chosen: Bacchus, for the invention of -wine; Minerva, for that of oil, with which the gods were daily wont to -be anointed after the bath; and Vulcan, for having made a copper pot of -an economical design, by which cooking could be expeditiously conducted -with but little fire. It was necessary to divide the prize into three -parts, so there only remained a little sprig of laurel for each of the -victors. But they all three declined the prize, whether in part or the -whole. Vulcan said, that since he was obliged to stand the greater part -of his time at the forge fire, perspiring and considerably exerting -himself, the encumbrance on his brow would be a great annoyance to -him; added to which, the laurel would run risk of being scorched or -burnt, if some spark by chance were to fall on its dry leaves and set -it on fire. Minerva excused herself on the ground of having to wear a -helmet large enough, as Homer says, to cover the united armies of a -hundred cities; consequently any increase of this weight would be very -inconvenient, and out of the question. Bacchus did not wish to change -his mitre and chaplet of vine leaves for the laurel, which, however, -he would willingly have accepted, had he been allowed to put it up as -a sign outside his tavern; but the Muses declined to grant it for that -purpose. Finally, the wreath remained in the common treasury of the -College.</p> - -<p>None of the competitors for the prize envied the three successful -gods; nor did they express vexation at the award, nor dispute the -verdict—with one exception, Prometheus. This god brought to the -contest the clay<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> model he had used in the formation of the first man. -Attached to the model was some writing which explained the qualities -and office of the human race, his invention. The chagrin displayed -by Prometheus in this matter caused no little astonishment; since -all the other gods, whether victors or vanquished, had regarded the -whole affair as a joke. But on further inquiry it transpired that what -he especially desired, was not the honour, but rather the privilege -accompanying success. Some thought he meant to use the laurel as a -protection for his head against storms; as it is said of Tiberius that -whenever he heard thunder, he donned his crown, esteeming the laurel -proof against thunderbolts. But this suggestion was negatived by the -fact that the city of Hypernephelus never experienced either thunder -or lightning. Others, more rationally, affirmed that Prometheus, owing -to age, had begun to lose his hair, and being greatly troubled at this -misadventure, as are many mortals in similar circumstances (and either -not having read Synesius' eulogy on baldness, or being unconvinced -by it), wished, like Julius Cæsar, to hide the nakedness of his head -beneath the leafy diadem.</p> - -<p>But to turn to facts. One day Prometheus, talking with Momus, bitterly -complained of the preference given to the wine, oil, and copper-pot, -in comparison with the human race, which he said was the finest -achievement of the immortals that the universe had ever seen. And not -being able sufficiently to convince Momus, who gave various reasons -against this assertion, they made a wager on the subject. Prometheus -proposed that they should descend together to the earth, and alighting -by chance in the first place they should discover inhabited by man in -each of the five parts of the world, they might find out whether or -not there were in all or most of these parts conclusive evidence that -man is the most perfect creature of the universe. Momus accepted the -wager; and having settled the amount, they began without delay<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> to -descend towards the earth. First of all they directed themselves to the -New World, which, from its name, and the fact that as yet none of the -immortals had set foot in it, greatly excited their curiosity.</p> - -<p>They touched ground towards the north of Popuyan, not far from the -river Cauca, in a place which showed many signs of human habitation. -There were traces of cultivation, level roads broken and impassable -in places, trees cut and strewn about, appearances of what might -be graves, and here and there human bones were scattered. But the -celestials could neither hear the voice, nor see the shadow of a living -man, though they listened acutely, and looked all around them. They -proceeded, walking and flying, for the distance of many miles, passing -mountains and rivers, and finding everywhere the same traces of human -habitation, and the same solitude.</p> - -<p>"How is it these countries are now deserted," said Momus to Prometheus, -"though they were evidently once inhabited?"</p> - -<p>Prometheus mentioned the inundations of the sea, earthquakes, storms, -and heavy rains, which he knew were ordinary occurrences in the -tropics. Indeed, as if in confirmation of his words, they could -distinctly hear in the neighbouring forests the incessant patter of -rain-drops falling from the branches of trees agitated by the wind.</p> - -<p>But Momus was unable to understand how that locality could be affected -by inundations of the sea, which was so distant as not to be visible on -any side. Still less could he comprehend why the earthquakes, storms, -and rains should have destroyed the human beings of the country, -sparing however, the jaguars, apes, ants, eagles, parrots, and a -hundred other kinds of animals and birds which surrounded them.</p> - -<p>At length, descending into an immense valley, they discovered a little -cluster of houses, or wooden cabins, covered with palm leaves, and -environed on all sides by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> a fence like a stockade. Before one of these -cabins, many persons, some standing, some sitting, were gathered round -an earthen pot suspended over a large fire.</p> - -<p>The two celestials, having taken human form, drew near, and Prometheus, -courteously saluting them all, turned to the one who seemed to be their -chief, and asked him what they were doing.</p> - -<p><i>Savage</i>. Eating, as you see.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. What savoury food have you got?</p> - -<p><i>Savage</i>. Only a little bit of meat.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. Of a domestic, or wild animal?</p> - -<p><i>Savage</i>. Domestic, in truth, since it is my own son.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. What! Had you then, like Pasiphaë, a calf for your son?</p> - -<p><i>Savage</i>. Not a calf, but a child like every one else.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. Do you mean what you say? Is it your own flesh and blood that -you are eating?</p> - -<p><i>Savage</i>. My own? No. But certainly that of my son. Why else did I -bring him into the world, and nourish him?</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. What! To eat him?</p> - -<p><i>Savage</i>. Why not? and I will also eat his mother when she can have no -more children.</p> - -<p><i>Momus</i>. As one eats the hen after her eggs.</p> - -<p><i>Savage</i>. And I will likewise eat my other women, when they can no -longer have children. And why also should I keep these slaves of mine -alive, if it were not that from time to time they give me children to -eat? But when they are old, I will eat them all one after the other, if -I live.<a name="FNanchor_1_10" id="FNanchor_1_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_10" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. Tell me, do these slaves belong to your tribe or to another?</p> - -<p><i>Savage</i>. Another.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. Far from here?</p> - -<p><i>Savage</i>. A very long way. A river divides their huts from ours. And -pointing with his finger to a hillock, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> added: They used to live -there, but our people have destroyed their dwellings.</p> - -<p>By this time it seemed to Prometheus that many of the savages were -standing looking at him with the sort of appreciative gaze that a cat -gives to a mouse. So, to avoid being eaten by his own manufactures, he -rose suddenly on the wing, and Momus followed his example. And such -was their fright that in setting out they unconsciously behaved as did -the Harpies towards the Trojans when at meat. But the cannibals, more -hungry, or less dainty, than the companions of Æneas, continued their -horrid repast.</p> - -<p>Prometheus, very dissatisfied with the New World, turned immediately -towards Asia, the older one. Having traversed almost in an instant the -space which lies between the East and West Indies, they both descended -near Agra, in a field where they saw a number of people. These were -all gathered round a funeral pyre of wood, by which men with torches -were standing, ready to set it on fire; and on a platform was a young -woman very sumptuously attired, and wearing a variety of barbaric -adornments, who, dancing and shouting, displayed signs of the liveliest -joy. Prometheus, seeing her, imagined that a second Lucretia or -Virginia, or some imitator of the children of Erectheus, of Iphigenia, -Codrus, Menecius, Curtius, or Decius, was about to sacrifice herself -voluntarily on behalf of her country, in obedience to the decree of -some oracle. Learning however that the woman was about to die because -her husband was dead, he supposed that, like Alcestis, she wished at -the cost of her own life to reanimate her husband. But, when they -informed him that she was only induced to burn herself because it was -customary for widows of her caste to do so, and that she had always -hated her husband, that she was drunk, and that the dead man, instead -of being resuscitated, was to be burnt in the same fire, he abruptly -turned his back on the spectacle, and set out for Europe. On their way<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> -thither, Prometheus and his companion held the following conversation.</p> - -<p><i>Momus</i>. Did you think, when at so great a hazard you stole fire from -heaven to give to men, that some of them would make use of it to cook -one another in pots, and others voluntarily to burn themselves?</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. No, indeed! But consider, dear Momus, that the men we have -hitherto seen are barbarians; and one must not judge of human nature -from barbarians, but rather from civilised people, to whom we are now -going. I have a strong conviction that among these latter we shall see -things, and hear words, which will astonish as much as delight you.</p> - -<p><i>Momus</i>. I for my part do not see, if men are the most perfect -race of the universe, why they need be civilised in order not to -burn themselves, or eat their own children. Other animals are all -uncivilised, and yet none of them deliberately burn themselves, -except the phoenix, which is fabulous; rarely they eat their own -kind; and much more rarely make food of their own offspring by any -chance whatever; neither do they specially give birth to them for -that purpose. I also understand that of the five divisions of the -world, only the smallest possesses even incompletely the civilisation -that you praise. To this may be added minute portions of other parts -of the world. And you yourself will not venture to assert that the -civilisation of the present day is such that the men of Paris or -Philadelphia have reached the highest possible state of perfection. -Yet, to enable them to attain to their present imperfect state of -civilisation, how much time has had to elapse? Even as many years as -the world can number from its origin to the existing age. Again, almost -all the inventions which have been of greatest use or importance in the -advancement of civilisation have originated rather fortuitously than -rationally. Hence, human civilisation is a work of chance rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> than -nature, and where opportunity has been lacking, the people are still -barbarians, though on the same level of age as civilised people.</p> - -<p>Consequently I make the following deductions: that man in the savage -state is many degrees inferior to every other animal; that civilisation -as compared with barbarism is only possessed even in the present day -by a small portion of the human race; that these privileged people -have only reached their existing state of culture after the lapse of -many ages, and more by chance than anything else; and finally, that -the present state of civilisation is imperfect. Consider, therefore, -whether your opinion about the human race would not be better expressed -in saying, that it is chief among races, but supreme rather in -imperfection than perfection. It does not affect the case that men -themselves, in talking and reasoning, continually confuse perfection -and imperfection, arguing as they do from certain preconceived notions, -which they take for palpable truths. It is certain that the other -races of creatures were each from the very beginning in a state of -perfection. And, since it is clear that man in a savage state compares -unfavourably with other animals, I do not understand how beings, -naturally the most imperfect among the races, as it seems men are, come -to be esteemed superior to all others.</p> - -<p>Added to which, human civilisation, so difficult to acquire, and almost -impossible to perfect, is not so immutable that it cannot relapse. -In fact, we find it has done so several times, among people who once -possessed a high degree of culture.</p> - -<p>In conclusion, I think your brother Epimetheus would have gained the -prize before you, had he brought to the judges his model of the first -ass, or first frog. I will, however, quite agree with you as to the -perfection of man, if you on your part will admit that his excellence -is of the kind attributed to the world by Plotinus. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> philosopher -says the world in itself is supremely perfect, but containing as it -does every conceivable evil, it is in reality as bad as can be. From -the same point of view, I might perhaps agree with Leibnitz, that the -present world is the best of all possible worlds.</p> - -<p>There can be no doubt that Prometheus had prepared a concise and -crushing reply to all this reasoning; but it is very certain he did not -give it expression, for just then they found themselves over the city -of London. The gods descended, and seeing a great many people rushing -to the door of a private house, they mixed with the crowd, and entered -the building. Within, they found a dead man, who had been shot in the -breast, laid out on a bed. He had a pistol clenched in his right hand, -and by his side lay two children, also dead. There were several people -of the house in the room, who were being questioned by magistrates, -while an official wrote down their replies.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. Who are these unfortunate beings?</p> - -<p><i>Servant</i>. My master and his children.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. Who has killed them?</p> - -<p><i>Servant</i>. My master himself.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. What! Do you mean to say he killed his children and himself?</p> - -<p><i>Servant</i>. Yes.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. Alas! Why did he do that? Surely some great misfortune must -have befallen him.</p> - -<p><i>Servant</i>. None that I know of.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. Perhaps he was poor, or despised by every one, unfortunate in -love, or in disgrace at court.</p> - -<p><i>Servant</i>. On the contrary, he was very rich, and I believe universally -esteemed. He cared nothing about love, and was in high favour at court.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. Then why has he done this thing?</p> - -<p><i>Servant</i>. He was weary of life,—so he says in the writing he has left.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. What are these judges doing?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Servant</i>. Taking evidence as to whether my master was out of his mind -or not. Unless he is proved to have been insane, his goods fall to the -crown by law; and really there is nothing to prevent their so doing.</p> - -<p><i>Prom</i>. But had he no friend or relative to whom he could entrust his -children instead of killing them?</p> - -<p><i>Servant</i>. Yes, he had; and especially one friend, to whom he has -commended his dog.<a name="FNanchor_2_11" id="FNanchor_2_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_11" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p>Momus was about to congratulate Prometheus on the good effects of -civilisation, and the happiness that seemed to be inseparable from -human life. He wished also to remind him that no animal except man -voluntarily killed itself, or was impelled by feelings of despair to -take the life of its own offspring. But Prometheus anticipated him, and -paid the bet at once, without visiting the two remaining parts of the -world.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_10" id="Footnote_1_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_10"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See Robertson's <i>Hist. of America</i>, Book VI.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_11" id="Footnote_2_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_11"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> A fact.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_A_NATURAL_PHILOSOPHER_AND_A_METAPHYSICIAN" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_A_NATURAL_PHILOSOPHER_AND_A_METAPHYSICIAN"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Natural Philosopher</i>. Eureka! Eureka!</p> - -<p><i>Metaphysician</i>. What is it? What have you found?</p> - -<p><i>Nat. Phil.</i> The art of long life.<a name="FNanchor_1_12" id="FNanchor_1_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_12" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p><i>Met</i>. And the book that you carry?</p> - -<p><i>Nat. Phil</i>. Explains my theory. This invention of mine will give me -eternal life. Others may live long, but I shall live for ever. I mean -that I shall acquire immortal fame.</p> - -<p><i>Met</i>. Follow my advice. Get a leaden casket; enclose therein your -book; bury it; and leave in your will directions where it may be found, -with instructions to your heirs not to exhume the book until they shall -have discovered the art of living a happy life.</p> - -<p><i>Nat. Phil</i>. And meanwhile?</p> - -<p><i>Met</i>. Meanwhile your invention will be good for nothing. It were far -better if it taught the art of living briefly.</p> - -<p><i>Nat. Phil</i>. That has already been known a long time. The discovery -was not a difficult one. <i>Met</i>. At any rate I prefer it to yours. <i>Nat -Phil</i>. Why?</p> - -<p><i>Met</i>. Because if life be not happy, as hitherto it has not been, it -were better to endure a short term of it than a long one.</p> - -<p><i>Nat. Phil</i>. No, no. I differ from you. Life is a good in itself, and -is naturally desired and loved by every one.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Met</i>. So men think. But they are deceived. Similarly people deceive -themselves in thinking that colours are attributes of the objects -coloured; whereas really they are not qualities of objects, but -of light. I assert that man loves and desires nothing but his own -happiness. He therefore loves his life only inasmuch as he esteems it -the instrument or subject of his happiness. Hence it is happiness that -he always loves, and not life; although he very often attributes to the -one the affection he has for the other. It is true that this illusion -and that relating to colours are both natural. But as a proof that the -love of life in men is unnatural, or rather unnecessary, think of the -many people that in olden times preferred to die rather than live. -In our own time too many people often wish for death, and some kill -themselves. Now such things could not occur if man naturally loved life -itself. The love of happiness, on the contrary, is innate in every -living being; indeed the world would perish before they ceased loving -and seeking it in every possible form. And as for your assertion that -life in itself is a good thing, I challenge you to prove your words by -any arguments you please, whether of physics or metaphysics. Personally -I am of opinion that a happy life is undoubtedly a good thing. But this -is because of the happiness, not the life. An unhappy life is therefore -an evil. And since it is ordained that human life should be inseparable -from unhappiness, I leave you to draw your own conclusions.</p> - -<p><i>Nat. Phil</i>. Let us drop the subject, if you please; it is too -melancholy. Answer me one question candidly, and without such -subtleties. If man had the power to live for ever, I mean in this -life and not after death, do you think he would be happy?</p> - -<p><i>Met</i>. Allow me to answer you by a fable. Moreover, as I have never -tasted immortality, I cannot reply to you from experience. Besides, I -have never by any chance met an immortal, the very existence of whom -is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> a mere matter of legend. If Cagliostro were alive, he could perhaps -enlighten you, since he was said to have lived for several centuries. -But he is now dead, like his contemporaries.</p> - -<p>To return to the fable. The wise Chiro, who was a god, in time became -so wearied of his life, that he asked permission from Jove to die. -This was granted to him; so he died.<a name="FNanchor_2_13" id="FNanchor_2_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_13" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> If immortality wrought such -an effect on the gods, how would it be with men? The Hyperboreans, an -unknown but famous people, whose country is inaccessible by sea or -land, were, it is said, rich in all manner of things, and possessed -a race of asses of peculiar beauty, which they used to offer as -sacrifices. They had the power, unless I am mistaken, of living for -ever, and knew nothing of fatigues, cares, wars, discords, or crimes. -Yet we learn that after several thousand years of life, they all killed -themselves by jumping from a certain rock into the sea, where they were -drowned.<a name="FNanchor_3_14" id="FNanchor_3_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_14" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> Here is another legend. The brothers Biton and Cleobus, -at a festival, when the mules were not ready, attached themselves to -the chariot of their mother, who was a priestess of Juno, and drew her -to the temple. Touched by their devotion, the priestess asked Juno to -reward her sons for their piety by the greatest gift possible for men -to receive. The goddess caused them both to die peacefully within an -hour, instead of giving them immortality, as they had expected.</p> - -<p>The same happened to Agamede and Trophonius. When these two men had -finished the temple of Delphi, they begged Apollo to reward them. The -god asked them to wait seven days, at the end of which time he would -do so. On the seventh night he sent them a sweet sleep from which they -have never awakened. They are so satisfied with their recompense that -they have asked nothing more.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> - -<p>On the subject of legends, here is one which introduces a question I -would have you answer. I know that by you and your colleagues human -life is generally considered to be, as a rule, of an uniformly average -duration: this in all countries and under all climates. But Pliny -relates that the men of some parts of India and Ethiopia do not exceed -the age of forty years. They who die at this age are considered very -old. Their children marry at seven years of age: and this statement -is verified by the custom in Guinea, the Deccan, and elsewhere in the -torrid zone. Now, regarding it as true that these people do not live -more than forty years (and this as a natural limit, and not due to -artificial circumstances), I ask you whether you imagine their lot -ought to be considered more or less happy than that of others?</p> - -<p><i>Nat. Phil</i>. Undoubtedly, more miserable, since they die so soon.</p> - -<p><i>Met</i>. I am of the contrary opinion for the very same reason. But that -does not matter. Give me your attention for a moment. I deny that -life itself, <i>i.e.</i>, the mere sensation of existence, has anything -pleasurable or desirable in its nature. But we all wish for the other -thing, also called life; I mean strength, and numerous sensations. -Thus, all activity, and every strong and lively passion, provided it -be neither disagreeable nor painful, pleases us simply because it is -strong and lively, although it possess no other pleasurable attributes.</p> - -<p>Now these men, whose life normally lasts only forty years, that is, -half the time granted by nature to other men, would experience every -moment an intensity of life, twice as strong as ours, because their -growth, maturity, and decline are accomplished twice as rapidly as with -us. Their energy of life therefore ought to be twice as intense as ours -at every moment of their existence. And to this greater intensity there -must correspond a more lively activity of the will, more vivacity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> and -animation. Thus they experience in less time the same quantity of life -as we have. And the fewer years that these favoured people spend on -the earth are so well filled that there is no sensible vacuum; whereas -this same quantity of life is insufficient to vivify a term twice as -long. Their actions and sensations, diffused over so limited a space, -can duly occupy all their existence; but our longer life is constantly -divided by protracted intervals devoid of all activity and lively -passion. And since existence itself is in no sense desirable, but -only in so far as it is happy; and since good or evil fortune is not -measurable by the number of our days; I conclude that the life of these -people, though shorter than ours, is much the richer in pleasures, or -what are so called. Their life must then be preferable to ours, or -even to that of the earliest kings of Assyria, Egypt, China, India, -and other countries, who are said to have lived thousands of years. So -that, far from being desirous of immortality, I am content to leave it -to fishes, which are by Leeuwenhoek believed to be immortal, provided -they are neither eaten by us nor their fellows. Instead of delaying the -development of the body, in order to lengthen life, as Maupertuis<a name="FNanchor_4_15" id="FNanchor_4_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_15" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> -proposed, I would rather accelerate it until the duration of our life -was as short as that of the insects called ephemerals; which insects, -although the most aged does not live beyond a single day, nevertheless -preside over three generations before they die. If it were so, then -there would at least be no time for ennui.</p> - -<p>What do you think of my reasoning?</p> - -<p><i>Nat. Phil</i>. It does not persuade me. I know that you love metaphysics, -whereas I for my part hold to physics. To your subtleties, I oppose -simple common sense, which is sufficient for me. Thus, I venture to -assert, without appealing to the microscope, that life is better than -death. Judging between the two, I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> give the apple to the former, -without troubling them to strip for the contest.</p> - -<p><i>Met</i>. And I would do the same. But when I call to mind the custom of -those barbarians, who, for every unhappy day of their lives, used to -throw a black stone into a quiver, and for every happy day a white one, -I cannot help thinking how few white stones compared to the black ones -would be found therein on the death of the proprietor of the quiver. -Personally, I should like to have now all the stones representing the -days of life yet remaining to me, and permission to separate them, -throwing away all-the black ones and retaining only those that were -white; even though the number of the latter was exceedingly small, and -their colour a doubtful white.</p> - -<p><i>Nat. Phil</i>. Many people, on the contrary, would be glad to increase -the number of their black stones, even though they were blacker than -they naturally would be; because they always, in their minds, dread the -last as the blackest of all. And such people, of whom I am one, will -really be able to add many stones to their normal quantity, if they -follow out the instructions contained in my book.</p> - -<p><i>Met</i>. Every one thinks and works in his own way. Death also will not -fail to do the same. But if you wish, in prolonging man's life; really -to be of service to him, discover an art to increase the number and -strength of sensations, and their effects. This would be a genuine -augmentation of human life, for it would fill up those long intervals -of time, during which we vegetate rather than live. You could then -boast of having truly prolonged human life; and without having sought -after the impossible, or used violence to natural laws; rather, by -having strengthened them. For does it not seem as though the ancients -were more full of life than we are, in spite of the many and great -dangers by which they were surrounded, and which generally shortened -their existence?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> - -<p>You will thus render a real service to man, whose life is, I will not -say more happy, but certainly less unhappy, when it is better occupied -and more violently agitated, without pain or discomfort. When, on the -other hand, existence is so full of idleness and ennui as to be justly -termed empty, the saying of Pyrrhus, "there is no difference between -life and death," is literally realised. Were this saying true, I should -be in no slight terror of death.</p> - -<p>But finally, unless life be active and vigorous, it is not true life, -and death is far preferable to it.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_12" id="Footnote_1_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_12"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See <i>Instruction in the Art of Long Life</i>, by Hufeland.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_13" id="Footnote_2_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_13"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> See Lucian, Dial. Menip. and Chiro.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_14" id="Footnote_3_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_14"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> See Pindar, Strabo, and Pliny.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4_15" id="Footnote_4_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_15"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> See <i>Lettres Philosophiques</i>: let. 11.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_TASSO_AND_HIS_FAMILIAR_SPIRIT1" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_TASSO_AND_HIS_FAMILIAR_SPIRIT1"></a><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT</i><a name="FNanchor_1_16" id="FNanchor_1_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_16" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h4> - - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Ah, Torquato. How are you?</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. As well as it is possible to be, when in prison, and up to the -neck in misfortunes.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Courage! After supper is not the time to be sorrowful. Cheer -up, and let us laugh at your griefs.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. I am little inclined for that. But somehow your presence and -conversation always do me good. Come and sit down by me.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. How can I sit? Such a thing is not easy for a spirit. But -what does it matter? Consider that I am seated.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. Oh, that I could see my Leonora again! Whenever I think of -her, I feel a thrill of joy that reaches from the crown of my head to -the extremity of my feet, and all my nerves and veins are pervaded with -it. My mind, too, becomes inflamed with certain imaginings and longings -that seem for the time to transform me. I cannot think that I am the -Torquato who has experienced so much misfortune, and I often mourn -for myself as though I were dead. Truly, it would seem that worldly -friction and suffering are wont to overwhelm and lethargise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> our first -nature within each of us. This from time to time awakens for a brief -space, but less frequently as we grow older, when it always withdraws, -and falls into an increasingly sound sleep. Finally, it dies, although -our life still continues. In short, I marvel how the thought of a woman -should have sufficient power to rejuvenate the mind, and make it forget -so many troubles. Had I not lost all hope of seeing Leonora again, I -could almost believe I might still succeed in being happy.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Which do you consider the more delightful, to see the dear -woman, or to think of her?</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. I do not know. It is true when near me she seemed only a -woman; at a distance, however, she was like a goddess.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. These goddesses are so amiable that when one approaches you, -she instantaneously puts off her divinity, and pockets her halo of -greatness for fear of dazzling the mortal to whom she appears.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. There is only too much truth in what you say. But do you not -think it is a great failing in women that they prove really to be so -very different from what we imagine?</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. I scarcely think it is their fault that they are, like us, -made of flesh and blood, instead of ambrosia and nectar. What in the -world has a thousandth part of the perfection with which your fancy -endows women? It surprises me that you are not astonished to find that -men are men, that is, creatures of little merit and amiability, since -you cannot understand why women are not really angels.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. In spite of all this, I am dying to see her again.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Compose yourself. This very night you shall dream of her. I -will lead her to you, beautiful as youth, and so kindly disposed that -you will be encouraged to speak to her much more freely and readily -than in former times. You will be induced at length to take her by the -hand, and she, looking intently at you, will surfeit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> your soul with -sweetness. And to-morrow, whenever you think of the dream, your heart -will overflow with affection.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. What a consolation! A dream instead of the truth.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. What is truth?</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. I am as ignorant on the subject as Pilate was.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Well, I will tell you. Between truth or reality, and a dream -there is this difference—the latter is much the finer thing of the two.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. What! The pleasure of a dream worth more than a real pleasure?</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. It is. As an instance, I know a man who studiously avoids -meeting his sweetheart the following day after she has appeared to -him in a dream. He knows full well that he would not find in her all -the charms with which she was endowed in the dream, and that reality, -dispelling the illusion, would deprive him of the pleasure he felt. -The ancients too, who were much more diligent and skilful in their -search after all the enjoyments possible for man to have, did wisely -in endeavouring by various means to realise the sweetness and pleasure -of dreams. Pythagoras also was right when he forbad the eating of -beans for supper; these vegetables producing a dreamless or troubled -sleep.<a name="FNanchor_2_17" id="FNanchor_2_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_17" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> I could also find excuse for those superstitious people who -were wont, before going to bed, to invoke the aid of Mercury, the -president of dreams. They offered sacrifice to him that he might grant -them happy dreams, and used to keep an image of the god at the foot -of their bed. Thus it was that being unable to procure any happiness -during the day, people sought it in the night-time. I am of opinion -that they were in a measure successful, and that Mercury paid more -attention to their prayers than was the custom of the other gods.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. But, since men live for nothing but pleasure,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> whether of mind -or body, if this pleasure can only be found when we dream, it follows -that we live for no other purpose but to dream. Now I really cannot -admit that.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. You already admit it, inasmuch as you live, and are willing -to live. But what is pleasure?</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. My acquaintance with it is too slight to enable me to answer -you.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. No one has any real acquaintance with it, because pleasure -is not a reality, but a conception. It is a desire, not a fact. A -sentiment, imagined not experienced; or, better, it is a conception, -and not a sentiment at all. Do you not perceive that even in the very -moment of enjoyment, however ardently it may have been longed for or -painfully acquired, your mind, not deriving complete satisfaction from -the happiness, anticipates at some future time a greater and more -complete enjoyment? It is expectation that constitutes pleasure. Thus, -you never weary of placing reliance on some pleasure of the future, -which melts away just when you expect to enjoy it. The truth is, you -possess nothing but the hope of a more complete enjoyment at some -other time; and the satisfaction of imagining that you have had some -enjoyment, and of talking about it to others, less because you are -vain than to persuade yourself that the illusion is a reality. Hence, -everyone that consents to live makes this fugitive dream his aim in -life. He believes in the reality of past and future enjoyment, both of -which beliefs are false and fanciful.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. Then is it impossible for a man to believe that he is actually -happy?</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. If such a belief were possible, his happiness would be -genuine. But tell me: do you ever remember having been able at any -moment in your life to say sincerely, "I am happy"? Doubtless you have -daily been able to say, and have said in all sincerity, "I shall be -happy;" and often too, though less sincerely, "I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> been happy." -Thus, pleasure is always either a thing of the past, or the future, -never the present.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. You may as well say it is non-existent.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. So it seems.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. Even in dreams?</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Even in dreams, considering pleasure in its true sense.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. And yet pleasure is the sole object and aim of life! By the -term pleasure I mean the happiness which ought to be a consequence of -pleasure.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Assuredly.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. Then our life, being deprived of its real aim, must always be -imperfect, and existence itself unnatural.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Perhaps.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. There is no perhaps in the matter. But why is it that we live? -I mean, why do we consent to live?</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. How should I know? You yourselves ought to know better than I.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. I assure you I do not know.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Ask some one wiser than yourself. Perhaps he may be able to -satisfy you.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. I will do so. But certainly, the life that I lead is an -unnatural state, because apart from my sufferings, ennui alone murders -me.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. What is ennui?</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. As to this, I can answer from experience. Ennui seems to me of -the nature of atmosphere, which fills up the spaces between material -bodies, and also the voids in the bodies themselves. Whenever a body -disappears, and is not replaced by another, air fills up the gap -immediately. So too, in human life, the intervals between pleasures -and pains are occupied by ennui. And since in the material world, -according to the Peripatetics, there can be no vacuum, so also in our -life there is none, save when for some cause or other the mind loses -its power of thought. At all other times<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> the mind, considered as a -separate identity from the body, is occupied with some sentiment. If -void of pleasure or pain, it is full of ennui; for this last is also a -sentiment like pleasure and pain.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. And, since all your pleasures are like cobwebs, exceedingly -fragile, thin and transparent, ennui penetrates their tissue, and -saturates them, just as air penetrates the webs. I believe ennui is -really nothing but the desire of happiness, without the illusion of -pleasure and the suffering of pain. This desire, we have said, is never -completely satisfied, since true pleasure does not exist. So that human -life may be said to be interwoven with pain and ennui, and one of these -sentiments disappears only to give place to the other. This is the fate -of all men, and not of yourself alone.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. What remedy is there for ennui?</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Sleep, opium, and pain. The last is the best of the three, -because he who suffers never experiences ennui.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. I would rather submit to ennui for the rest of my life, than -take such medicine. But its force and strength may be diminished by -action, work, and even other sentiments; though these do not entirely -free us from ennui, since they are unable to give us real pleasure. -Here in prison however, deprived of human society, without even the -means of writing, reduced for an amusement to counting the ticks of the -clock, looking at the beams, cracks, and nails of the ceiling, thinking -about the pavement stones, and watching the gnats and flies which flit -across my cell, I have nothing to relieve for a moment my burden of -ennui.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. How long have you been reduced to this kind of life?</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. For many weeks, as you know.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Have you felt no variation in the ennui which oppresses you, -from the first day until now?</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. Yes. I felt it more at first. Gradually my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> mind is becoming -accustomed to its own society; I derive more and more pleasure from -my solitude, and by practice I am acquiring so great a readiness in -conversation, or rather chattering to myself, that I seem to have in my -head a company of talkative people, and the most trifling object is now -sufficient to give rise to endless discourse.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. This habit will grow on you daily to such an extent, that -when you are free, you will feel more idle in society than in solitude. -Custom has made you bear patiently your kind of life, and the same -influence works not only in people who meditate like you, but in -everyone. Besides, the very fact that you are separated from men, and -even, it may be said, from life itself, will be of some advantage to -you. Disgusted and wearied with human affairs, as you are from your sad -experience, you will in time begin to look on them, from a distance, -with an appreciative eye. In your solitude they will appear to you more -beautiful, and worthy of affection. You will forget their vanity and -misery, and will take upon yourself to re-create the world as you would -have it. Consequently, you will value, desire, and love life. And, -provided there be the possibility or certainty of your return to human -society some day, your new aspect of life will fill and gladden your -mind with a joy like that of childhood.</p> - -<p>Solitude does indeed sometimes act like a second youth. It rejuvenates -the soul, revives the imagination, and renews in an experienced man -those impressions of early innocence that you so ardently desire. -But your eyes seem heavy with sleep: I will now therefore leave you -to prepare the fine dream I promised you. Thus between dreams and -fancies, your life shall pass without other gain than the fact of its -passing, which is the sole benefit of life. To hasten it should be the -one aim of your existence. You are often obliged to cling to life, as -it were with your teeth; happy will be the day when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> death releases -you from the struggle. But after all, time passes as tediously with -your persecutor in his palace and gardens, as with you in your prison -chamber. Adieu.</p> - -<p><i>Tasso</i>. Adieu, yet stay a moment. Your conversation always enlivens -me. It does not draw me from my sadness, but my mind, which is -generally comparable to a dark night, moonless and starless, changes -when you are near to a condition like that of a grey dawn, pleasurable -rather than otherwise. Now tell me how I can find you in case I want -you at some future time.</p> - -<p><i>Spirit</i>. Do you not yet know?—In any generous liquor.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_16" id="Footnote_1_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_16"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Tasso, during his mental hallucinations, used to fancy, -like Socrates, that he was visited by a friendly spirit, with which he -would hold long conversations. Manso, in his life of Tasso, mentions -this, and states that he was once present during such a colloquy or -soliloquy between Tasso and his imagined companion.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_17" id="Footnote_2_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_17"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Apollonius, <i>Hist. Comment</i>., cap. 46, &c.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_NATURE_AND_AN_ICELANDER" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_NATURE_AND_AN_ICELANDER"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER.</i></a></h4> - - -<p>An Icelander who had travelled over most of the earth, and had lived -in very many different lands, found himself one day in the heart of -Africa. As he crossed the equator in a place never before penetrated -by man, he had an adventure like that which happened to Vasco di Gama, -who, when passing the Cape of Good Hope, was opposed by two giants, the -guardians of the southern seas, that tried to prevent his entrance into -the new waters.<a name="FNanchor_1_18" id="FNanchor_1_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_18" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> The Icelander saw in the distance a huge bust, in -appearance like the colossal Hermes he had formerly seen in the Isle -of Pasqua. At first he thought it was made of stone, but as he drew -near to it he saw that the head belonged to an enormous woman, who was -seated on the ground, resting her back against a mountain. The figure -was alive, and had a countenance both magnificent and terrible, and -eyes and hair of a jet black colour. She looked fixedly at him for a -long time in silence. At length she said:</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. Who art thou? What doest thou here, where thy race is unknown?</p> - -<p><i>Icelander</i>. I am a poor Icelander, fleeing from Nature. I have fled -from her ever since I was a child, through a hundred different parts of -the world, and I am fleeing from her now.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. So flees the squirrel from the rattlesnake, and runs in its -haste deliberately into the mouth of its tormentor. I am that from -which thou fleest.</p> - -<p><i>Icelander</i>. Nature?</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. Even so.</p> - -<p><i>Icelander</i>. I am smitten with anguish, for I consider no worse -misfortune could befall me.</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. Thou mightest well have imagined that I was to be found in -countries where my power is supremest. But why dost thou shun me?</p> - -<p><i>Icelander</i>. You must know that from my earliest youth, experience -convinced me of the vanity of life, and the folly of men. I saw these -latter ceaselessly struggling for pleasures that please not, and -possessions that do not satisfy. I saw them inflict on themselves, and -voluntarily suffer, infinite pains, which, unlike the pleasures, were -only too genuine. In short, the more ardently they sought happiness, -the further they seemed removed from it. These things made me determine -to abandon every design, to live a life of peace and obscurity, harming -no one, striving in nought to better my condition, and contesting -nothing with anyone. I despaired of happiness, which I regarded as a -thing withheld from our race, and my only aim was to shield myself -from suffering. Not that I had the least intention of abstaining from -work, or bodily labour; for there is as great a difference between mere -fatigue and pain,<a name="FNanchor_2_19" id="FNanchor_2_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_19" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> as between a peaceful and an idle life.</p> - -<p>But when I began to carry out my project, I learnt from experience how -fallacious it is to think that one can live inoffensively amongst men -without offending them. Though I always gave them precedence, and took -the smallest part of everything, I found neither<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> rest nor happiness -among them. However, this I soon remedied. By avoiding men I freed -myself from their persecutions. I took refuge in solitude—easily -obtainable in my native island. Having done this, I lived without a -shadow of enjoyment; yet I found I had not escaped all suffering. -The intense cold of the long winter, and the extreme heat of summer, -characteristic of the country, allowed me no cessation from pain. And -when, to warm myself, I passed much time by the fire, I was scorched by -the flames, and blinded by the smoke. I suffered continuously, whether -in the open air, or in the shelter of my cabin. In short, I failed to -obtain that life of peace which was my one desire. Terrible storms, -Hecla's menaces and rumblings, and the constant fires which occur among -the wooden houses of my country, combined to keep me in a state of -perpetual disquietude. Such annoyances as these, trivial though they be -when the mind is distracted by the thoughts and actions of social and -civil life, are intensified by solitude. I endured them all, together -with the hopeless monotony of my existence, solely in order to obtain -the tranquillity I desired. I perceived that the more I isolated myself -from men, and confined me to my own little sphere, the less I succeeded -in protecting myself from the discomforts and sufferings of the outer -world.</p> - -<p>Then I determined to try other climates and countries, to see if -anywhere I could live in peace, harming no one, and exist without -suffering, if also without pleasure. I was urged to this by the thought -that perhaps you had destined for the human race a certain part of the -earth (as you have for many animals and plants), where alone they could -live in comfort. In which case it was our own fault if we suffered -inconvenience from having exceeded our natural boundaries. I have -therefore been over the whole earth, testing every country, and always -fulfilling my intention of troubling others in the least possible -degree, and seeking nothing for myself but a life of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> tranquillity. -But in vain. The tropical sun burnt me; the Arctic cold froze me; in -temperate regions the changeability of the weather troubled me; and -everywhere I have experienced the fury of the elements. I have been in -places where not a day passes without a storm, and where you, O Nature, -are incessantly at war with simple people who have never done you any -harm. In other places cloudless skies are compensated for by frequent -earthquakes, active volcanoes, and subterranean commotions. Elsewhere -hurricanes and whirlwinds take the place of other scourges. Sometimes -I have heard the roof over my head groan with the burden of snow that -it supported; at other times the earth, saturated with rain, has broken -away beneath my feet. Rivers have burst their banks, and pursued me, -fleeing at full speed, as though I were an enemy. Wild beasts tried -to devour me, without the least provocation on my part. Serpents have -sought to poison or crush me; and I have been nearly killed by insects. -I make no mention of the daily hazards by which man is surrounded. -These last are so numerous that an ancient philosopher<a name="FNanchor_3_20" id="FNanchor_3_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_20" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> laid down a -rule, that to resist the constant influence of fear, it were well to -fear everything.</p> - -<p>Again, sickness has not failed to torment me, though invariably -temperate, and even abstemious, in all bodily pleasures. In truth, our -natural constitution is an admirably arranged affair! You inspire us -with a strong and incessant yearning for pleasure, deprived of which -our life is imperfect; and on the other hand you ordain that nothing -should be more opposed to physical health and strength, more calamitous -in its effects, and more incompatible with the duration of life itself, -than this same pleasure. But although I indulged in no pleasures, -numerous diseases attacked me, some of which endangered my life, and -others the use of my limbs, thus threatening me with even an access of -misery. All, during many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> days or months, caused me to experience a -thousand bodily and mental pangs. And, whereas in sickness we endure -new and extraordinary sufferings, as though our ordinary life were -not sufficiently unhappy; you do not compensate for this by giving us -equally exceptional periods of health and strength, and consequent -enjoyment. In regions where the snow never melts, I lost my sight; this -is an ordinary occurrence among the Laplanders in their cold country. -The sun and air, things necessary for life, and therefore unavoidable, -trouble us continually; the latter by its dampness or severity, the -former by its heat, and even its light; and to neither of them can -man remain exposed without suffering more or less inconvenience or -harm. In short, I cannot recollect a single day during which I have -not suffered in some way; whereas, on the other hand, the days that -have gone by without a shadow of enjoyment are countless. I conclude -therefore that we are destined to suffer much in proportion as we enjoy -little, and that it is as impossible to live peacefully as happily. I -also naturally come to the conclusion that you are the avowed enemy of -men, and all other creatures of your creation. Sometimes alluring, at -other times menacing; now attacking, now striking, now pursuing, now -destroying; you are always engaged in tormenting us. Either by habit or -necessity you are the enemy of your own family, and the executioner of -your own flesh and blood. As for me, I have lost all hope. Experience -has proved to me that though it be possible to escape from men and -their persecutions, it is impossible to evade you, who will never -cease tormenting us until you have trodden us under foot. Old age, -with all its bitterness, and sorrows, and accumulation of troubles, is -already near to me. This worst of evils you have destined for us and -all created beings, from the time of infancy. From the fifth lustre of -life, decline makes itself manifest; its progress we are powerless to -stay. Scarce a third of life is spent in the bloom of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> youth; but few -moments are claimed by maturity; all the rest is one gradual decay, -with its attendant evils.</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. Thinkest thou then that the world was made for thee? It is -time thou knewest that in my designs, operations, and decrees, I never -gave a thought to the happiness or unhappiness of man. If I cause you -to suffer, I am unaware of the fact; nor do I perceive that I can in -any way give you pleasure. What I do is in no sense done for your -enjoyment or benefit, as you seem to think. Finally, if I by chance -exterminated your species, I should not know it.</p> - -<p><i>Icelander</i>. Suppose a stranger invited me to his house in a most -pressing manner, and I, to oblige him, accepted his invitation. On my -arrival he took me to a damp and unhealthy place, and lodged me in a -chamber open to the air, and so ruinous that it threatened momentarily -to collapse and crush me. Far from endeavouring to amuse me, and make -me comfortable, he neglected to provide me with even the necessaries -of life. And more than this. Suppose my host caused me to be insulted, -ridiculed, threatened, and beaten by his sons and household. And on my -complaining to him of such ill-treatment, he replied: "Dost thou think -I made this house for thee? Do I keep these my children and servants -for thy service? I assure thee I have other things to occupy me, than -that I should amuse thee, or give thee welcome." To which I answered: -"Well, my friend, though you may not have built your house especially -for me, at least you might have forborne to ask me hither. And, since I -owe it to you that I am here, ought I not to rely on you to assure me, -if possible, a life free from trouble and danger?"</p> - -<p>Thus I reply to you. I am well aware you did not make the world for the -service of men. It were easier to believe that you made it expressly -as a place of torment for them. But tell me: why am I here at all? Did -I ask to come into the world? Or am I here<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> unnaturally, contrary to -your will? If however, you yourself have placed me here, without giving -me the power of acceptance or refusal of this gift of life, ought you -not as far as possible to try and make me happy, or at least preserve -me from the evils and dangers, which render my sojourn a painful one? -And what I say of myself, I say of the whole human race, and of every -living creature.</p> - -<p><i>Nature</i>. Thou forgettest that the life of the world is a perpetual -cycle of production and destruction, so combined that the one works -for the good of the other. By their joint operation the universe is -preserved. If either ceased, the world would dissolve. Therefore, if -suffering were removed from the earth, its own existence would be -endangered.</p> - -<p><i>Icelander</i>. So say all the philosophers. But since that which is -destroyed suffers, and that which is born from its destruction also -suffers in due course, and finally is in its turn destroyed, would you -enlighten me on one point, about which hitherto no philosopher has -satisfied me? For whose pleasure and service is this wretched life of -the world maintained, by the suffering and death of all the beings -which compose it?</p> - -<p>Whilst they discussed these and similar questions, two lions are said -to have suddenly appeared. The beasts were so enfeebled and emaciated -with hunger that they were scarcely able to devour the Icelander. They -accomplished the feat however, and thus gained sufficient strength to -live to the end of the day.</p> - -<p>But certain people dispute this fact. They affirm that a violent wind -having arisen, the unfortunate Icelander was blown to the ground, -and soon overwhelmed beneath a magnificent mausoleum of sand. Here -his corpse was remarkably preserved, and in process of time he was -transformed into a fine mummy. Subsequently, some travellers discovered -the body, and carried it off as a specimen, ultimately depositing it in -one of the museums of Europe.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_18" id="Footnote_1_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_18"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Camoens' <i>Lusiad</i>, canto 5.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_19" id="Footnote_2_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_19"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Cicero says: "Labour and pain are not identical. Labour is -a toil-some function of body or mind—pain an unpleasant disturbance in -the body. When they cut Marius' veins, it was pain; when he marched at -the head of the troops in a great heat, it was labour."—<i>Tusc. Quæst.</i></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_20" id="Footnote_3_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_20"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Seneca, <i>Natural. Question</i>: lib. 6, cap. 2.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="PARINI_ON_GLORY" id="PARINI_ON_GLORY"><i>PARINI ON GLORY.</i></a></h4> - - - -<p>Giuseppe Parini<a name="FNanchor_1_21" id="FNanchor_1_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_21" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> was in our opinion one of the very few Italians who -to literary excellence joined depth of thought, and acquaintance with -contemporary philosophy. These latter attributes are now so essential -to the cultivation of the <i>belles lettres</i>, that their absence would -be inconceivable, did we not find an infinite number of Italian -<i>littérateurs</i> of the present day, in whom they are wanting.</p> - -<p>He was remarkable for his simplicity, his compassion for the -unfortunate and his own country, his fidelity, high-mindedness, and the -courage with which he bore the adversities of nature and fortune, which -tormented him during the whole course of his miserable and lowly life. -Death however drew him from obscurity.</p> - -<p>He had several disciples, whom he taught, first of all, to gain -experience of men and things, and then to amuse themselves with -eloquence and poetry. Among his followers was a youth, lately come to -him, of wonderful genius and industry, and of very great promise. To -him one day Parini spoke as follows:</p> - -<p>"You seek, my son, the only avenue to glory which is open to people who -lead a private life, such glory as is sometimes the reward of wisdom, -and literary and other studies. Now you are not unaware that this -glory, though far from being despised, was by our greatest ancestors -held in less esteem than that derivable from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> other things. Cicero, -for instance, though a most ardent and successful follower of glory, -frequently and emphatically makes apology for the time and labour he -had spent in its pursuit. On one occasion he states that his literary -and philosophical studies were secondary to his public life; on -another, that being constrained by the wickedness of the age to abandon -more important business, he hoped to spend his leisure profitably amid -these studies. He invariably rated the glory of his writings at a lower -value than that acquired from his consulship and his labours on behalf -of the republic.</p> - -<p>"Indeed, if human life be the principal subject of literature, and to -rule our actions the first lesson of philosophy; there can be no doubt -that action itself is as much more important and noble than thoughts -and writing, as the end is nobler than the means, or as things and -subjects in comparison with words and reasoning. For no man, however -clever he be, is naturally created for study, nor born to write. Action -alone is natural to him. And we see the majority of fine writers, and -especially illustrious poets in the present age (Vittorio Alfieri, -for instance), impelled to action in an extraordinary degree. Then, -if by chance the deeds of these men prove unacceptable, either from -the nature of the times or their own ill-fortune, they take up the -pen and write grand things. Nor can people write who have neither the -disposition nor power to act. From this you will easily understand why -so few Italians gain immortal fame by their writings; it is that they -are by nature unfit for noble actions. Antiquity, especially that of -the early Greeks or Romans, is, I think, comparable to the design of -the statue of Telesilla, who was a poetess, a warrior, and the saviour -of her country. She is represented holding her helmet, at which she -looks intently and longingly, as though she desired to place it on her -head; at her feet lie some books almost disregarded,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> as forming but an -insignificant part of her glory.<a name="FNanchor_2_22" id="FNanchor_2_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_22" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p>"But men of modern times are differently situated to the ancients. -Glory is less open to them. They who make studies their vocation in -life show the greatest possible magnanimity; nor need they, like -Cicero, apologise to their country for the profession they have chosen. -I therefore applaud the nobility of your decision. But since a life of -letters, being unnatural, cannot be lived without injury to the body, -nor without increasing in many ways the natural infelicity of your -mind, I regard it as my duty to explain to you the various difficulties -attendant on the pursuit of that glory towards which you aspire, and -the results that will follow success should you attain it. You will -then be able to estimate, on the one hand, the importance and value -of the goal, and your chance of reaching it; and, on the other, the -sufferings, exertions, and discomforts inseparable from the pursuit. -Thus, you may be better able to decide whether it be expedient to -continue as you have begun, or to seek glory by some other road."</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_21" id="Footnote_1_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_21"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Parini lived 1729-1799. As a philosopher and satirist he -seems to have exercised no slight influence over the mind of Leopardi.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_22" id="Footnote_2_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_22"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Pausanias, lib. 2, cap. 20.</p></div> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER II.</h5> - -<p>"I might first of all say a great deal about the rivalries, envy, -bitter censures, libels, injustices, schemes and plots against your -character, both in public and private, and the many other difficulties -which the wickedness of men will induce them to oppose to you in the -path you have chosen. These obstacles, always very hard to overcome -and often insuperable, exercise a further influence. It is owing to -them that more than one author, not only in life, but even when dead, -is robbed of the honour that is due to him. Such an one, not having -been famous when alive, because of the hatred or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> envy with which he -was regarded by others, when dead remains in obscurity, because he is -forgotten; for it rarely happens that a man obtains glory after he has -ceased writing, when there is no one to excite an interest in him.</p> - -<p>"I do not intend to refer to the hindrances which arise from matters -personal to the writer, and other more trivial things. Yet it is often -owing to these latter that writings worthy of the highest praise, and -the fruit of infinite exertions, are for ever excluded from fame, or -having been before the world for a short time, fall into oblivion, and -disappear entirely from the memory of men. For the same causes other -writings, either inferior to or no better than these, become highly -honoured. I will merely expose to you the difficulties and troubles -which, apart from the malice of men, will stubbornly contest the -prize of glory. These embarrassments are of ordinary, not exceptional -occurrence, and have been experienced by most great writers.</p> - -<p>"You are aware that no one can be called a great writer, nor obtains -true and lasting glory, except by means of excellent and perfect works, -or such as approach perfection. The following very true utterance of -Castiglione is worthy of being engraved on your mind:—It is very -seldom that a person unaccustomed to write, however learned he be, can -adequately recognise the skill and industry of writers; or appreciate -the delicacy and excellence of styles, and those subtle and hidden -significations which abound in the writings of the ancients.'</p> - -<p>"In the first place, consider how very few people practise or learn -the art of composition; and think from how small a number of men, -whether in the present or the future, you can in any case look for the -magnificent estimation which you hope will be the reward of your life. -Consider, too, how much influence style has in securing appreciation -for writings. On this, and their degree of perfection, depends the -subsequent fate of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> works that come under the heading of 'light -literature,' So great is the influence of style, that a book presumably -celebrated for its matter often proves valueless when deprived of its -manner. Now, language is so interwoven with style that the one can -hardly be considered apart from the other. Men frequently confuse the -two together, and are often unable to express the distinction between -them, if even they are aware of it in the first place. And as for the -thousand merits and defects of language and style, with difficulty, -if at all, can they be discerned and assigned to their respective -properties. But it is certain, to quote the words of Castiglione, that -no foreigner is 'accustomed to write' with elegance in your language. -It follows therefore that style, which is so great and important a -necessity in composition, and a thing of such unaccountable difficulty -and labour, both in acquirement and usage, can only properly be judged -and appreciated by the persons who in one single nation are accustomed -to write. For all other people the boundless exertions attached to the -formation of style will be almost useless, and as if entirely wasted. I -will not refer to the infinite diversities of opinion, and the various -tendencies of readers; owing to which the number of persons adapted to -perceive the good qualities of this or that book is still more reduced.</p> - -<p>"You must regard it as an undoubted fact that, in order to distinctly -recognise the value of a perfect or nearly perfect work, deserving of -immortality, it is not enough merely to be accustomed to write. You -yourself must be able to accomplish the work in question almost as -perfectly as the writer himself. And as experience gradually teaches -you what qualities constitute a perfect writer, and what an infinity of -difficulties must be surmounted before these can be obtained, you will -learn how to overcome the latter, and acquire the former; so that in -time knowledge and power will prove to be one and the same thing. Hence -a man cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> discern nor fully appreciate the excellence of perfect -writers until he is able to give expression to it in his own writings; -because such perfection can only be appreciated by what may be termed -a transference of it into oneself. Until this be done, a man cannot -really understand what constitutes perfection in writing, and will -therefore be unable to duly admire the best writers.</p> - -<p>"Now most literary men, because they write easily, think they write -well; they therefore regard good writing as a facile accomplishment, -even though they assert the contrary. Think, then, how the number will -be reduced of those who might appreciate and laud you when, after -inconceivable exertions and care, you succeed in producing a noble and -perfect work. In the present day there are scarcely two or three men in -Italy who have acquired the art of perfect writing; and although this -number may appear to you excessively small, at no time nor place has it -ever been much greater.</p> - -<p>"I often wonder to myself how Virgil, as a supreme example of literary -perfection, ever acquired the high reputation in which he is now -held. For I am certain that most of his readers and eulogisers do not -discover in his poems more than one beauty for every ten or twenty -revealed to me by continuous study and meditation. Not that I imagine I -have succeeded in estimating him at his proper value, nor have derived -every possible enjoyment from his writings. In truth, the esteem and -admiration professed for the greatest writers is ordinarily the result -of a blind predisposition in their favour, rather than the outcome of -an impartial judgment, or the consequence of a due appreciation of -their merits.</p> - -<p>"When I was young I remember first reading Virgil, being on the one -hand unbiassed in my judgment, and careless of the opinion of others -(a very rare thing, by the by); and, on the other hand, as ignorant as -most boys of my age, though perhaps not more so than is the unchanging -condition of many readers. I refused to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> admit that Virgil's reputation -was merited, since I failed to discover in him much more than is to be -found in very ordinary poets. Indeed, it surprises me that Virgil's -fame should excel that of Lucan. For we see the mass of readers, at -all times, equally when the literature of the day is of a debasing or -an elevating tendency, much prefer gross and unmistakable beauties to -those that are delicate and half-concealed. They also prefer fervour -to modesty; often indeed even the apparent to the real; and usually -mediocrity to perfection.</p> - -<p>"In reading the letters of a certain prince, exceptionally intelligent, -whose writing was remarkable for its wit, pleasantry, smoothness, and -acuteness, I clearly discerned that in his heart he preferred the -Henriad to the Æneid; although the fear of shocking men's sensibilities -might deter him from confessing such a preference.</p> - -<p>"I am astonished that the judgment of a few, correct though it be, -should have succeeded in controlling that of numbers, and should have -established the custom of an esteem no less blind than just. This, -however, does not always occur, and I imagine that the fame gained by -the best writers is rather a matter of chance than merit. My opinion -may be confirmed by what I say as we proceed."</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER III.</h5> - - -<p>"We have seen how very few people will be able to appreciate you when -you succeed in becoming a perfect writer. Now, I wish to indicate -some of the hindrances that will prevent even these few from rightly -estimating your worth, although they see the signs of it.</p> - -<p>"In the first place, there can be no doubt that all writings of -eloquence or poetry are judged, not so much on their merits, as by -the effect they produce in the mind of the reader. So that the reader -may be said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> to consider them rather in himself than in themselves. -Consequently men who are naturally devoid of imagination and -enthusiasm, though gifted with much intelligence, discernment, and -no little learning, are almost quite incapable of forming a correct -judgment of fanciful writings. They cannot in the least immerse their -minds in the mind of the writer, and usually have within themselves a -feeling of contempt for his compositions, because unable to discover -in what their so great fame consists. Such reading awakens no emotion -within them, nor does it arouse their imagination, or create in them -any especial sensation of pleasure. And even people who are naturally -disposed and inclined to receive the impression of whatever image or -fancy a writer has properly signified, very often experience a feeling -of coldness, indifference, languor, or dulness; so that for the time -they resemble the persons just mentioned. This change is due to divers -causes, internal and external, physical and mental, and is either -temporary or lasting. At such times no one, even though himself an -excellent writer, is a good judge of writings intended to excite the -affections or the imagination. Again, there is the danger of satiety -due to previous reading of similar writings. Certain passions too, of -more or less strength, from time to time invest the mind, leaving no -room for the emotions which ought to be excited by the reading. And it -often happens that places; spectacles, natural or artificial, music; -and a hundred such things, which would ordinarily excite us, are now -incapable of arousing or delighting us in the least, although no less -attractive than formerly.</p> - -<p>"But, though a man, for one or other of these reasons, may be ill -disposed to appreciate the effects of eloquence or poetry, he does -not for that reason defer judgment of books on both these subjects -which he then happens to read for the first time. I myself sometimes -take up Homer, Cicero, or Petrarch, and read without feeling the least -emotion. Yet, as I am quite aware of the merits of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> these writers, -both because of their reputation, and my own frequent appreciation of -their charms, I do not for a moment think them undeservedly praised -simply because I am at present too dull to do them justice. But it is -different with books read for the first time, which are too new to have -acquired a reputation. There is nothing in such cases to prevent the -reader forming a low opinion of the author and the merits of his book, -if his mind be indisposed to do justice to the sentiments and imagery -contained in the work. Nor would it be easy to induce him to alter his -judgment by subsequent study of the same book under better auspices; -for probably the disgust inspired by his first reading will deter him -from a second; and in any case the strength of first impressions will -be almost invincible.</p> - -<p>"On the other hand, the mind is sometimes, for one reason or another, -in such a state of sensibility, vivacity, vigour, and fervour, that -it follows even the least suggestion of the reading; it feels keenly -the slightest touch, and as it reads is able to create within itself -a thousand emotions and fancies, sometimes losing itself in a sort -of sweet delirium, when it is almost transported out of itself. As a -natural result of this, the mind, reviewing the pleasures enjoyed in -the reading, and not distinguishing between its own predisposition -and the actual merits of the book, experiences a feeling of so great -admiration, and forms so high a conception of it, as even to rank the -book above others of much greater merit, read under less felicitous -circumstances. See therefore to what uncertainty is subject even the -truth and justice of opinions from the same persons, as to the writings -and genius of others, quite apart from any sentiment of malice or -favour. So great is this uncertainty that a man varies considerably -in his estimation of works of equal value, and even the same work, at -different times of life, under different circumstances, and even at -different hours of the day."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER IV.</h5> - - -<p>"Perhaps you may think that these difficulties, due to mental -indisposition on the part of readers, are of rare occurrence. Consider, -then, how frequently a man, as he grows old, becomes incapable of -appreciating the charms of eloquence and poetry, no less than those -of the other imitative arts, and everything beautiful in the world. -This intellectual decay is a necessity of our nature. In the present -day it is so much greater than formerly, begins so much earlier, and -progresses so much more rapidly, especially in the studious, as our -experience is enlarged in more or less degree by the knowledge begotten -of the speculations of so many past centuries. For which reason, and -owing to the present condition of civilised life, the phantoms of -childhood soon vanish from the imagination of men; with them go the -hopes of the mind, and with the hopes most of the desires, passions, -and energy of life and its faculties. Whence I often wonder that men -of mature age, especially the learned and those inclined to meditate -about human affairs, should yet be subject to the influence of poetry -and eloquence, which are, however, unable to produce any real effect on -them.</p> - -<p>"It may be regarded as a fact that, in order to be greatly moved by -imagination of the grand and beautiful, one must believe that there is -something really grand and beautiful in human life, and that poetry is -not mere fable. The young always believe such things, even when they -know their fallacy, until personal experience forces them to accept -the truth. But it is difficult to put faith in them after the sad -discipline of practical life; especially when experience is combined -with habits of study and speculation.</p> - -<p>"From this it would seem that the young are generally better judges -of writings intended to arouse the affections<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> and the imagination, -than men of mature and advanced age. But, on the other hand, the -young are novices in literature. They exact from books a superhuman, -boundless, and impossible pleasure, and where they fail to experience -this they despise the writer. Illiterate people have the same idea of -the functions of literature. And youths addicted to reading prefer, -both in their own writings and those of others, extravagance to -moderation, magnificence or attractiveness of style and ornamentation, -to the simple and natural, and sham beauties to real ones. This is -partly due to their limited experience, and partly to the impetuosity -of their time of life. Consequently, although the young are doubtless -more inclined than their elders to applaud what seems good to them, -since they are more truthful and candid, they are seldom capable of -appreciating the excellences of literary works. As we grow older, -the influence exercised over us by art increases, as that of nature -diminishes. Nevertheless both nature and art are necessary to produce -effect.</p> - -<p>"Dwellers in large towns are compelled to sacrifice the beautiful -to the useful. Even though of warm and sensitive natures and lively -imagination, they cannot experience as an effect of the charms -either of nature or literature any tender or noble sentiment, any -sublime or delightful fancy; unless indeed, like you, they spend -most of their time in solitude. For few things are so opposed to -the state of mind necessary to appreciate such delights, as the -conversation of these men, the riot of these places, and the sight of -the tinselled splendour, the falseness, the miserable troubles, and -still more miserable idleness which abound there. I also think that -the <i>littérateurs</i> of large towns are, as a rule, less qualified to -judge books than those of small towns; because, like everything else, -the literature of large towns is ordinarily false and pretentious, or -superficial.</p> - -<p>"And whereas the ancients used to regard literature<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> and the sciences -as a pleasing change from more serious business, in the present day -the majority of men who in large towns profess to be students regard -literature and writing as merely an agreeable variation of their other -amusements.</p> - -<p>"I think that works of art, whether painting, sculpture, or -architecture, would be much more appreciated if they were disseminated -throughout a country in different-sized towns, instead of being, as -at present, accumulated in the chief cities. For in the latter places -men are so full of thoughts, so occupied with pleasurable pursuits and -vain and frivolous excitements, that they are very rarely capable of -the profound pleasures of the intellect. Besides, a multitude of fine -things gathered together have a distracting influence; the mind bestows -but little attention on individual things, and is sensible of no -especial gratification; or else it becomes satiated, and regards them -all as indifferently as though they were objects of the commonest kind.</p> - -<p>"I say the same of music, which is nowhere so elaborate, or brought to -such perfection, as in large towns, where men have less appreciation -for the wonderful emotions of the art, and are indeed less musical than -elsewhere.</p> - -<p>"Nevertheless, large towns are a useful home for the fostering and -perfecting of the arts; although their inhabitants are less under the -influence of their charms than the people of other places. It may be -said that artists, who work in solitude and silence, strive laboriously -and industriously to please men, who, because accustomed to the bustle -and noise of cities, are almost totally incapable of appreciating the -fruit of their exertions.</p> - -<p>"The fate of writers may in a measure be compared to that of artists."</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER V.</h5> - - -<p>"We will now return to the consideration of authors.</p> - -<p>"It is a characteristic of writings approaching perfection that they -usually please more when read a second time, than they pleased at -first. The contrary effect is produced by many books written carefully -and skilfully, but which really possess few merits. These when read a -second time are less esteemed than at first. But both kinds of books, -when read only once, often deceive even the learned and experienced, so -that indifferent books are preferred to excellent ones. In the present -day, however, even students by profession can rarely be induced to read -new books a second time, especially such as come under the heading of -light literature. This was not so in olden times, because then but few -books were in existence. Now, it is very different. We possess the -literary bequests of all past times. Every nation has its literature, -and produces its host of books daily. There are writings in all -languages, ancient and modern, relating to every branch of science and -learning, and so closely connected and allied that the student must -study them all as far as possible. You may therefore easily imagine -that a book does not obtain full consideration on a first reading, and -that a second reading is out of the question. Yet the first opinion -that we form of a new book is seldom changed.</p> - -<p>"For the same reasons, even in the first reading of books, especially -those of light literature, very rarely sufficient attention and study -is given to discover the laborious perfection, the subtle art, and -the hidden and unpretentious virtues of the writings. Thus, in the -present day the condition of excellent books is really worse than that -of indifferent ones. For the charms and qualifications of most of the -latter, whether true or false, are so exposed to the eye, that, however -trivial they may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> be, they are easily discernible at first sight. We -may therefore say with truth, that the exertion necessary to produce -perfect writing is almost useless for fame. But, on the other hand, -books composed, like most modern ones, rapidly and without any great -degree of excellence, though perhaps celebrated for a time, cannot fail -to be soon forgotten. And many works of recognised value are also lost -in the immense stream of new books which pours forth daily, before -they have had time to establish their celebrity. They perish for no -intrinsic fault of their own, and give place to other books, good and -bad, which each in turn live their short spell of life. So that whereas -the ancients could acquire glory in a thousand ways, we can only attain -it by one single avenue, after much more exertion than formerly.</p> - -<p>"The books of the ancients alone survive this universal shipwreck of -all later writings. Their fame is established and confirmed; they are -diligently and repeatedly read, and are made the subject of careful -study. And it is noteworthy that a modern book, if intrinsically equal -to any of the ancient writings, would rarely, if ever, give its readers -as much pleasure as the ancient work. This for two reasons. In the -first place, it would not be read with the care and attention that we -bestow on celebrated writings; very few people would read it twice; -and no one would study it (for none but scientific books are studied -until made venerable by age). In the second place, the world-wide and -permanent reputation of writings, whether or not due to their internal -excellence, adds to their value, and proportionately increases the -pleasure they give; often, indeed, most of the charm of such literature -is simply due to its celebrity.</p> - -<p>"This reminds me of some remarkable words of Montesquieu about the -origin of human pleasures. He says: 'The mind often creates within -itself many sources of pleasure, which are intimately dependent on each -other. Thus, a thing that has once pleased us,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> pleases us again simply -because it did so before; we couple together imagination of the present -and remembrance of the past. For example, an actress who pleased us -on the stage, will probably please us in private life: her voice; her -manner; the recollection of the applause she excited; perhaps, too, -her <i>rôle</i> of princess joined to her real character,—all combine and -form a mixture of influences producing a general feeling of pleasure. -Our minds are always full of ideas subordinate to one or more primary -ideas. A woman famous for one cause or another, and possessed of some -slight inherent defect, is often able to attract by means of this -very defect. And women are ordinarily loved less because they inspire -affection than because they are well born, rich, or highly esteemed by -others.'<a name="FNanchor_1_23" id="FNanchor_1_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_23" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>....</p> - -<p>"Often indeed a woman's reputation for beauty and grace, whether well -or ill founded, or even the mere fact that others have been under the -influence of her charms, suffices to inspire a man with affection -for her. And who does not know that most pleasures are due to the -imagination rather than to the inherent qualities of the things that -please us?</p> - -<p>"These remarks refer to writings no less than to all other things. -Indeed I will venture to say that were a poem to be published equal -or superior to the Iliad, and carefully read by an excellent judge of -poetry, it would give less satisfaction and appear less charming than -the Greek masterpiece, much less would its fame be comparable with that -of the Iliad; for its real merits would not be aided by twenty-seven -centuries of admiration, nor the thousand reminiscences and other -associations that connect themselves with Homer's poem. Similarly I -affirm that if any one were to read carefully either the 'Jerusalem' or -the 'Furioso,' without knowing anything of their celebrity, he would be -much less pleased than others who were aware of their fame.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> - -<p>"In short, it may be accepted as a general rule that the first readers -of every remarkable work which in after ages becomes famous, and the -contemporaries of the writer, derive less enjoyment from such reading -than all other people.</p> - -<p>"This fact cannot but be very disadvantageous to the interest of -writers."</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_23" id="Footnote_1_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_23"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Ex: Fragment <i>Sur le goût</i>, &c.</p></div> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER VI.</h5> - - -<p>"Such are a few of the obstacles that may prevent you from acquiring -glory from the studious, or even from those who excel in knowledge and -the art of writing.</p> - -<p>"Now there are many people who, though educated sufficiently for the -purposes of daily life, are neither writers nor students to any very -great extent. They read simply for amusement, and, as you know, are -only capable of appreciating certain qualities in literature. The chief -reason of this has been already partly explained. There is, however, -another cause. It is that they only seek momentary pleasure in what -they read. But the present in itself is trivial and joyless to all men. -Even the sweetest things, as says Homer,</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 20%;"> -'Love, sleep, song, and the dance,'<br /> -</p> - -<p>soon weary us, if to the present there be not joined the hope of -some pleasure or future satisfaction, dependent on them. For it is -contrary to human nature to be greatly pleased with that of which hope -does not form a constituent part. And so great is the power of hope -that it enlivens and sweetens many exertions, painful and laborious -in themselves; whereas, on the other hand, things innately charming, -when unaccompanied by hope, are scarce sufficiently attractive to be -welcomed. "We see studious people never tired of reading, often even -of the driest kind; and they experience a constant delight in their -studies, carried on perhaps throughout the greater part of the day. The -reason of this is that they have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> the future ever before their eyes; -they hope in some way, and at some time, to reap the benefit of their -labours. Such people always have their interests at heart. They do not -take up a book, either to pass time or for amusement, without also -distilling from it more or less definite instruction. Others, on the -contrary, who seek to learn nothing from books, are satisfied when they -have read their first few pages, or those that have the most attractive -appearance. They wander wearily from book to book, and marvel to -themselves how any one can find prolonged pleasure in prolonged reading.</p> - -<p>"It is clear that any skill or industry displayed by the writer is -almost entirely wasted on such people, who nevertheless compose the -mass of readers. And even men of studious inclinations, having later in -life changed the nature of their studies, almost feel a repugnance for -books which would formerly have given them intense delight; and though -still able to discern their value, are wearied rather than pleased by -their merits, because instruction is not at all what they desire."</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER VII.</h5> - - -<p>"Hitherto we have considered writings in general, and certain things -relating to light literature in particular, towards which I see you are -more especially attracted. Let us now turn to philosophy, though it -must not be supposed that this science is separable from the study of -letters.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you will think that because philosophy is derived from -reason, which among civilised people is usually a stronger power -than the imagination or the affections, the value of philosophical -works ought to be more universally recognised than that of poems, -and other writings which treat of the pleasurable and the beautiful. -It is, however, my opinion that poetry is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> better understood and -appreciated than philosophy. In the first place, it is certain that a -subtle intelligence and great power of reasoning are not sufficient -to ensure much progress in philosophy. Considerable imaginative -power is also requisite. Indeed, judged from the nature of their -intellects, Descartes, Galileo, Leibnitz, Newton, and Vico would -have made excellent poets; and, on the other hand, Homer, Dante, and -Shakespeare might have been great philosophers. This subject would -require much elaboration; I will therefore merely affirm that none but -philosophers can perfectly appreciate the value and realise the charm -of philosophical books. Of course, I refer to their substance, and -not to whatever superficial merit they may have, whether of language, -style, or anything else. And, just as men are by nature unpoetical, -and consequently rarely catch the spirit of a poem or discern its -imagery, although they may follow the meaning of its words; similarly, -people unaccustomed to meditate and philosophise within themselves, -or who are incapable of deep sustained thought, cannot comprehend the -truths that a philosopher expounds, however clear and logical his -deductions, arguments, and conclusions may be, although they understand -the words that he uses and their signification. Because, being unable -or unused to analyse the essence of things by means of thought, or to -separate their own ideas into divisions, or to join and bind together -a number of these ideas, or simultaneously to grasp with the mind many -particulars so as to deduce a single general rule from them, or to -follow unweariedly with the mind's eye a long series of truths mutually -connected, or to discover the subtle and hidden connection between -each truth and a hundred others; they can with difficulty, if at all, -grasp and follow his working, or experience the impressions proved by -the philosopher. Therefore, they can neither understand nor estimate -rightly all the influences that led him to this or that opinion, and -made him affirm or deny<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> this or that thing, and doubt such and such -another. Possibly they may understand his ideas, but they neither -recognise their truth nor probability; because they are unable to test -either the one or the other. They are like those cold and passionless -men who are incapable of appreciating the fancies and imagery of the -poets. And you know it is common to the poet and the philosopher to -penetrate into the depths of the minds of men, and thence to bring into -light all their hidden emotions, profundities, and secret working, with -their respective causes and effects; thus, men who are incapable of -sympathy with the poet and his thoughts, are also incapable of entering -into the thoughts of the philosopher.</p> - -<p>"This is why we see daily many meritorious works, clear and -intelligible to all, interpreted by some people as containing a -thousand undoubted truths, and, by others, a thousand patent errors. -They are attacked in public and private, not only from motives of -malice, interest, and other similar causes, but also because of the -incapacity of the readers, and their inability to comprehend the -certainty of the principles, the correctness of the deductions and -conclusions, and the general fitness, sufficiency, and truth of the -reasoning put forward. It often happens that philosophical writings -of the most sublime nature are accused of obscurity, not necessarily -because they are obscure, but either because their vein of thought -is of too profound or novel a nature to be easily intelligible, or -because the reader himself is too dense to be a competent judge of -such works. Think, then, how difficult it must be to gain praise for -philosophical writings, however meritorious they may be. For there can -be no doubt that the number of really profound philosophers, who alone -can appreciate one another, is in the present day very small, although -philosophy is more cultivated than in past times.</p> - -<p>"I will not refer to the various sects into which those who profess -philosophy are divided. Each sect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> ordinarily refuses to allow -that there is aught estimable in the others; this is not only from -unwillingness, but also because it occupies itself with different -principles of philosophy."</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER VIII.</h5> - - -<p>"If, as the result of your learning and meditation, you chanced to -discover some important truth, not only formerly unknown, but quite -unlooked for, and even antagonistic to the opinions of the day, you -must not anticipate in your lifetime any peculiar commendation for this -discovery. You will gain no esteem, even from the wise (except perhaps -from a very few), until by frequent and varied reiteration of these -truths the ears of men have become accustomed to their sound; then -only, after a long time, the intellect begins to receive them.</p> - -<p>"For no truth contrary to current opinion, even though demonstrable -with almost geometrical certitude, can ever, unless capable of material -proof, be suddenly established. Time, custom, and example alone are -able to give it a solid foundation. Men accustom themselves to belief, -as to everything else; indeed they generally believe from habit, and -not from any sentiment of conviction within their minds. At length -it happens that the once-questioned truth is taught to children, and -is universally accepted. People are then astonished that it was ever -unknown to them, and they ridicule their ancestors and contemporaries -for the ignorance and obstinacy they manifested in opposing it. The -greater and more important the new truths, so much the greater will -be the difficulty of procuring acceptance for them; since they will -overthrow a proportionately large number of opinions hitherto rooted -in the minds of men. For even acute and practised intellects do not -easily enter into the spirit of reasonings which demonstrate new truths -that exceed the limits of their own knowledge; especially when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> these -are opposed to beliefs long established within them. Descartes, in -his geometrical discoveries, was understood by but very few of his -contemporaries. It was the same with Newton. Indeed, the condition of -men pre-eminent in knowledge is somewhat similar to that of literary -men, and 'savants' who live in places innocent of learning. The latter -are not deservedly esteemed by their neighbours; the former fail to be -duly appreciated by their contemporaries. Both are often despised for -their difference in manner of life and opinions from other men, who -neither do justice to their ability nor to the writings they put forth -in proof of it.</p> - -<p>"There is no doubt that the human race makes continual progress in -knowledge. As a body, its march is slow and measured; but it includes -certain great and remarkable minds which, having devoted themselves -to speculation about the sensible or intelligible phenomena of the -universe, and the pursuit of truths, travel, nay sometimes flash, to -their conclusions in an immeasurably short space of time. And the rapid -progress of these intellects stimulates other men, who hasten their -foot-steps so as to reach, later on, the place where these superior -beings rested. But not until the lapse of a century or more do they -attain to the knowledge possessed by an extraordinary intellect of this -kind.</p> - -<p>"It is ordinarily believed that human knowledge owes most of its -progress to these supreme intellects, which arise from time to time, -like miracles of nature.<a name="FNanchor_1_24" id="FNanchor_1_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_24" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> I, on the contrary, think that it owes -more to men of common powers than to those who are exceptionally -endowed. Suppose a case, in which one of the latter, having rivalled -his contemporaries in knowledge, advances independently, and takes a -lead of, say ten paces. Most other men, far<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> from feeling disposed -to follow him, regard his progress in silence, or else ridicule it. -Meanwhile, a number of moderately clever men, partly aided perhaps by -the ideas and discoveries of the genius, but principally through their -own endeavours, conjointly advance one step. The masses unhesitatingly -follow them, being attracted by the not inordinate novelty, and also by -the number of those who are its authors. In process of time, thanks to -the exertions of these men, the tenth step is accomplished; and thus -the opinions of the genius are universally received throughout the -civilised world. But their originator, dead long ago, only acquires a -late and unseasonable reputation. This is due partly to the fact that -he is forgotten, or to the low esteem in which he was held when living; -added to which men are conscious that they do not owe their knowledge -to him, and that they are already his equals in erudition, and will -soon surpass him, if they have not done so already. They are also his -superiors, in that time has enabled them to demonstrate and affirm -truths that he only imagined, to prove his conjectures, and give better -form and order to his inventions, almost, as it were, maturing them. -Perchance, after a time, some student engaged in historical research -may justly appraise the influence of this genius, and may announce him -to his countrymen with great <i>éclat</i>; but the fame that may ensue from -this will soon give way to renewed oblivion.</p> - -<p>"The progress of human knowledge, like a falling weight, increases -momentarily in its speed; none the less very rarely men of a generation -change their beliefs or recognise their errors, so as to believe at one -time the opposite of what they previously believed. Each generation -prepares the way for its successor to know and believe many things -contrary to its own knowledge and belief. But most men are as little -conscious of the increasing development of their knowledge, and the -inevitable mutation of their beliefs, as they are sensible of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> -perpetual motion of the earth. And a man never alters his opinions so -as to be conscious of the alteration. But were he suddenly to embrace -an opinion totally discordant with his old beliefs, he could not fail -to perceive the change. It may therefore be said, that ordinarily no -truths, except such as are determinable by the senses, will be believed -by the contemporaries of their discoverer."</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_24" id="Footnote_1_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_24"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> It is in the order of Providence that the inventive, -generative, constitutive mind should come first; and then that the -patient and collective mind should follow, and elaborate the pregnant -queries and illumining guesses of the former,—S. T. Coleridge, <i>Table -Talk</i>, Oct. 8, 1830.</p></div> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER IX.</h5> - - -<p>"Now let us suppose that every difficulty be overcome, and that -aided by fortune you have actually in your lifetime acquired not -only celebrity, but glory. What will be the fruit of this? In the -first place, men will wish to see you, and make your acquaintance; -they will indicate you as a distinguished man, and will honour you -in every possible way. Such are the best results of literary glory. -It would seem more natural to look for such demonstrations in small -than in large towns; for these latter are subject to the distracting -influence of wealth and power, and all the arts which serve to amuse -and enliven the inactive hours of men's lives. But because small towns -are ordinarily wanting in things necessary to stimulate literary -excellence, they are rarely the abode of men devoted to literature -and study. The people of such places esteem learning and wisdom, and -even the fame men seek by these means, at a very low value; neither -the one nor the other are objects of envy to them. And if a man who -is a distinguished scholar take up his residence in a small town, his -notability is of no advantage to him. Rather the contrary. For though -his fame would secure him high honour in towns not far distant, he is -there regarded as the most forlorn and obscure individual in the place. -Just as a man who possessed nothing but an abundance of silver and gold -would be even poorer than other men in a place where these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> metals were -valueless; similarly a wise and studious man who makes his abode in a -place where learning and genius are unknown, far from being considered -superior to other men, will be despised and scornfully treated unless -he happen to have some more material possessions. Yet such a man is -often given credit for possessing much greater knowledge than he really -has, though this reputation does not procure him any especial honour -from these people.</p> - -<p>"When I was a young man, I used occasionally to return to Bosisio, -my native place. Every one there knew that I spent my time in study -and writing. The peasants gave me credit for being poet, philosopher, -doctor, mathematician, lawyer, theologian, and sufficiently a linguist -to know all the languages in the world. They used to question me -indiscriminately on any subject, or about any trifle that chanced to -enter their minds. Yet they did not hold me in much esteem, and thought -me less instructed than the learned people of all other places. But -whenever I gave them reason to think my learning was not as extensive -as they supposed, I fell vastly in their estimation, and in the end -they used to persuade themselves that after all my knowledge was no -greater than theirs.</p> - -<p>"We have already noticed the difficulties to be overcome in large towns -before glory can be acquired, or the fruit of it enjoyed. I will now -add that although no fame is more difficult to merit than that of being -an excellent poet, writer, or philosopher, nothing is less lucrative -to the possessor. You know that the misery and poverty of the greatest -poets, both in ancient and modern times, is proverbial. Homer, like his -poetry, is involved in mystery; his country, life, and history are an -impenetrable secret to men. But, amid this uncertainty and ignorance, -there is an unshaken tradition that Homer was poor and unhappy. It is -as if time wished to bear witness that the fate of other noble poets -was shared by the prince of poetry.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> - -<p>"But, passing over the other benefits of glory, we will simply consider -what is called honour. No part of fame is usually less honourable -and more useless than this. It may be that so many people obtain it -undeservedly, or even because of the extreme difficulty of meriting -it at all; certain it is that such reputation is scarce esteemed, if -regarded as trustworthy. Or perhaps it is due to the fact that most -clever half-cultured men imagine they either are, or could easily -become, as proficient in literature and philosophy as those who are -successful in these studies, and whom they accordingly treat as on an -intellectual equality. Possibly both causes combine in their influence. -It is certain, however, that the man who is an ordinary mathematician, -natural philosopher, philologist, antiquary, artist, sculptor, -musician, or who has only a moderate acquaintance with a single ancient -or foreign language, is usually more respected, even in large towns, -than a really remarkable philosopher, poet, or writer. Consequently, -poetry and philosophy, the noblest, grandest, and most arduous of -things pertaining to humanity, and the supreme efforts of art and -science, are in the present day the most neglected faculties in the -world, even in their professed followers. Manual arts rank higher than -these noble things; for no one would pretend to a knowledge of them -unless he really possessed it, nor could this knowledge be acquired -without study and exertion. In short, the poet and the philosopher -derive no benefit in life from their genius and studies, except perhaps -the glory rendered to them by a very few people. Poetry and philosophy -resemble each other in that they are both as unproductive and barren of -esteem and honour, as of all other advantages."</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER X.</h5> - - -<p>"From men you will scarcely derive any advantage whatever from your -glory. You will therefore look within<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> you for consolation, and in -your solitude will nerve yourself for fresh exertions, and lay the -foundation of new hopes. For like all other human benefits, literary -glory is more pleasing in anticipation than in reality, if indeed it -can ever be said to be realised. You will therefore at length console -yourself with the thought of that last hope and refuge of noble minds, -posterity. Even Cicero, richly renowned as he was in life, turned his -mind yearningly towards the future, in saying: 'Thinkest thou I should -have undertaken so many labours, during day and night, in peace and -war, had I imagined my glory was limited to this life? Far better were -a life of idleness and peace, devoid of cares and fatigue. No. My soul, -in some inexplicable way, used ever to fix its hopes on posterity, and -looked for the dawn of its true life from the hour of death.'<a name="FNanchor_1_25" id="FNanchor_1_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_25" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Cicero -here refers to the idea of immortality innate in the minds of men. -But the true explanation lies in the fact that all earthly benefits -are no sooner acquired than their insignificance becomes apparent; -they are unworthy of the fatigues they have cost. Glory is, above all, -an example of this; it is a dear purchase, and of little use to the -purchaser. But, as Simonides says, I Sweet hope cheers us with its -phantom beauties, and with its vain prospect stimulates us to work. -Some men await the friendly dawn, others the advance of age, and others -more auspicious seasons. Every mortal cherishes within him hopes of -coming good from Pluto and the other gods,' Thus, as we experience the -vanity of glory, hope, driven and hunted from place to place, finding -at length no spot in the whole of life whereon to rest, passes beyond -the grave and alights on posterity. For man ever turns instinctively -from the present to the future, about which he hopes much in proportion -as he knows little. Hence, they who are desirous of glory in life, -chiefly nourish themselves on that which they hope to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> gain after -death. For the lack of enjoyment in the present, man consoles himself -with hopes of future happiness, as vain as that of the present."</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_25" id="Footnote_1_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_25"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> De Senectute.</p></div> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER XI.</h5> - - -<p>"But what, after all, is this appeal that we make to posterity? The -human imagination is such that it forms a more exalted conception of -posterity than of the men of past or present times, simply because we -are totally ignorant of the people who are yet to be. But, reasonably, -and not imaginatively, do we really think our successors will be better -than ourselves? I am of a contrary opinion, and for my part put faith -in the proverb that says 'the world grows worse as it ages,' It were -better for men of genius if they could appeal to their wise ancestors, -who, according to Cicero, were not inferior in point of numbers, and -far superior in excellence to their successors. But, though such appeal -would be sure of a truer judgment, it is certain that the greatest men -of our day would be held in little esteem by the ancients.</p> - -<p>"It may be allowed that the men of the future, being free from -any spirit of rivalry, envy, love, or hatred, not indeed amongst -themselves, but towards us, ought to be better qualified than ourselves -to pass impartial judgment on our writings. For other reasons, too, -they may be better judges. Posterity will perhaps have fewer excellent -writers, noble poets, and subtle philosophers. In which case the few -followers of these sublime influences will honour us the more. It is -also probable that their control over the minds of the people will -be still less than that exercised by us. Again, will the affections, -imagination, and intellect of men be, as a rule, more powerful than -they are at present? If not, we shall gain by the comparison.</p> - -<p>"Literature is peculiarly exposed to the influence of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> custom. In times -of debased literature, we see how firmly this or that barbarism is -retained and upheld, as though it alone were reasonable and natural. At -such times the best and greatest writers are forgotten or ridiculed. -Where, then, is the certainty that posterity will always esteem the -kind of writing that we praise? Besides, it is a question whether or -not we ourselves esteem what is really praiseworthy. For men have -different opinions about what constitutes good writing, and these vary -according to the times, the nature of places and people, customs, -usages, and individuals. Yet it is to this variety and variability of -influences that the glory of writers is subjected.</p> - -<p>"Philosophy is even more diverse and changeable than other sciences.<a name="FNanchor_1_26" id="FNanchor_1_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_26" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> -At first sight the contrary of this would seem to be true; for whereas -the 'belles lettres' are concerned with the study of the beautiful, -which is chiefly a matter of custom and opinion, sciences seek the -truth, which is fixed and unchangeable. But this truth is hid from -mortals, though, as centuries go by, some little of it is revealed. -Consequently, on the one hand, in their endeavours to discover it, -and their conjectures as to its nature, men are led to embrace this -or that resemblance of truth; thereupon opinions and sects multiply. -And, on the other hand, it is due to the ever-increasing number of -fresh discoveries, and new aspects of truth obtained daily, that even -these divisions become subdivided; and opinions which at one time were -regarded almost as certainties change shape and substance momentarily. -It is owing to the changeability of sciences and philosophy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> that they -are so unproductive of glory, either at the hands of contemporaries -or posterity. For when new discoveries, or new ideas and conjectures, -greatly alter the condition of this or that science from its present -state, how will the writings and thoughts of men now celebrated in -these sciences be regarded? Who, for instance, now reads Galileo's -works? Yet in his time they were most wonderful; nor could better and -nobler books, full of greater discoveries and grander conceptions, -be then written on such subjects. But now every tyro in physics or -mathematics surpasses Galileo in his knowledge. Again, how many people -in the present day read the writings of Francis Bacon? Who troubles -himself about Malebranche? And how much time will soon be bestowed on -the works of Locke, if the science almost founded by him progresses in -future as rapidly as it gives promise of doing?</p> - -<p>"Truly the very intellectual force, industry, and labour, which -philosophers and scientists expend in the pursuit of their glory, are -in time the cause of its extinction or obscurément. For by their own -great exertions they open out a path for the still further advancement -of the science, which in time progresses so rapidly that their writings -and names fall gradually into oblivion. And it is certainly difficult -for most men to esteem others for a knowledge greatly inferior to their -own. Who can doubt that the twentieth century will discover error in -what the wisest of us regard as unquestionable truths, and will surpass -us greatly in their knowledge of the truth?"</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_26" id="Footnote_1_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_26"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Compare the following from H. Rogers' <i>Essay on Leibnitz</i>: -"The condition of great philosophers is far less enviable than that of -great poets. The former can never possess so large a circle of readers -under any circumstances; but that number is still further abridged by -the fact that even the truths the philosopher has taught or discovered -form but stepping-stones in the progress of science, and are afterwards -digested, systematised, and better expounded in other works composed by -inferior men."</p></div> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER XII.</h5> - - -<p>"Finally, you would perhaps like to know my opinion, and decided advice -to you, about your intended profession. The question is one as to -the advisability of your pursuing or abandoning this path to glory, -a thing so poor in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> usefulness, and so hard and uncertain both to -secure and retain, that it may be compared to a shadow which you can -neither feel when you hold, nor yet keep from fleeing away. I will tell -you then briefly my true opinion. I consider your wonderful genius, -noble disposition, and prolific imagination to be the most fatal and -lamentable qualities distributed by Fortune to humanity. But since -you possess them, you will scarcely be able to avoid their harmful -influence. In the present day there is but one possible benefit to be -gained from such endowments as yours; viz., the glory that sometimes -rewards industry in literature and study. You know those miserable men, -who having accidentally lost or injured a limb, try to make as much -profit as possible from their misfortune, which they ostentatiously -display to excite the pity and consequent liberality of passers-by. -In the same way I advise you to endeavour to procure by means of your -endowments the only possible advantage, trifling and uncertain though -it be. Such qualities as yours are usually regarded as great natural -gifts, and are often envied by those who do not possess them. But this -feeling is opposed to common sense; as well may the sound man envy -those wretched fellows their bodily calamities, or wish to mutilate -himself in the same way, for the sake of the miserable profit he might -gain. Most men work as long as they can, and enjoy themselves as much -as their nature will permit. But great writers are naturally, and by -their manner of life, incapable of many human pleasures: voluntarily -deprived of many others; often despised by their fellow-men, save -perhaps a very few who pursue the same studies; they are destined to -lead a life like unto death, and to live only beyond the grave, if even -that be granted them.</p> - -<p>"But Destiny must be obeyed; duty commands us to follow it courageously -and nobly whithersoever it may lead us. Such resignation is especially -necessary for you, and those who resemble you."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_FREDERIC_RUYSCH_AND_HIS_MUMMIES" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_FREDERIC_RUYSCH_AND_HIS_MUMMIES"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN FREDERIC RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES.</i></a></h4> - - -<p class="p2" style="margin-left: 10%;"><i>Chorus of the dead in Ruysch's laboratory.</i></p> - - -<p class="p2" style="margin-left: 10%;"> -O Death, thou one eternal thing,<br /> -That takest all within thine arms,<br /> -In thee our coarser nature rests<br /> -In peace, set free from life's alarms:<br /> -Joyless and painless is our state.<br /> -Our spirits now no more are torn<br /> -By racking thought, or earthly fears;<br /> -Hope and desire are now unknown,<br /> -Nor know we aught of sorrow's tears.<br /> -Time flows in one unbroken stream,<br /> -As void of ennui as a dream.<br /> -The troubles we on earth endured<br /> -Have vanished; yet we sometimes see<br /> -Their phantom shapes, as in a mist<br /> -Of mingled thought and memory:<br /> -They now can vex our souls no more.<br /> -What is that life we lived on earth?<br /> -A mystery now it seems to be,<br /> -Profound as is the thought of death,<br /> -To wearers of mortality.<br /> -And as from death the living flee,<br /> -So from the vital flame flee we.<br /> -Our portion now is peaceful rest,<br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> -Joyless, painless. We are not blest<br /> -With happiness; that is forbid<br /> -Both to the living and the dead.<br /> -</p> - -<p class="p2"><i>Ruysch (outside his laboratory, looking through the keyhole).</i> -Diamine! Who has been teaching these dead folks music, that they thus -sing like cocks, at midnight? Verily I am in a cold sweat, and nearly -as dead as themselves. I little thought when I preserved them from -decay, that they would come to life again. So it is however, and with -all my philosophy I tremble from head to foot. It was an evil spirit -that induced me to take these gentry in. I do not know what to do. If I -leave them shut in here, they may break open the door, or pass through -the keyhole, and come to me in bed. Yet I do not like to show that I am -afraid of the dead by calling for help. I will be brave. Let us see if -I cannot make them afraid in their turn.</p> - -<p>(<i>Entering</i>.)—Children, children, what game are you playing at? Do -you not remember that you are dead? What does all this uproar mean? -Are you so puffed up because of the Czar's visit,<a name="FNanchor_1_27" id="FNanchor_1_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_27" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> that you imagine -yourselves no longer subject to the laws of Nature? I am presuming this -commotion is simply a piece of pleasantry on your part, and that there -is nothing serious about it. If, however, you are truly resuscitated, -I congratulate you, although I must tell you that I cannot afford to -keep you living as well as dead, and in that case you must leave my -house at once. Or if what they say about vampires be true, and you are -some of them, be good enough to seek other blood to drink, for I am -not disposed to let you suck mine, with which I have already liberally -filled your veins. In short, if you will continue to be quiet and -silent as before, we shall get on very well together, and you shall -want for nothing in my house. Otherwise, I warn you that I will take -hold of this iron bar, and kill you, one and all.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>A Mummy</i>. Do not put yourself about. I promise you we will all be dead -again without your killing us.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. Then what is the meaning of this singing freak?</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. A moment ago, precisely at midnight, was completed for the -first time that great mathematical epoch referred to so often by the -ancients. To-night also the dead have spoken for the first time. And -all the dead in every cemetery and sepulchre, in the depths of the sea, -beneath the snow and the sand, under the open sky, and wherever they -are to be found, have like us chanted the song you have just heard.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. And how long will your singing or speaking last?'</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. The song is already finished. We are allowed to speak for a -quarter of an hour. Then we are silent again until the completion of -the second great year.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. If this be true, I do not think you will disturb my sleep -a second time. So talk away to your hearts' content, and I will -stand here on one side, and, from curiosity, gladly listen without -interrupting you.</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. We can only speak in response to some living person. The dead -that are not interrogated by the living, when they have finished their -song, are quiet again.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. I am greatly disappointed, for I was curious to know what you -would talk about if you could converse with each other.</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. Even if we could do so, you would hear nothing, because we -should have nothing to say to one another.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. A thousand questions to ask you come into my mind. But the -time is short, so tell me briefly what feelings you experienced in body -and soul when at the point of death.</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. I do not remember the exact moment of death.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>The other Mummies</i>. Nor do we.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. Why not?</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. For the same reason that you cannot perceive the moment when -you fall asleep, however much you try to do so.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. But sleep is a natural thing.</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. And does not death seem natural to you? Show me a man, beast, -or plant that shall not die.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. I am no longer surprised that you sing and talk, if you do -not remember your death.</p> - -<p> -"A fatal blow deprived him of his breath;<br /> -Still fought he on, unconscious of his death "—<br /> -</p> - -<p>as says an Italian poet. I thought that on the subject of death you -fellows would at least know something more than the living. Now tell -me, did you feel any pain at the point of death?</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. How can there be pain at a time of unconsciousness?</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. At any rate, every one believes the moment of departure from -this life to be a very painful one.</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. As if death were a sensation, and not rather the contrary.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. Most people who hold the views of the Epicureans as to the -nature of the soul, as well as those who cling to the popular opinion, -agree in supposing that death is essentially a pain of the most acute -kind.</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. Well, you shall put the question to either of them from us. -If man be unaware of the exact point of time when his vital functions -are suspended in more or less degree by sleep, lethargy, syncope, or -any other cause, why should he perceive the moment-when these same -functions cease entirely; and not merely for a time, but for ever? -Besides, how could there be an acute sensation at the time of death? -Is death itself a sensation? When the faculty of sense is not only -weakened and restricted, but so minimised that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> may be termed -non-existent, how could any one experience a lively sensation? Perhaps -you think this very extinction of sensibility ought also to be an acute -sensation? But it is not so. For you may notice that even sick people -who die of very painful diseases compose themselves shortly before -death, and rest in tranquillity; they are too enfeebled to suffer, and -lose all sense of pain before they die.</p> - -<p>You may say this from us to whoever imagines it will be a painful -effort to breathe his last.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. Such reasoning would perhaps satisfy the Epicureans, but not -those people who regard the soul as essentially different from the -body. I have hitherto been one of the latter, and now that I have heard -the dead speak and sing I am more than ever disinclined to change my -opinions. We consider death to be a separation of the soul and body, -and to us it is incomprehensible how these two substances, so joined -and agglutinated as to form one being, can be divided without great -force and an inconceivable pang.</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. Tell me: is the spirit joined to the body by some nerve, -muscle, or membrane which must be broken to enable it to escape? Or -is it a member which has to be severed or violently wrenched away? Do -you not see that the soul necessarily leaves the body when the latter -becomes uninhabitable, and not because of any internal violence? Tell -me also: were you sensible of the moment when the soul entered you, -and was joined, or as you say agglutinated, to your body? If not, why -should you expect to feel any violent sensation at its departure? Take -my word for it, the departure of the soul is as quiet and imperceptible -as its entrance.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. Then what is death, if it be not pain?</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. It is rather pleasure than anything else. You must know that -death, like sleep, is not accomplished in a moment, but gradually. It -is true the transition is more or less rapid according to the disease -or manner<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> of death. But ultimately death comes like sleep, without -either sense of pain or pleasure. Just before death pain is impossible, -for it is too acute a thing to be experienced by the enfeebled senses -of a dying person. It were more rational to regard it as a pleasure; -because most human joys, far from being of a lively nature, are made up -of a sort of languor, in which pain has no part. Consequently, man's -senses, even when approaching extinction, are capable of pleasure; -since languor is often pleasurable, especially when it succeeds a -state of suffering. Hence the languor of death ought to be pleasing in -proportion to the intensity of pain from which it frees the sufferer. -As for myself, if I cannot recall the circumstances of my death, it -may be because the doctors forbade me to exert my brain. I remember, -however, that the sensation I experienced differed little from the -feeling of satisfaction that steals over a man, as the languor of sleep -pervades him.</p> - -<p><i>The other Mummies</i>. We felt the same sensation.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. It may be as you say, although every one with whom I have -conversed on this subject is of a very different opinion. It is true, -however, they have not spoken from experience. Now tell me, did you -at the time of death, whilst experiencing this sensation of pleasure, -realise that you were dying, and that this feeling was a prelude to -death, or what did you think?</p> - -<p><i>Mummy</i>. Until I was dead I believed I should recover, and as long as I -had the faculty of thought I hoped I should still live an hour or two. -I imagine most people think the same.</p> - -<p><i>The other Mummies</i>. It was the same with us.</p> - -<p><i>Ruysch</i>. Cicero says<a name="FNanchor_2_28" id="FNanchor_2_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_28" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> that, however old and broken-down a man may -be, he always anticipates at least another year of life.</p> - -<p>But how did you perceive at length that your soul had left the body? -Say, how did you know you were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> dead?... You do not answer. Children, -do you not hear?... Ah, the quarter of an hour has expired. Let me -examine them a little. Yes, they are quite dead again. There is no fear -that they will give me such another shock. I will go to bed.</p> - - - -<p><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">NOTE.</span>—Frederic Ruysch (1638-1731) was one of the cleverest anatomists -Holland has ever produced. For sixty years he held a professorship of -anatomy at Amsterdam, during which time he devoted himself to his art. -He obtained from Swammerdam his secret of preserving corpses by means -of an injection of coloured wax. Ruysch, it is said, also made use of -his own blood for this purpose. His subjects, when prepared, looked -like living beings, and showed no signs of corruption. Czar Peter -visited Holland in 1698, and was amazed at what he saw in Ruysch's -studio. In 1717 the Czar again visited Holland, and succeeded in -inducing Ruysch to dispose of his collection of animals, mummies, &c. -These were all transported to St. Petersburg. Ruysch formed a second -collection as valuable as the first, which after his death was publicly -sold.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_27" id="Footnote_1_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_27"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See note.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_28" id="Footnote_2_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_28"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> De Senectute.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="REMARKABLE_SAYINGS_OF_PHILIP_OTTONIERI1" id="REMARKABLE_SAYINGS_OF_PHILIP_OTTONIERI1"></a><i>REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI.</i><a name="FNanchor_1_29" id="FNanchor_1_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_29" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h4> - - -<h5>CHAPTER I.</h5> - - -<p>Philip Ottonieri, a few of whose remarkable sayings I am about to -recount, partly heard from his own mouth and partly related to me by -others, was born at Nubiana in the province of Valdivento. There he -lived most of his life, and died a short time ago, leaving behind him -the reputation of having never injured any one either by word or deed. -He was detested by the majority of his fellow-citizens, because he took -so little interest in the many things that gave them pleasure; although -he did nothing to show that he despised those who differed from himself -in this respect. He is believed to have been, not only in theory, but -also in practice, what so many of his contemporaries professed to be, -that is, a philosopher. For this reason other men thought him peculiar, -though really he never affected singularity in anything. Indeed, he -once said that a man who nowadays practised the greatest possible -singularity in dress, manners, or actions, would be far less singular -than were those ancients who obtained a reputation for singularity; and -that the difference between such a person and his contemporaries would -by the ancients have been regarded as scarcely worthy of notice. And, -comparing J. J. Rousseau's singularity,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> which seemed very striking to -the people of his generation, with that of Democritus and the first -Cynic philosophers, he said that whoever nowadays lived as differently -from his contemporaries as these Greeks lived from theirs, would not -merely be regarded as singular, but would be treated as outside the -pale of human society. He thought, too, that the degree of civilisation -reached by any country might be estimated from observation of the -degree of singularity possible in the inhabitants of that country.</p> - -<p>Though very temperate in his habits of life, he professed Epicureanism, -perhaps lightly rather than from conviction. But he condemned Epicurus, -affirming that in his time and nation there was much more pleasure to -be obtained from the pursuit of glory and virtue, than from idleness, -indifference, and sensuality, which things were considered by that -philosopher to represent the greatest good of life. He said also -that the Epicureanism of modern times has nothing in common with the -Epicureanism of the ancients.</p> - -<p>In philosophy, he liked to call himself Socratic. Like Socrates, too, -he often spent great part of the day reasoning philosophically with any -chance acquaintance, and especially with certain of his friends, on any -impromptu subject. But unlike Socrates, he did not frequent the shops -of the shoemakers, carpenters, and blacksmiths; for he was of opinion -that, though the artisans of Athens may have had time to spend in -philosophising, those of Nubiana would starve were they to follow such -an example. Nor did he, like Socrates, explain his conclusions by means -of endless interrogation and argument; for, he said, although men in -the present day may have more patience than their ancestors, they would -never consent to reply to a thousand consecutive questions, still less -to hear their answers answered. In fact, he only resembled Socrates in -his manner of speaking, sometimes ironical, sometimes equivocal.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> He -analysed the famous Socratic irony in the following way:—</p> - -<p>"Socrates was naturally very tender-hearted, and of a most lovable -disposition. But he was physically so unattractive that it is -probable he despaired from his youth of ever inspiring others with a -warmer feeling than that of friendship, far insufficient to satisfy -his sensitive and ardent nature, which often felt towards others a -much more lively affection. He was courageous in all matters of the -intellect, but seems to have been wanting in natural courage, and -those other qualities that would have enabled him to hold his own in -public life, amid the tumult of wars, the sedition, and the license -of all kinds, then characteristic of Athenian affairs. In addition to -this, his ridiculous and insignificant figure must have been no slight -prejudice to him among people who made little distinction between the -good and the beautiful, and who were also much addicted to banter. Thus -it happened that in a free city, full of wealth and the bustle and -amusements of life, Socrates, poor, rejected by love, incapable of a -public career, yet gifted with very great intelligence which doubtless -intensified the consciousness of his defects, resigned himself to a -life of philosophising on the actions, manners, and thoughts of his -fellow-citizens. The irony he used was natural to a man who found -himself as it were excluded from participation in the existence of -others. But it was due to his inherent nobility and affableness, and -perhaps also to the celebrity he gained by his reasonings, and which -flattered his self-esteem, that this irony, instead of being bitter and -contemptuous, was pleasing, and expressed in a friendly manner.</p> - -<p>"Then it was that Philosophy, as Cicero has well said, made her first -descent from heaven, and was led by Socrates into the towns and houses -of men. Hitherto occupied with speculations as to the nature of hidden -things, she now studied the manners and lives of men,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> and discussed -virtues and vices, things good and useful, and the contrary. But -Socrates did not primarily think of introducing this novel feature into -philosophy, nor did he propose to teach anything, nor even aspire to -the name of philosopher, which then only belonged to those who made -physics or metaphysics the study of their lives. He openly proclaimed -his ignorance of all things, and in his conversation with others simply -discussed the affairs of his neighbours, and the topics of the day. -He preferred this amusement to the real study of philosophy, or any -other science or art; and being naturally more inclined to act than -speculate, he only adopted this manner of life, because shut out from a -more congenial employment. He was always more willing to converse with -young and handsome persons than with others; in this way he hoped to -gain at least esteem, where he would far rather have had love."</p> - -<p>And since all the schools of Greek philosophy are traceable directly -or indirectly to the Socratic school, Ottonieri asserted that the flat -nose and satyr-like visage of a highly intellectual and warm-hearted -man were the origin of all Greek philosophy, and, consequently, the -philosophy of modern times. He also said that in the writings of -his followers, the individuality of Socrates is comparable to those -theatrical masks of the ancients, which always retained their name, -character, and identity, but the <i>rôle</i> of which varied in each -distinct performance.</p> - -<p>He left behind him no philosophical or other writings for public -benefit. Being asked one day why he did not give written as well as -verbal expression to his philosophical views, he replied: "Reading -is a conversation held with the writer. Now, as in fêtes and public -entertainments, they who take no active part in the spectacle or -performance soon become tired, similarly in conversation men prefer to -speak rather than listen. And books necessarily resemble those people -who take<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> all the speaking to themselves, and never listen to others. -Consequently, to atone for their monopoly of talking, they ought to say -many fine and excellent things, expressing them in a remarkable manner. -Every book that does not do this inspires the same feeling of aversion -as an insatiable chatterer."</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_29" id="Footnote_1_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_29"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> A fictitious personage.</p></div> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER II.</h5> - - -<p>Ottonieri made no distinction between business and pleasure. However -serious his occupation, he called it pastime. Only once, having been -idle temporarily, he confessed he had then experienced no amusement.</p> - -<p>He said that our truest pleasures are due to the imagination. Thus, -children construct a world out of nothing, whereas men find nothing in -the world. He compared those pleasures termed real to an artichoke, all -the leaves of which must be masticated in order to reach the pith. He -added that such artichokes as these are very rare; and that many others -resemble them in exterior, but within are void of kernel. He for his -part, finding the leaves unpalatable, determined to abstain from both -leaves and kernel.</p> - -<p>Being asked what was the worst moment of life, he said: "Except those -of pain or fear, the worst moments are, in my opinion, those spent in -pleasure. For the anticipation and recollection of these last, which -fill up the remainder of life, are better and more delightful than the -pleasures themselves." He also made a comparison between pleasures -and odours. The latter he considered usually leave behind a desire to -experience them again, proportioned to their agreeableness; and he -regarded the sense of smell as the most difficult to satisfy of all our -senses. Again, he compared odours to anticipations of good things; and -said that odoriferous foods are generally more pleasing to the nose -than the palate, for their scent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> originates savoury expectations which -are seldom sufficiently realised. He explained why sometimes he was so -impatient about the delay of a pleasure sure to occur sooner or later, -by saying that he feared the enjoyment he should derive from it would -be of diminished force, on account of the exaggerated anticipation -conceived by his mind. For this reason he endeavoured in the meantime -to forget the coming good, as though it were an impending misfortune.</p> - -<p>He said that each of us in entering the world resembles a man on a -hard and uncomfortable bed. As soon as the man lies down, he feels -restless and begins to toss from side to side and change his position -momentarily, in the hope of inducing sleep to close his eyes. Thus he -spends the whole night, and though sometimes he believes himself on the -point of falling asleep, he never actually succeeds in doing so. At -length dawn comes, and he rises unrefreshed.</p> - -<p>Watching some bees at work one day in company with certain -acquaintances, he remarked: "Blessed are ye, if ye know not your -unhappiness."</p> - -<p>He considered the miseries of mortals to be incalculable, and that no -single one of them could be adequately deplored.</p> - -<p>In answer to Horace's question, "Why is no one content with his lot?" -he said: "Because no one's lot is happy. Subjects equally with princes, -the weak and the strong, were they happy, would be contented, and would -envy no one. For men are no more incapable of being satisfied than -other animals. But since happiness alone can satisfy them, they are -necessarily dissatisfied, because essentially unhappy."</p> - -<p>"If a man could be found," he said, "who had attained to the summit of -human happiness, that man would be the most miserable of mortals. For -even the oldest of us have hopes and schemes for the improvement of our -condition." He recalled a passage in Zenophon, where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> a purchaser of -land is advised to buy badly cultivated fields, because such as do not -in the future bring forth more abundantly than at the time of purchase, -give less satisfaction than if they were to increase in productiveness. -Similarly, all things in which we can observe improvement please us -more than others in which improvement is impossible.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, he observed that no condition is so bad that it -cannot be worse; and that however unhappy a man may be, he cannot -console or boast himself that his misfortunes are incapable of -increase. Though hope is unbounded, the good things of life are -limited. Thus, were we to consider a single day in the life of a rich -or poor man, master or servant, bearing in mind all the circumstances -and needs of their respective positions, we should generally find -an equality of good throughout. But nature has not limited our -misfortunes; nor can the mind scarcely conceive a cause of suffering -which is non-existent, or which at some time was not to be found among -humanity. Thus, whereas most men vainly hope for an increase of the -good things they possess, they never want for genuine objects of fear; -and if Fortune sometimes obstinately refuses to benefit us in the least -degree, she never fails to afflict us with new torments of such a -nature as to crush within us even the courage of despair.</p> - -<p>He often used to laugh at those philosophers who think that a man is -able to free himself from the tyranny of Fortune, by having a contempt -for good and evil things which are entirely beyond his control; as if -happiness and the contrary were absolutely in his own power to accept -or refuse. On the same subject he also said, amongst other things, -that however much a man may act as a philosopher in his relations with -others, he is never a philosopher to himself. Again, he said that it is -as impossible to take more interest in the affairs of others than in -our own, as to regard their affairs as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> though they were our own. But, -supposing this philosophical disposition of mind were possible, winch -it is not, and possessed by one of us, how would it stand the test -of a thousand trials? Would it not be evident that the happiness or -unhappiness of such a person is nevertheless a matter of fortune? Would -not the very disposition they boast of be dependent on circumstances? -Is not man's reason daily governed by accidents of all kinds? Do not -the numberless bodily disturbances due to stupidity, excitement, -madness, rage, dullness, and a hundred other species of folly, -temporary or continuous, trouble, weaken, distract, and even extinguish -it? Does not memory, wisdom's ally, lose strength as we advance in age? -How many of us fall into a second childhood! And we almost all decrease -in mental vigour as we grow old; or when our mind remains unimpaired, -time, by means of some bodily disease, enfeebles our courage and -firmness, and not infrequently deprives us of both attributes -altogether. In short, it is utter folly to confess that physically we -are subject to many things over which we have no control, and at the -same time to assert that the mind, which is so greatly dependent on the -body, is not similarly controlled by external influences. He summed up -by saying that man as a whole is absolutely in the power of Fortune. -Being asked for what purpose he thought men were born, he laughingly -replied: "To realise how much better it were not to be born."</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER III.</h5> - - -<p>On the occasion of a certain misfortune, Ottonieri said: "It is less -hard to lose a much-loved person suddenly, or after a short illness, -than to see him waste away gradually, so that before his death he is -transformed in body and mind into quite another being from what he -formerly was. This latter is a cruel thing; for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> beloved one, -instead of leaving to us the tender recollections of his real identity, -remains with us a changed being, in whose presence our old affection -slowly but surely fades away. At length he dies; but the remembrance -of him as he was at the last destroys the sweeter and earlier image -within us. Thus he is lost entirely, and our imagination, instead of -comforting, saddens us. Such misfortunes as these are inconsolable."</p> - -<p>One day he heard a man lamenting and saying, "If only I were freed from -this trouble, all my other troubles would be easy to bear." He replied: -"Not so; for then those that are now light would be heavy."</p> - -<p>Another person said to him: "Had this pain continued, I could not have -borne it." Ottonieri answered: "On the contrary, habit would have made -it more bearable."</p> - -<p>Touching many things as to human nature, he held opinions not in -accordance with those of the multitude, and often different from -those of learned men. For instance, he thought it unwise to address -a petition to any one when the person addressed is in a state of -extraordinary hilarity. "And," he said, "when the petition is such that -it cannot be granted at once, I consider occasions of joy and sorrow as -equally inopportune to its success. For both sentiments make a man too -selfish to trouble himself with the affairs of others. In sorrow our -misfortune, in joy our good fortune, monopolises our mind, and erects, -as it were, a barrier between us and matters external to ourselves. -Both are also peculiarly unsuitable for exciting compassion: when -sorrowful, we reserve all pity for ourselves; when joyful, we colour -all things with our joy, and are inclined to regard the troubles and -misfortunes of others as entirely imaginative, or else we refuse to -think of them, as too discordant with the mind's present condition. The -best time to ask a favour, or some beneficial promise for others, is -when the person petitioned is in a state of quiet, happy good<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> humour, -unaccompanied by any excessive joyfulness; or better still, when under -the influence of that keen but indefinite pleasure which results from a -reverie of thought, and consists of a peaceful agitation of the spirit. -At such times men are most open to pity and entreaty, and are often -glad to please others, and give expression to the vague gratifying -activity of their thoughts by some good action."</p> - -<p>He also denied that an afflicted person ordinarily receives more pity -from fellow-sufferers than from other people. For a man's companions in -misfortune are always inclined to give their own troubles precedence -over his, as being more serious and compassionable. And often, when a -man in recounting his sufferings thinks he has excited the sympathy of -his auditors, he is interrupted by one of them who expatiates in turn -on his misfortunes, and ends by trying to show that he is the more -afflicted of the two. He said that in such cases it generally happens -as occurred to Achilles when Priam prostrated himself at his feet, with -entreaties and lamentations. The tears of Priam excited the tears of -Achilles, who began to groan and weep like the Trojan king. This he -did, not from sympathy, but because of his own misfortunes, and the -thoughts of his dead father and friend. "We compassionate others," he -said, "when they suffer from evils we have experienced; but not so when -we and they suffer simultaneously."</p> - -<p>He said that from carelessness and thoughtlessness we do many cruel -or wicked things, which very often have the appearance of genuine -cruelty and maliciousness. For example, he mentioned the case of a man -who spending his time away from home left his servants in a dwelling -scarcely weather proof, not designedly, but simply from thoughtlessness -or disregard of their comfort. He considered malice, inhumanity, and -the like to be far less common among men than mere thoughtlessness, to -which he attributed very many things called by harder names.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> - -<p>He once said that it were better to be completely ungrateful towards a -benefactor than to make some trifling return for his great kindness. -For in the latter case the benefactor must consider the obligation -as cancelled, whatever may have been the motive that inspired the -donor, and however small the return. He is thus despoiled of the bare -satisfaction of gratitude, on which he probably reckoned; and yet he -cannot regard himself as treated ungratefully, though he is so in -reality.</p> - -<p>I have heard the following saying attributed to him:—"We are -inclined and accustomed to give our acquaintances credit for being -able to discern our true merits, or what we imagine them to be, and to -recognise the virtue of our words and actions. We also suppose that -they ponder over these virtues and merits of ours, and never let them -escape their memory. But, on the other hand, we do not discern similar -qualities in them, or else are unwilling to acknowledge the fact."</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER IV.</h5> - - -<p>Ottonieri observed that irresolute men sometimes persevere in their -undertakings in the face of the greatest opposition. This is even a -consequence of their irresolution; for were they to abandon their -design, it would be evidence that they had for once fulfilled a -determination. Sometimes they skilfully and speedily carry out a -resolution. To this they are urged by fear lest they should be -compelled to cease their task, when they would return to the state -of perplexity and uncertainty in which they were formerly. Thus they -strenuously hasten the execution of their design, stimulated rather by -anxiety and uncertainty as to whether they will conquer themselves, -than by the goal or the difficulties to be overcome before it can be -reached.</p> - -<p>At another time he said, with a smile, that people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> accustomed to give -expression to their every thought and feeling in conversation with -others, cry out when alone if a fly bite them, or if they chance to -upset a glass of water; and, on the other hand, they who live solitary -lives become so reserved that even the presentiment of apoplexy would -not induce them to speak in the presence of others.</p> - -<p>He was of opinion that most men reputed great in ancient and modern -times have obtained their reputation through a preponderance of one -quality over the rest in their character. And a man possessed of the -most brilliant but evenly proportioned endowments, would fail to -acquire celebrity either with his contemporaries or posterity.</p> - -<p>He divided the men of civilised nations into three classes. The first -class are they whose individual nature, and partly also their natural -human constitution, become transformed under the influence of the arts -and customs of urban life. Among these he included all men who are -skilful in business, whether private or public, who appreciate society, -and make themselves universally agreeable to their fellows. Generally -speaking, such men alone inspire esteem and respect. The second class -are they who preserve their primitive nature in a greater degree, -either from lack of culture or because they are naturally incapable -of being influenced by the arts, manners, and customs of others. This -is the most numerous of the three classes, and is held in general -contempt. It embraces those who are known as the common people, or who -deserve to be included with them, be their station in life what it may. -The third class, incomparably the smallest in numbers, and often even -more despised than the second, consists of those men in whom nature -is strong enough to resist and often repulse the civilising influence -of the times. They are seldom apt in business, or self-governed in -society; nor do they shine in conversation, nor succeed in making -themselves agreeable to their fellow-men. This class is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> subdivided -into two varieties. The one includes those strong and courageous -natures that despise the contempt they excite, and often indeed esteem -it more than honour. They differ from other men, not only by nature, -but also by choice and preference. Having nothing in common with the -hopes and pleasures of society, solitary in a crowd, they avoid other -men as much as they themselves are avoided. Specimens of this class are -rarely met with. The other variety consists of persons whose nature is -a compound of strength, weakness, and timidity, and who are therefore -in a constant state of agitation. They are as a rule desirous of -associating with their fellows, and wishing to emulate the men of the -cultivated class, they feel acutely the contempt in which they are held -by their inferiors. These men are never successful in life; they fail -in ever becoming practical, and in society are neither tolerable to -themselves nor others. Not a few of our most gifted men of modern times -have belonged to this division in more or less degree. J. J. Rousseau -is a famous example, and with him may be bracketed one of the ancients, -Virgil. Of the latter it is said, on the authority of Melissus, that -he was very slow of speech, and apparently a most ordinary endowed -man. And this, together with the probability that owing to his great -talents Virgil was little at ease in society, seems likely enough, both -from the laboured subtlety of his style, and the nature of his poetry; -it is also confirmed by what we read towards the end of the Second -Book of the Georgics. There the poet expresses a wish for a quiet and -solitary life, as though he regarded it as a remedy and refuge more -than an advantage in itself. Now, seeing that with rare exceptions men -of these two species are never esteemed until they are dead, and are -of little power in the world; he asserted as a general rule, that the -only way to gain esteem during life is to live unnaturally. And since -the first class, which is the mean of the two extremes, represents -the civilisation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> of our times; he concluded from this and other -circumstances that the conduct of human affairs is entirely in the -hands of mediocrity.</p> - -<p>He distinguished also three conditions of old age, compared with the -other ages of man. When nature and manners were first instituted, men -were just and virtuous at all ages. Experience and knowledge of the -world did not make men less honest and upright. Old age was then the -most venerable time of life; for besides having all the good qualities -common to other men, the aged were naturally possessed of greater -prudence and judgment than their juniors. But in process of time, the -conduct of men changed; their manners became debased and corrupt. Then -were the aged the vilest of the vile; for they had served a longer -apprenticeship to vice, had been longer under the influence of the -wickedness of their neighbours, and were besides possessed of the -spirit of cold indifference natural to their time of life. Under such -conditions they were powerless to act, save by calumny, fraud, perfidy, -cunning, dissimulation, and other such despicable means. The corruption -of men at length exceeded all bounds. They despised virtue and -well-doing before they knew anything of the world, and its sad truth. -In their youth they drained the cup of evil and dissipation. Old age -was then not indeed venerable, for few things thence-forward could be -so called, but the most bearable time of life. For whereas the mental -ardour and bodily strength which formerly stimulated the imagination -and the conception of noble thoughts, had often given rise to virtuous -habits, sentiments, and actions; the same causes latterly increased -man's wickedness by enlarging his capacity for evil, to which it lent -an additional attractiveness. But this ardour diminished with age, -bodily decrepitude, and the coldness incident to age, things ordinarily -more dangerous to virtue than vice. In addition to this, excessive -knowledge of the world became so dissatisfactory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> and wearisome a -thing, that instead of conducting men from good to evil, as formerly, -it gave them strength to resist wickedness, and sometimes even to hate -it. So that, comparing old age with the other periods of life, it may -be said to have been as better to good in the earliest times; as worse -to bad in the corrupt times; and subsequently as bad to worse.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER V.</h5> - - -<p>Ottonieri often talked of the quality of self-love, nowadays called -egotism. I will narrate some of his remarks on this subject.</p> - -<p>He said that "if you hear a person speak well or ill of another with -whom he has had dealings, and term him honest or the contrary; value -his opinion not a whit. He speaks well or ill of the man simply as -his relationship with him has proved satisfactory or the reverse." He -said that no one can love without a rival. Being asked to explain, -he replied: "Because the person beloved is a very close rival of the -lover."</p> - -<p>"Suppose a case," he said, "in which you asked a favour from a friend, -who could not grant it without incurring the hatred of a third person. -Suppose, too, that the three interested people are in the same -condition of life. I affirm that your request would have little chance -of success, even though your gratitude to the granter might exceed the -hatred he would incur from the other person. The reason of this is as -follows: we fear men's anger and hatred more than we value their love -and gratitude. And rightly so. For do we not oftener see the former -productive of results than the latter? Besides, hatred or vengeance is -a personal satisfaction; whereas gratitude is merely a service pleasing -to the recipient."</p> - -<p>He said that respect and services rendered to others in expectation of -some profitable return, are rarely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> successful; because men, especially -nowadays when they are more knowing than formerly, are less inclined to -give than receive. Nevertheless, such services as the young render to -the old who are rich or powerful, attain their end more often than not.</p> - -<p>The following remarks about modern customs I remember hearing from his -own mouth:—</p> - -<p>"Nothing makes a man of the world so ashamed as the feeling that he is -ashamed, if by chance he ever realises it.</p> - -<p>"Marvellous is the power of fashion! For we see nations and men, so -conservative in everything else, and so careful of tradition, act -blindly in this respect, often indeed unreasonably, and against their -own interests. Fashion is despotic. She constrains men to lay aside, -change, or assume manners, customs, and ideas, just when she pleases; -even though the things changed be rational, useful, or beautiful, and -the substitutes the contrary.<a name="FNanchor_1_30" id="FNanchor_1_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_30" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p>"There are an infinite number of things in public and private life -which, though truly ridiculous, seldom excite laughter. If by chance a -man does laugh in such a case, he laughs alone, and is soon silent. On -the other hand, we laugh daily at a thousand very serious and natural -things; and such laughter is quickly contagious. Thus, most things -which excite laughter are in reality anything but ridiculous; and we -often laugh simply because there is nothing to laugh at, or nothing -worthy of laughter.</p> - -<p>"We frequently hear and say such things as, 'The good ancients,' 'our -good ancestors,' &c. Again, 'A man worthy of the ancients,' by which -we mean a trustworthy and honest man. Every generation believes, on -the one hand, that its ancestors were better than its contemporaries; -and on the other hand, that the human race progresses as it leaves the -primitive state, to return to which would be a movement for the worse, -further and further behind. Wonderful contradiction!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> - -<p>"The true is not necessarily the beautiful. Yet, though beauty be -preferable to truth, where the former is wanting, the latter is the -next best thing. Now in large towns the beautiful is not to be found, -because it no longer has a place in the excitement of human life. -The true is equally non-existent; for all things there are false or -frivolous. Consequently, in large towns one sees, feels, hears, and -breathes nothing but falsity, which in time, custom renders even -pleasurable. To sensitive minds, what misery can exceed this?</p> - -<p>"People who need not work for their bread, and who accordingly leave -the care of it to others, have usually great difficulty in providing -themselves with one of the chief necessities of life, occupation. This -may indeed be called the greatest necessity of life, for it includes -all others. It is greater even than the necessity of living; for life -itself, apart from happiness, is not a good thing. And possessing life, -as we do, our one endeavour should be to endure as little unhappiness -as possible. Now, on the one hand, an idle and empty life is very -unhappy; and on the other hand, the best way to pass our time is to -spend it in providing for our wants."</p> - -<p>He said that the custom of buying and selling human beings has proved -useful to the race. In confirmation of this, he mentioned the practice -of inoculating for small-pox, which originated in Circassia; from -Constantinople it passed to England, and thence became disseminated -throughout Europe. Its office was to mitigate the destructiveness -wrought by true small-pox, which besides endangering the life and -comeliness of the Circassian children and youths, was especially -disastrous in its effects on the sale of their maidens.</p> - -<p>He narrated of himself that on leaving school to enter the world of -life, he mentally resolved, inexperienced, and devoted to truth as he -was, to praise no person or thing that did not seem really deserving -of praise. He kept his determination for a whole year, during which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> -time he did not utter a single word of praise. Then he broke his -vow, fearing lest, from want of practice, he should forget all the -eulogistic phraseology he had learnt shortly before, at the School of -Rhetoric. From that time he absolutely renounced his intention.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_30" id="Footnote_1_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_30"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See "Dialogue between Fashion and Death," p. 19.</p></div> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER VI.</h5> - - -<p>Ottonieri was accustomed to read out passages from books taken at -hazard, especially those of ancient writers. He would often interrupt -himself by uttering some remark or comment on this or that passage.</p> - -<p>One day he read from Laertius' "Lives of the Philosophers," the passage -where Chilo, being asked how the learned differed from the ignorant, is -said to have replied, that the former possess 'hopes,' Ottonieri said: -"Now all is changed. The ignorant hope, but the learned do not."</p> - -<p>Again, as he read in the same book how Socrates affirmed that the world -contains but one benefit, knowledge, and but one evil, ignorance, -he said: "I know nothing about the knowledge and ignorance of the -ancients; but in the present day I should reverse this saying."</p> - -<p>Commenting on this maxim of Hegesias, also from the book of Laertius, -"The wise man attends to his own interests in everything," he said: "If -all men who carry out this principle be philosophers, Plato may come -and establish his republic throughout the civilised world."</p> - -<p>He greatly praised the following saying of Bion Borysthenes, mentioned -by Laertius: "They who seek the greatest happiness, suffer most." -To this he added: "And they on the other hand are happiest who are -contented with least, and who are accustomed to enjoy their happiness -over again in memory."</p> - -<p>From Plutarch he read how Stratocles excited the anger of the Athenians -by inducing them on a certain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> occasion to sacrifice as though they -were victors; and how he then replied by demanding why they blamed him -that he had made them happy and joyful for the space of three days. -Ottonieri added: "Nature might make the same response to those who -complain that she endeavours to conceal the truth beneath a multitude -of vain but beautiful and pleasing appearances. How have I injured you, -in making you happy for three or four days?"</p> - -<p>On another occasion he remarked that Tasso's saying about a child -induced to take his medicine under a false belief, "he is nourished on -deception," is equally applicable to all our race, in relation to the -errors in which man puts faith.</p> - -<p>Beading the following from Cicero's "Paradoxes"—"Do pleasures make -a person better or more estimable? Is there any one who boasts of the -pleasures he enjoys?" he said: "Beloved Cicero, I cannot say that -pleasures make men in the present day either more estimable or better; -but undoubtedly they cause them to be more esteemed. For in the present -day most young men seek esteem by no other way than pleasure. And not -only do they boast of these pleasures when they obtain them, but they -din the intelligence of their enjoyment into the ears of friends and -strangers, willing or unwilling. There are also many pleasures which -are eagerly desired and sought after, not as pleasures, but for the -sake of the renown, reputation, and self-satisfaction that they bring; -and very often these latter things are appropriated when the pleasures -have neither been obtained, nor sought, or else have been entirely -imaginary."</p> - -<p>He noted from Arrian's History of the Wars of Alexander the Great, that -at the battle of Issus, Darius placed his Greek mercenaries in the van -of his army, and Alexander his Greeks at the wings. He thought that -this fact alone was sufficient to determine the result of the battle.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p> - -<p>He never blamed authors for writing much about themselves. On the -contrary, he applauded them for so doing, and said that on such -occasions they are nearly always eloquent, and their style, though -perhaps unusual and even singular, is ordinarily good and fluent. -And this is not surprising; for writers treating of themselves have -their heart and soul in the work. They are at no loss what to say; -their subject and the interest they take in it are jointly productive -of original thought. They confine themselves to themselves, and do -not drink at strange fountains; nor need they be commonplace and -trite. There is nothing to induce them to garnish their writing with -artificial ornamentation, or to affect an unnatural style. And it -is an egregious error to suppose that readers are ordinarily little -interested in a writer's confessions. For in the first place, whenever -a man relates his own experiences and thoughts simply and pleasingly, -he succeeds in commanding attention. Secondly, because in no way -can we discuss and represent the affairs of others more truthfully -and effectively than by treating of our own affairs; seeing that -all men have something in common, either naturally or by force of -circumstances, and that we are better able to illustrate human nature -in ourselves than in others. In confirmation of these opinions, he -instanced Demosthenes' Oration for the Crown, in which the speaker, -continually referring to himself, is surpassingly eloquent. And Cicero, -when he touches on his own affairs, is equally successful; peculiarly -so in his Oration for Milo, admirable throughout, but above all praise -towards the end, where he himself is introduced. Bossuet also is -supremely excellent in his panegyric of the Prince de Condé, where he -mentions his own extreme age and approaching death. Again, the Emperor -Julian, whose writings are all else trifling, and often unbearable, is -at his best in the "Misopogony" (speech against the beard), in which -he replies to the ridicule and malice of the people of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> Antioch. He -is here scarcely inferior to Lucian in wit, vigour, and acuteness; -whereas his work on the Cæsars, professedly an imitation of Lucian, -is pointless, dull, feeble, and almost stupid. In Italian literature, -which is almost devoid of eloquent writings, the apology of Lorenzo -de Medici is a specimen of eloquence, grand and perfect in every way. -Tasso also is often eloquent where he speaks much of himself, and is -nearly always excessively so in his letters, which are almost occupied -with his own affairs.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h5>CHAPTER VII.</h5> - - -<p>Many other famous sayings of Ottonieri are recorded. Amongst them is a -reply he gave to a clever, well-read young man, who knew little of the -world. This youth said that he learned daily one hundred pages of the -art of self-government in society. "But," remarked Ottonieri, "the book -has five million pages."</p> - -<p>Another youth, whose thoughtless and impetuous behaviour constantly -got him into trouble, used to excuse himself by saying that life is a -comedy. "May be," replied Ottonieri, "but even then it is better for -the actor to gain applause than rebuke; often, too, the ill-trained or -clumsy comedian ends by dying of starvation."</p> - -<p>One day he saw a murderer, who was lame, and could not therefore -escape, being carried off by the police. "See, friends," he said, -"Justice, lame though she be, can bring the doer of evil to account, if -he also be lame."</p> - -<p>During a journey through Italy he met a courtier, who, desirous of -acting the critic to Ottonieri, began: "I will speak candidly, if you -will allow me." "I will listen attentively," said the other, "for, as a -traveller, I appreciate uncommon things."</p> - -<p>Being in need of money, he once asked a loan from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> a certain man, who, -excusing himself on the plea of poverty, added that were he rich, the -necessities of his friends would be his first thought. "I should be -truly sorry were you to bestow on us such a valuable moment," replied -Ottonieri: "God grant you may never become rich!"</p> - -<p>When young, he wrote some verses, using certain obsolete expressions. -At the request of an old lady he recited them to her. She professed -ignorance of their meaning, and said that in her day such words were -not in use. Ottonieri replied: "I thought they might have been, simply -because they are very ancient."</p> - -<p>Of a certain very rich miser who had been robbed of a little money, he -said: "This man behaved in a miserly manner even to thieves."</p> - -<p>He said of a man who had a mania for calculating on every possible -occasion: "Other men make things; this fellow counts them."</p> - -<p>Being asked his opinion about a certain old terra-cotta figure of Jove, -over which some antiquaries were disputing, he said: "Do you not see -that it is a Cretan Jove?"</p> - -<p>Of a foolish fellow, who imagined himself to be an admirable reasoner, -yet was illogical whenever he spoke two words, he said: "This person -exemplifies the Greek definition of man, as a 'logical animal.'"</p> - -<p>When on his deathbed, he composed this epitaph, which was subsequently -engraved on his tomb:</p> - - -<p class="center">HERE LIE<br /> -THE BONES OF<br /> -<span style="font-size: 1.4em;">PHILIP OTTONIERI.</span><br /> -BORN FOR VIRTUE AND GLORY,<br /> -HE LIVED IDLE AND USELESS,<br /> -AND DIED IN OBSCURITY;<br /> -NOT WITHOUT A KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE<br /> -AND HIS OWN DESTINY.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_CHRISTOPHER_COLUMBUS_AND_PIETRO_GUTIERREZ" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_CHRISTOPHER_COLUMBUS_AND_PIETRO_GUTIERREZ"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND PIETRO GUTIERREZ.</i></a></h4> - - - -<p><i>Columbus</i>. A fine night, friend.</p> - -<p><i>Gutierrez</i>. Fine indeed; but a sight of land would be much finer.</p> - -<p><i>Col</i>. Decidedly. So even you are tired of a life at sea.</p> - -<p><i>Gut</i>. Not so. But I am rather weary of this voyage, which turns out to -be so much longer than I expected. Do not, however, think that I blame -you, like the others. Rather, consider that I will, as hitherto, do all -I can to help you in anything relating to the voyage. But just for the -sake of some talk I wish you would tell me candidly and explicitly, -whether you are as confident as at first about finding land in this -part of the world; or if, after spending so much time to no purpose, -you begin at all to doubt.</p> - -<p><i>Col</i>. Speaking frankly as to a friend who will not betray me, I -confess I am a little dubious; especially because certain evidences -during the voyage, which filled me with hope, have turned out -deceitful; for instance, the birds which flew over us from the west, -soon after we left Gomera, and which I considered a sure sign of land -not far distant. Similarly, more than one conjecture and anticipation, -made before setting out, regarding different things that were to have -taken place during the voyage, have failed of realisation. So that at -length I cannot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> but say to myself, "Since these predictions in which I -put the utmost faith have not been verified, why may not also my chief -conjecture, that of finding land beyond the ocean, be also unfounded?" -It is true this belief of mine is so logical, that if it be false, on -the one hand it would seem as if no human judgment could be reliable, -except such as concern things actually seen, and touched; and on the -other hand, I remember how seldom reality agrees with expectation. I -ask myself, "What ground have you for believing that both hemispheres -resemble each other, so that the western, like the eastern, is part -land and part water? Why may it not be one immense sea? Or instead -of land and water, may it not contain some other element? And, -supposing it to have land and water like the other, why may it not be -uninhabited? or even uninhabitable? If it be peopled as numerously as -our hemisphere, what proof have you that rational beings are to be -found there, as in ours? And if so, why not some other intelligent -animals instead of men? Supposing they be men, why not of a kind very -different from those you are acquainted with; for instance, with much -larger bodies, stronger, more skilful, naturally gifted with much more -genius and intelligence, more civilised, and richer in sciences and -arts?"</p> - -<p>These thoughts occur to me. And in truth, we see nature endowed with -such power, so diverse and manifold in her effects, that we not only -are unable to form a certain opinion about her works in distant and -unknown parts of the world, but we may even doubt whether we do not -deceive ourselves in drawing conclusions from the known world, and -applying them to the unknown. Nor would it be contrary to probability -to imagine that the things of the unknown world, in whole or part, -were strange and extraordinary to us. For do we not see with our own -eyes that the needle in these seas falls away from the Pole Star not a -little towards the west? Such a thing is perfectly novel, and hitherto -unheard of by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> all navigators; and even after much thought I can arrive -at no satisfactory explanation of it. I do not infer that the fables -of the ancients regarding the wonders of the undiscovered world and -this ocean are at all credible. Annonus, for instance, said of these -parts, that the nights were illumined by flames, and the glow of fiery -torrents, which emptied themselves into the sea. We observe also, how -foolish hitherto have been all the fears of miraculous and terrible -novelties felt by our fellow-sailors during the voyage; as when, on -coming to that stretch of seaweed, which made as it were a meadow in -the sea, and impeded us so greatly, they imagined we had reached the -verge of navigable waters.</p> - -<p>I say this simply because I wish you to see that although this idea -of mine about undiscovered land may be founded on very reasonable -suppositions, in which many excellent geographers, astronomers, and -navigators, with whom I conversed on the subject in Spain, Italy, and -Portugal, agree with me, it might yet be fallacious. In short, we often -see many admirably drawn conclusions prove erroneous, especially in -matters about which we have very little knowledge.</p> - -<p><i>Gut</i>. So that in fact you have risked your own life, and the lives of -your companions, on behalf of a mere possibility.</p> - -<p><i>Col</i>. I cannot deny it. But, apart from the fact that men daily -endanger their lives for much frailer reasons, and far more trifling -things, or even without thinking at all, pray consider a moment.</p> - -<p>If you, and I, and all of us were not now here in this ship, in the -middle of this ocean, in this strange solitude, uncertain and hazardous -though it be, what should we be doing? How should we be occupied? How -should we be spending our time? More joyfully perhaps? More probably, -in greater trouble and difficulty; or worse, in a state of ennui?</p> - -<p>For what is implied in a state of life free from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> uncertainty and -danger? If contentment and happiness, it is preferable to all others; -if weariness and misery, I know nothing so undesirable.</p> - -<p>I do not wish to mention the glory and useful intelligence that we -shall take back with us, if our enterprise succeed, as we hope. If the -voyage be of no other use to us, it is very advantageous, inasmuch as -it for a time frees us from ennui, endears life to us, and enhances the -value of many things that we should not otherwise esteem.</p> - -<p>You remember perhaps what the ancients say about unfortunate lovers. -These used to throw themselves from the rock of St. Maur (then called -Leucadia) into the sea; being rescued therefrom, they found themselves, -thanks to Apollo, delivered from their love passion. Whether or not -this be credible, I am quite sure that the lovers, having escaped their -danger, for a short time even without Apollo's assistance, loved the -life they previously hated; or loved and valued it increasedly. Every -voyage is, in my opinion, comparable to the leap from the Leucadian -rock, producing the same useful results, though these are of a more -durable kind.</p> - -<p>It is ordinarily believed that sailors and soldiers, because -incessantly in danger of their lives, value existence more lightly than -other people. For the same reason, I come to a contrary conclusion, -and imagine few persons hold life in such high estimation as soldiers -and sailors. Just as we care nothing for many benefits as soon as we -possess them; so sailors cherish and value, very greatly, numerous -things that are far from being good, simply because they are deprived -of them. Who would think of including a little earth in the catalogue -of human benefits? None but navigators; and especially such as -ourselves, who, owing to the uncertain nature of our voyage, desire -nothing so much as the sight of a tiny piece of land. This is our first -thought on awaking, and our last before we fall asleep. And if at some -future<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> time we chance to see in the distance the peak of a mountain, -the tops of a forest, or some such evidence of land, we shall scarcely -be able to contain ourselves for joy. Once on <i>terra firma</i>, the mere -consciousness of being free to go where we please will suffice to make -us happy for several days.</p> - -<p><i>Gut</i>. That is all very true; and if your conjecture only prove to be -as reasonable as your justification of it, we shall not fail to enjoy -this happiness sooner or later.</p> - -<p><i>Col</i>. Personally, I think we shall soon do so; though I dare not -actually promise such a thing. You know we have for several days been -able to fathom; and the quality of the matter brought up by the lead -seems to me auspicious. The clouds about the sun towards evening are -of a different form and colour to what they were a few days ago. The -atmosphere, as you can feel, is warmer and softer than it was. The wind -no longer blows with the same force, nor in so straightforward and -unwavering a manner; it is inclined to be hesitating and changeable, as -though broken by some impediment. To these signs add that of the piece -of cane we discovered floating in the sea, which bore marks of having -been recently severed; and the little branch of a tree with fresh -red berries on it; besides, the swarms of birds that pass over us, -though they have deceived me before, are now so frequent and immense, -that I think there must be some special reason for their appearance, -particularly because we see amongst them some which do not resemble -sea birds. In short, all these omens together make me very hopeful and -expectant, however diffident I may pretend to be.</p> - -<p><i>Gut</i>. God grant your surmises may be true.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="PANEGYRIC_OF_BIRDS" id="PANEGYRIC_OF_BIRDS"><i>PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS.</i></a></h4> - - -<p>Amelio, a lonely philosopher, was seated, reading, one spring morning -in the shade of his country house. Being distracted by the songs of the -birds in the fields, he gradually resigned himself to listening and -thinking. At length he threw his book aside, and taking up a pen wrote -as follows:—</p> - -<p>Birds are naturally the most joyful creatures in the world. I do not -say this because of the cheerful influence they always exercise over -us; I mean that they themselves are more light-hearted and joyful than -any other animal. For we see other animals ordinarily stolid and grave, -and many even seem melancholy. They rarely give signs of joy, and when -they do, these are but slight and of brief duration. In most of their -enjoyments and pleasures they do not express any gratification. The -green fields, extensive and charming landscapes, noble planets, pure -and sweet atmosphere, if even a cause of pleasure to them, do not -excite in them any joyful demonstrations; save that on the authority -of Zenophon, hares are said to skip and frolic with delight when the -moon's radiance is at its brightest.</p> - -<p>Birds, on the other hand, show extreme joy, both in motion and -appearance; and it is the sight of this evident disposition for -enjoyment on their part that gladdens us as we watch them. And this -appearance must not be regarded as unreal and deceptive. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> sing to -express the happiness they feel, and the happier they are, the more -vigorously do they sing. And if, as it is said, they sing louder and -more sweetly when in love than at other times, it is equally certain -that other pleasures besides love incite them to sing. For we may -notice they warble more on a quiet and peaceful day, than when the day -is dark and uncertain. And in stormy weather, or when frightened, they -are silent; but the storm passed, they reappear, singing and frolicking -with one another. Again, they sing in the morning when they awake; -being partly incited to this by a feeling of joy for the new day, and -partly by the pleasure generally felt by every animal when refreshed -and restored by sleep. They also delight in gay foliage, rich valleys, -pure and sparkling water, and beautiful country....</p> - -<p>It is said that birds' voices are softer and sweeter, and their songs -more refined, with us than among wild and uncivilised people. This -being so, it would seem that birds are subject to the influence of the -civilisation with which they associate. Whether or not this be true, it -is a remarkable instance of the providence of nature that they should -have capacity for flight, as well as the gift of song, so that their -voices might from a lofty situation reach a greater number of auditors. -It is also providential that the air, which is the natural element of -sound, should be inhabited by vocal and musical creatures.</p> - -<p>Truly the singing of birds is a great solace and pleasure to us, and -all other animals. This fact is not, I believe, so much due to the -sweetness of the sounds, nor to their variety and harmony, as to -the joyful signification of songs generally, and those of birds in -particular. Birds laugh, as it were, to show their contentment and -happiness. It may therefore be said that they partake in a degree of -man's privilege of laughter, unpossessed by other animals. Now some -people think that man may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> as well be termed a laughing animal, as an -animal possessed of mind and reason; for laughter seems to them quite -as much peculiar to man as reason. And it is certainly wonderful that -man, the most wretched and miserable of all creatures, should have the -faculty of laughter, which is wanting in other animals. Marvellous also -is the use we make of this faculty! We see people suffering from some -terrible calamity or mental distress, others who have lost all love of -life, and regard every human thing as full of vanity, who are almost -incapable of joy, and deprived of hope, laugh nevertheless. Indeed, the -more such men realise the vanity of hope, and the misery of life, the -fewer their expectations and pleasures, so much the more do they feel -inclined to laugh. Now it is scarcely possible to explain or analyse -the nature of laughter in general, and its connection with the human -mind. Perhaps it may aptly be termed a species of momentary folly or -delirium. For men can have no reasonable and just cause for laughter, -because nothing really satisfies nor truly pleases them. It would be -curious to discover and trace out the history of this faculty. There -is no doubt that in man's primitive and wild state, it was expressed -by a peculiar gravity of countenance, as in other animals, who show -it even to the extent of melancholy. For this reason I imagine that -laughter not only came into the world after tears, which cannot be -questioned, but that a long time passed before it appeared. During that -time, neither the mother greeted her child with a smile, nor did the -child smilingly recognise her, as Virgil says. And the reason why, in -the present day, among civilised people, children smile as soon as they -are born, is explainable by virtue of example: they see others smile, -therefore they also smile. It is probable that laughter originated in -drunkenness,<a name="FNanchor_1_31" id="FNanchor_1_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_31" class="fnanchor">[1]</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> another peculiarity of the human race. This vice is -far from being confined to civilised nations, for we know that scarcely -any people can be found that do not possess an intoxicating liquor of -some kind, which they indulge in to excess. And this cannot be wondered -at, when we remember that men, the most unhappy of all animals, are -above all pleased with anything that easily alienates their minds, -such as self-forgetfulness, or a suspension of their usual life; from -which interruption and temporary diminution of the sense and knowledge -of their peculiar evils they receive no slight benefit. And whereas -savages have ordinarily a sad and grave countenance, yet, when in -a state of drunkenness, they laugh immoderately, and talk and sing -incessantly, contrary to their custom. But I will discuss this matter -more in detail in a history of laughter which I think of composing. -Having discovered its origin, I will trace its history and fortune to -the present day, when it is more valued than at any previous time. It -occupies among civilised nations a place, and fills an office somewhat -similar to the parts formerly played by virtue, justice, honour, and -the like, often indeed frightening and deterring men from the committal -of evil.</p> - -<p>But to return to the birds. From the effect their singing produces in -me, I conclude that the sight and recognition of joy in others, of -which we are not envious, gratifies and rejoices us. We may therefore -be grateful to Nature for having ordained that the songs of birds, -which are a demonstration of joy and a species of laughter, should -be in public, differing from the private nature of the singing and -laughter of men, who represent the rest of the world. And it is wisely -decreed that the earth and air should be enlivened by creatures that -seem to applaud universal life with the joyful harmony of their sweet -voices, and thus incite other living beings to joy, by their continual, -though false, testimony to the happiness of things.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p> - -<p>It is reasonable that birds should be, and show themselves, more joyful -than other creatures. For, as I have said, they are naturally better -adapted for joy and happiness. In the first place, apparently, they are -not subject to ennui. They change their position momentarily, and pass -from country to country, however distant, and from the lowest regions -of the air to the highest, quickly and with wonderful ease. Life to -them is made up of an infinite variety of sights and experiences. Their -bodies are in a continuous state of activity, and they themselves are -full of vital power. All other animals, their wants being satisfied, -love quietude and laziness; none, except fishes and certain flying -insects, keep long in motion simply for amusement. The savage, for -instance, except to supply his daily wants, which demand little and -brief exertion, or when unable to hunt, scarcely stirs a step. He loves -idleness and tranquillity above everything, and passes nearly the whole -day sitting in silence and indolence within his rude cabin, or at its -opening, or in some rocky cave or place of shelter. Birds, on the -contrary, very rarely stay long in one place. They fly backwards and -forwards without any necessity, simply as a pastime, and often having -gone several hundred miles away from the country they usually frequent, -they return thither the same evening. And even for the short time they -are in one place, their bodies are never still. Ever turning here and -there, they are always either flocking together, pecking, or shaking -themselves, or hopping about in their extraordinarily vivacious and -active maimer. In short, from the time a bird bursts its shell until -it dies, save intervals of sleep, it is never still for a moment. From -these considerations it may reasonably be affirmed that whereas the -normal state of animals, including even man, is quietude, that of birds -is motion.</p> - -<p>We find also that birds are so endowed that their natural qualities -harmonise with the exterior qualities<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> and conditions of their life; -this again makes them better adapted for happiness than other animals. -They have remarkably acute powers of hearing, and a faculty of vision -almost inconceivably perfect. Owing to this last they can discern -simultaneously a vast extent of country, and are daily charmed by -spectacles the most immense and varied. From these things it may be -inferred that birds ought to possess an imagination, vivid and powerful -in the highest degree,. Not the ardent and stormy imagination of -Dante or Tasso; for this is a disastrous endowment, and the cause of -endless anxieties and sufferings. But a fertile, light, and childish -fancy, such as is productive of joyful thoughts, sweet unrealities, -and manifold pleasures. This is the noblest gift of Nature to living -creatures. And birds have this faculty in a great measure for their -own delight and benefit, without experiencing any of its hurtful and -painful consequences. For their prolific imagination, as with children, -combines, with their bodily vigour, to render them happy and contented, -instead of being injurious, and productive of misery, as with most -men. Thus, birds may be said to resemble children equally in their -vivacity and restlessness, and the other attributes of their nature. If -the advantages of childhood were common to other ages, and its evils -not exceeded later in life, man might perhaps be better able to bear -patiently the burden of existence.</p> - -<p>To me it seems that the nature of birds, considered aright, is -manifestly more perfect than that of other animals. For, in the first -place, birds are superior to other animals in sight and hearing, which -are the principal senses of life. In the second place, birds naturally -prefer motion to rest, whereas other creatures have the contrary -preference. And since activity is a more living thing than repose, -birds may be said to have more life than other animals. It follows -therefore that birds are physically, and in the exercise of their -faculties, superior to other creatures.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> - -<p>Now, if life be better than its contrary, the fuller and more perfect -the life, as with birds, the greater is the superiority of creatures -possessing it, over less endowed animals.</p> - -<p>We must not forget also that birds are adapted to bear great -atmospheric changes. Often they rise instantaneously from the ground -far up into the air, where the cold is extreme; and others in their -travels fly through many different climates.</p> - -<p>In short, just as Anacreon wished to be changed into a mirror that he -might be continually regarded by the mistress of his heart, or into a -robe that he might cover her, or balm to anoint her, or water to wash -her, or bands that she might draw him to her bosom, or a pearl to be -worn on her neck, or shoes that she might at least press him with her -feet; so I should like temporarily to be transformed into a bird, in -order to experience their contentment and joyfulness of life.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_31" id="Footnote_1_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_31"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Compare Shakespeare's Henry IV., Part 2, Act 4, sc. 3. -<i>Falstaff:</i> " ... nor a man cannot make him laugh;—but that's no -marvel, he drinks no wine."</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="THE_SONG_OF_THE_WILD_COCK" id="THE_SONG_OF_THE_WILD_COCK"><i>THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK.</i></a></h4> - - -<p>Certain Hebrew <i>savants</i> and writers affirm, that between heaven and -earth, or rather, partly in one and partly on the other, lives a wild -cock which stands with its feet resting on the earth, and touching the -sky with its crest and beak. This gigantic cock, besides possessing -other peculiarities mentioned by these writers, has the use of reason; -or else, like a parrot, it has been taught, I know not by whom, to -express itself in human fashion. In proof of this, an old parchment -manuscript has been discovered, containing a canticle written in -Hebrew characters, and in a language compounded of Chaldean, Targumic, -Rabbinical, Cabalistic and Talmudic, entitled "Morning Song of the -Wild Cock." (Scir detarnegòl bara letzafra.) This, not without great -exertion, and the interrogation of more than one Rabbi, Cabalist, -theologian, jurist, and Hebrew philosopher, has been interpreted and -translated as follows. I have not yet been able to ascertain whether -this song is still uttered by the cock on certain occasions, or every -morning, or whether it was sung but once, or who is said to have heard -it, or if this language be the proper tongue of the cock, or whether -the canticle was translated from some other language. In the following -translation I have used prose rather than verse, although it is a poem, -in order to ensure as literal a rendering as possible. The broken -style and occasional bombast must not be imputed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> me, for it is -a reproduction of the original; and in this respect the composition -partakes of the characteristics of Oriental languages, and especially -of Oriental poems.</p> - -<p>"Mortals, awake! The day breaks; truth returns to the earth and vain -fancies flee away. Arise; take up again the burden of life; forsake the -false world for the true.</p> - -<p>"Now is the time when each one takes again to his mind all the thoughts -of his real life. He recalls to memory his intentions, aims, and -labours; and thinks of the pleasures and cares that must occur during -the new day. And every one at this time eagerly seeks to discover in -his mind joyful hopes and sweet thoughts. Few, however, are satisfied -in this desire; for all men it is a misfortune to awake. The miserable -man is no sooner aroused than he falls again into the clutches of -his unhappiness. Very sweet a thing is that sleep induced by joy or -hope. These preserve themselves in their entirety until the following -morning, when they either vanish or decrease in force.</p> - -<p>"If the sleep of mortals were continuous and identical with life; if -under the star of day all living beings languished on the earth in -utter rest, and no work was wrought; if the oxen ceased bellowing in -the meadows, the beasts roaring in the forests, the birds singing -in the air, the bees buzzing, and the butterflies skimming over the -fields; if no voice nor motion except-that of the waters, winds, and -tempests anywhere existed, the universe would indeed be useless; but -would there be less happiness or more misery than there is to-day?</p> - -<p>"I ask of thee, O Sun, author of day, and guardian of eve; in the -course of the centuries measured out and consummated by thee, thus -rising and setting, hast thou ever at any time seen one living being -possessed of happiness? Of the numberless works of mortals which -hitherto thou hast seen, thinkest thou that a single one was successful -in its aim of procuring satisfaction, durable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> or temporary, for its -originator? And seest thou, or hast thou ever seen, happiness within -the boundaries of the world? Where does it dwell? In what country, -forest, mountain, or valley; in what land, inhabited or uninhabited; -in which planet of the many that thy flames illumine and cherish? Does -it perchance hide from thee in the bowels of the earth, or the depths -of the sea? What living being, what plant, or other thing animated by -thee, what vegetable or animal participates in it? And thou thyself, -like an indefatigable giant, traversing swiftly, day and night, -sleepless and restless, the vast course prescribed to thee; art thou -content or happy?</p> - -<p>"Mortals, arouse yourselves! Not yet are you free from life. The time -will come when no eternal force, no internal agitation, shall awaken -you from the repose of sleep, in which you shall ever and insatiably -rest. For the present, death is not granted to you; only from time to -time you are permitted to taste briefly its resemblance, because life -would fail were it not often suspended. Too long abstention from this -short and fleeting sleep is a fatal evil, and causes eternal sleep. -Such thing is life, that to secure its continuance it must from time to -time be laid aside; man then in sleep refreshes himself with a taste, -and, as it were, a fragment of death.</p> - -<p>"It seems as though death were the essential aim of all things. That -which has no existence cannot die; yet all that exists has proceeded -from nothing. The final cause of existence is not happiness, for -nothing is happy. It is true, living creatures seek this end in all -their works, but none obtain it; and during all their life, ever -deceiving, tormenting, and exerting themselves, they suffer indeed for -no other purpose than to die.</p> - -<p>"The earliest part of the day is ordinarily the most bearable for -living beings. Few, when they awake, find again in their minds -delightful and joyful thoughts, but almost all people give birth to -them for the time being.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> For then the minds of men, being free from -any special concentration, are predisposed to joy fulness, and inclined -to bear evils more patiently than at other times. Thus a man who falls -asleep in the anguish of despair is filled anew with hope when he -awakes, though it can profit him nothing, Many misfortunes and peculiar -hardships, many causes of fear and distress, then seem less formidable -than they appeared the previous evening. Often, also, the pangs of -yesterday are remembered with contempt, and are ridiculed as follies -and vain fancies.</p> - -<p>"The evening is comparable to old age; and on the other hand, the dawn -of the morning resembles youth; the one full of comfort and hope, and -then sad evening with its discouragement and tendencies to look on the -dark side of things. But, just as the time of youth in life is very -short and fleeting, so is the infancy of each new day, which quickly -ages towards its evening.</p> - -<p>"Youth, if indeed it be the best of life, is a very wretched thing. -Yet even this poor benefit is so soon over, that when by many signs -man is led to perceive the decline of his existence, he has scarcely -experienced its perfection, or fully realised its peculiar strength, -which, once diminished, the best part of life is gone with every race -of mortals. Thus, in all her works, Nature turns and points towards -death: for old age reigns universally. Every part of the world hastens -untiringly; with diligence and wonderful celerity, towards death. The -world itself alone seems exempt from decay; for although in autumn and -winter it appears as it were sick and aged, nevertheless in the spring -it ever rejuvenates. But just as mortals in the first part of each day -regain some portion of their youth, yet grow old as the day progresses, -and are at length extinguished in sleep; so although in the beginning -of the year the world becomes young again, none the less it perpetually -ages. The time will come when this world, and Nature herself, shall -die. And as at the present day there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> remains no trace nor record of -many very great kingdoms and empires, so in the whole world there shall -not he left a vestige of the infinite changes and catastrophes of -created things. A naked silence and an utter calm shall fill the vast -space. Thus, this wonderful and fearful mystery of universal existence -shall be unloosed, and shall melt away before it be made manifest or be -comprehended."<a name="FNanchor_1_32" id="FNanchor_1_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_32" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_32" id="Footnote_1_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_32"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> This is a poetical not philosophical conclusion. Speaking -philosophically, existence, which has had no beginning, will have no -ending.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_TIMANDRO_AND_ELEANDRO" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_TIMANDRO_AND_ELEANDRO"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO.</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Timandro</i>. I am very anxious to have some conversation with you. It is -about the matter and tendency of your writings and words, which seem to -me most blamable.</p> - -<p><i>Meandro</i>. So long as you find no fault with my actions, I confess I do -not much care; because words and writings are of little consequence.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. There is nothing in your actions, as far as I can see, for which -I need blame you. I am aware that you benefit no one because you cannot -do so, and I observe that you injure no one because you are unwilling -to do so. But I consider your speech and writings very reprehensible, -and I do not agree with you that they are of little importance. Our -life may almost be said to consist of nothing else. For the present -we will disregard the words, and simply consider the writings. In the -first place, the incessant vituperation and continuous satire that you -bestow on the human race are out of fashion.</p> - -<p><i>Mean</i>. My brain also is out of fashion. It is quite natural for a -child to resemble its father.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. Then you must not be surprised if your books, like everything -contrary to the custom of the day, are ill received.</p> - -<p><i>Mean</i>. That is a small misfortune. They were not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> written for the -purpose of begging a little bread at the doors of the rich.</p> - -<p><i>? Tim</i>. Forty or fifty years ago, philosophers used to say hard things -about the human race, but now they do just the contrary.</p> - -<p><i>Mean</i>. Do you believe that forty or fifty years ago the philosophers -were right or wrong in their statements?</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. More often right than wrong.</p> - -<p><i>Mean</i>. Do you think that in these forty or fifty years the human race -has changed to the opposite of what it then was?</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. Not at all. But that has nothing to do with the question.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. Why not? Has humanity progressed in strength and perfection, -that the writers of to-day should be constrained to flatter, and -compelled to reverence it?</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. What have such pleasantries to do with so grave a matter?</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. Then seriously. I am not unaware that the people of this -century, although continuing to ill-treat their fellow-men as their -ancestors did, have yet a very high opinion of themselves, such as men -of the past century did not possess. But I, who ill-treat no one, do -not see that I am obliged to speak well of others against my conscience.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. You must, however, like all men, endeavour to serve your race.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. If my race, on the contrary, does its best to injure me, I do -not see that this obligation holds, as you say. But supposing you are -right, what ought I to do, if I cannot be useful to my race?</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. By actions, perhaps, you may be unable to be of much use. Such -power is in the hands of but few people. But by your writings you can, -and indeed ought to serve it. And the race is not benefited by books -which snarl incessantly at men in general. Such behaviour is, on the -contrary, extremely injurious.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. I admit that it does no good, but I also imagine it does no -harm. Do you, however, think books are able to help the human race?</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. Not I only, but all the world think so.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. What kind of books?</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. Many kinds; but especially books treating of morals.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. All the world does not think so, because I, amongst others, -do not, as a woman once said to Socrates. If books of morals could be -useful to men, I should place poetry above all others. I use the word -poetry in its widest sense, as including all writings, the aim of which -is to excite the imagination, whether in prose or verse. Now I hold -in little esteem that sort of poetry which, when read and meditated -over, does not leave in the mind of the reader a sufficiently elevating -sentiment to deter him for half an hour from giving way to a single -base thought or unworthy action. If, however, the reader commits, for -example, a breach of faith towards his best friend an hour after such -reading, I do not condemn the poetry for that, because then the finest, -most stirring, and noblest poetry the world possesses would come under -condemnation. Exceptions to this influence are readers who live in -great cities. These people, however great their concentration, cannot -forget themselves for even half an hour, nor are they much pleased, or -moved, by any sort of poetry.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. You speak, as usual, maliciously, and so as to leave an -impression that you are habitually ill-treated by others. This, in most -instances, is the true cause of the ill-humour and contempt exhibited -by certain people towards their race.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. Indeed, I cannot say that men have treated, or do treat me -very well. If I could say so, I imagine I should be unique in my -experience. But neither have they done me any serious harm, because in -demanding nothing from men, and having nothing in common with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> them, I -scarcely give them a chance of offending me. I must confess, however, -that recognising clearly, as I do, how ignorant I am of the simplest -means of making myself agreeable to others, both in conversation and -the daily intercourse of life, whether from a natural defect or fault -of my own, I should esteem men less if they treated me better.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. Then you are so much the more to blame. For, had you even a -mistaken ground of complaint, your hatred and desire for revenge -against men would be in a measure justifiable. But your hatred, from -what you say, is based on nothing in particular, except perhaps an -extraordinary and wretched ambition of becoming famous as a misanthrope -like Timon—a desire abominable in itself, and especially out of place -in a century like the present, so peculiarly devoted to philanthropy.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. I need not reply to your remark about ambition, because I have -already said that I want nothing from men. Does that seem incredible to -you? You will at least grant that it is not ambition which urges me to -write books, such as on your own showing are more likely to bring me -reproaches than glory. Besides, I am so far from hating the human race, -that I neither can nor wish to hate even those who particularly offend -me. Indeed, the fact that hatred is so completely foreign to me, goes -far to explain my inability to do as other men do. But I cannot change -this, because I always think that whenever a man displeases or injures -another, he does so in the hope of procuring some pleasure or advantage -for himself. His aim is not to injure others (which can never be the -motive of any action, nor the object of any thought), but to benefit -himself,—a natural desire, and undeserving of odium. Again, whenever I -notice a particular vice or fault in my neighbour, I carefully examine -myself, and as far as circumstances will allow, I put myself in his -place. Thereupon I invariably find that I should have done the same as -he, and been guilty of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> same faults. Consequently my mind loses -what irritation it previously felt. I reserve my wrath for occasions -when I might see some wickedness of which my nature is incapable; but -so far I have never met with such a case. Finally, the thought of the -vanity of human things is so constantly in my mind that I am unable to -excite myself about any one of them. Hatred and anger seem to me great -and strong passions, out of harmony with the insignificance of life. -Thus you see there is a great difference between Timon and myself. -Timon hated and shunned all men except Alcibiades, for whom he reserved -all his affection, because he saw in him the initiator of innumerable -evils for their common country. I, on the other hand, without hating -Alcibiades, would have especially avoided him. I would have warned my -fellow-citizens of their danger, exhorting them at the same time to -take the requisite steps to preserve themselves from it. Some say that -Timon did not hate men, but beasts in the likeness of men. As for me, I -neither hate men nor beasts.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. Nor do you love any one.</p> - -<p><i>Mean</i>. Listen, my friend. I am born to love. I have loved; and perhaps -with as deep a passion as is possible for human soul to feel. To-day, -although, as you see, I am not sufficiently old to be naturally devoid -of passion, nor even of a lukewarm age, I am not ashamed to say that -I love no one except myself, by the necessity of nature, and that as -little as possible. Nevertheless, I would always rather bear suffering -myself than be the cause of it to others. I believe you can bear -witness to the truth of this, little as you know about my habits.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. I do not deny it.</p> - -<p><i>Mean</i>. I try to procure for men, even at my own expense, that greatest -possible good, which alone I seek for myself, viz., a state of freedom -from suffering.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. But do you distinctly confess that you do not love the human -race in general?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. Yes, absolutely. But in such a way that if it depended on me, -I would punish those who deserved punishment, without hating them, as -also I would benefit my race to the utmost, although I do not love it.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. Well, it may be so. But then, if you are not incited by injuries -received, nor by hatred, nor ambition, why do you write in such a -manner?</p> - -<p><i>Mean</i>. For many reasons. First, because I cannot tolerate deceit -and dissimulation. I may sometimes have to give way to these in -conversation, but never in my writings; because I am often obliged to -speak unwillingly, but I never write unless I please. I should derive -no satisfaction from puzzling my brains, and expressing the result on -paper, unless I could write what I really think. All sensible people -laugh at those who now-a-days write Latin, because no one speaks, and -few understand, the language. I think it is equally absurd to take for -granted, whether in conversation or writing, the reality of certain -human qualities no longer extant, and the existence of certain rational -beings, formerly considered as divinities, but now really regarded as -non-existent equally by those who mention them, and those who hear them -mentioned. I could understand men using masks and disguises in order to -deceive other men, or to avoid being recognised. But it seems childish -for them all to conceal themselves behind the same kind of mask, and -use the same disguise, whereby they deceive no one, but recognise each -other perfectly, in spite of it. Let them lay aside their masks, and -retain merely their clothes. The effect will be precisely the same, and -they will be more at ease. Besides, this perpetual simulation, though -useless, and this eternal acting of a part between which and oneself -there is nothing in common, cannot be carried on without fatigue and -weariness. If men had passed suddenly, instead of gradually, from the -savage condition to their present state of civilisation, would the -names of the things just mentioned be found in general<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> usage, with the -custom of deducing from them a thousand philosophical conclusions? In -truth, this custom seems to me like one of those ceremonies and ancient -practices so incompatible with our present habits, which nevertheless -continue to exist by force of usage. I for my part cannot submit to -these ceremonies; and I write in the language of modern times, not -that of the Trojan era. In the second place, I do not so much, in my -writings, find fault with the human race, as grieve over its destiny. -There is nothing I think more clear and palpable than the necessary -unhappiness of all living beings. If this unhappiness be not a fact, -then all my arguments are wrong, and we may abandon the discussion. -If it be true, why may I not lament openly and freely, and say that -I suffer? Doubtless, if I did nothing but weep incessantly (this -is the third cause which moves me), I should become a nuisance to -others as well as myself, without profiting any one. But in laughing -at our misfortunes, we do much to remedy them. I endeavour therefore -to persuade others to profit in this way, as I have done. Whether I -succeed or not, I feel assured that such laughter is the only solace -and remedy that can be found. The poets say that despair has always a -smile on its lips.</p> - -<p>But you must not think that I am devoid of compassion for the -unhappiness of humanity. Its condition is incurable by art, industry, -or anything else, therefore I consider it far more manly and consistent -with a magnanimous despair to laugh at our common woes, than to -sigh, weep, and moan with others, thereby encouraging them in their -lamentations.</p> - -<p>Lastly, permit me to say that I desire as much as you, or any one else, -the welfare of my race in general, but I am hopeless of its attainment; -nor can I, like so many philosophers of this century, nourish and -soothe my mind with anticipations of good. My despair is absolute, -unchangeable, and so based on firm judgment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> and conviction, that I -cannot imagine such a thing as a joyous future, nor can I undertake -anything with the hope of bringing it to completion. And you are well -aware that man is never inclined to attempt what he knows or thinks -cannot succeed; or if he does, he acts feebly and without confidence. -Similarly a writer, who expresses himself contrary to his real opinion, -though this be erroneous, utters nothing worthy of consideration.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. But when his judgment is, like yours, a false one, he should -rectify it.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. My judgment is of myself alone, and I am quite sure I do -not err in announcing my unhappiness. If other men are happy, I -congratulate them with all my heart. I know also that death alone can -deliver me from my misfortune. If others are more hopeful, I rejoice -once again.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. We are all unhappy, and have always been so. I scarcely think -you can take credit for the novelty of your idea. But man's present -condition, superior as it is to his past, will be greatly improved in -the future. You forget, or seem to disregard the fact, that man is -perfectible.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. Perfectible he may be. But that he is capable of perfection, -which is of more importance, I know not who can convince me.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. He has not yet had time to reach perfection. Ultimately he will -no doubt attain to it.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. I do not doubt it. The few years that have passed since the -world began are, I agree with you, quite insufficient to complete -our education. We cannot judge from what seem to us the nature and -capabilities of man. Besides, humanity hitherto has been too occupied -with other business to give itself up to the task of attaining -perfection. But in future all its endeavours will be towards this one -aim.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. Yes, the whole civilised world is working zealously towards -this end. And, taking into consideration<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> the number and sufficiency -of the means employed, which have indeed recently increased in an -astounding manner, we have every reason to think that the goal will be -reached, sooner or later. This conviction itself is by no means one -of the least stimulants to progress, because it gives birth to a host -of undertakings and labours useful for the common welfare. If, then, -at any time it was fatal and blâmable to manifest despair like yours, -and to teach men such doctrines as the absolute necessity of their -wretchedness, the vanity of life, the insignificance of their race, and -the evil of their nature, much more is it so in the present day. Such -conduct can only result in depriving us of courage, and that feeling of -self-esteem which is the foundation of an honest, useful, and glorious -life; it will also divert us from the path of our own welfare.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. Kindly say distinctly, whether or not you regard as true what -I have said about the unhappiness of mankind.</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. You return to your old argument. Well, supposing I admit the -truth of what you say, how does that alter the matter? I would remind -you that it is not always well to preach truth simply because it is -truth.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. Answer me another question. Are these truths, which I merely -express, without any pretence of preaching, of primary or secondary -importance in philosophy?</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. In my opinion they are the very essence of all philosophy.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. In that case, they greatly deceive themselves who affirm that -man's perfection consists in complete knowledge of the truth; that his -misfortunes are the consequence of his ignorance and prejudices; and -that the human race will be happy when men have discovered the truth, -and conform their lives to its teaching. Yet such doctrines are taught -by most philosophers, ancient and modern. But you are of opinion that -these truths,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> though confessedly the substance of all philosophy, -ought to be concealed from the majority of men. You would rather that -they were unknown or disregarded by all men, because of the baneful -influence they exercise over the mind. And this is equivalent to an -admission that philosophy ought to be banished from the earth. I grant -you, however, that the final conclusion to be drawn from true and -perfect philosophy is that it were better to dispense with philosophy. -It would therefore seem that, first of all, philosophy is superfluous, -since its conclusions are attainable without its assistance; secondly, -it is extremely injurious, because its conclusion is a very painful -one to be accepted, and when accepted is useless: nor is it in man's -power to disregard truths once recognised. Besides, the habit of -philosophising is one of the most difficult habits to throw off. Thus, -philosophy which at first inspires hope as a possible remedy for the -ills of humanity, ends by seeking in vain a cure for itself. And now -I would ask you why you imagine we are nearer perfection than our -ancestors were? Is it that we are better acquainted with the truth? -This cannot be, since we have seen that such knowledge is extremely -prejudicial to man's happiness. Perhaps, however, it is because some -few men in the present day have learnt that the truest philosopher -is he who abstains from philosophy? But in what then are we superior -to the men of primitive times, who were perfectly unacquainted -with philosophy? And even in the present day savages abstain from -philosophy, without feeling the least inconvenience.</p> - -<p>In what, therefore, are we more advanced than our ancestors; and what -means of attaining perfection do we possess, which they had not?</p> - -<p><i>Tim</i>. We have many of great importance. To explain them would be a -work of considerable time.</p> - -<p><i>Elean</i>. Put them aside for the moment, and reconsider my theory. I -say that if, on the one hand, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> express in my writings certain hard -and bitter truths, whether to relieve my mind, or console myself -in laughing at them, I do not fail at the same time to deplore and -disadvise the search after that cold and miserable truth, acquaintance -with which reduces us to a state of either indifference and hypocrisy, -or baseness of soul, moral corruption, and depravity. And, on the other -hand, I praise and exalt those noble, if false ideas, which give birth -to high-minded and vigorous actions and thoughts, such as further the -welfare of mankind, or individuals; those glorious illusions, vain -though they be, which give value to life, and which are natural to -the soul; in short, the superstitions of antiquity, distinct from the -errors of barbarism. These latter should be rooted out, but the former -respected. Civilisation and philosophy having exceeded their natural -bounds, as is usual with all things pertaining to humanity, have drawn -us from one state of barbarism only to precipitate us into another, no -better than the first. This new barbarism, born of reason and science -instead of ignorance, manifests itself more in the mind than the body. -Yet I imagine, that though these superstitions become daily more -necessary for the well-being of civilised nations, the possibility of -their re-introduction diminishes daily.</p> - -<p>And as for man's perfection, I assure you if I had perceived any signs -of it, I would have written a volume in praise of the human race. But -since I have not yet seen it, and as it is improbable I ever shall -see it, I think of leaving in my will a certain sum of money for the -purpose of procuring an annual panegyric of the human race, to be -publicly recited from the time of its perfection, and to pay for the -erection of a temple, statue, or monument, as may be judged best, to -commemorate the event.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="COPERNICUS" id="COPERNICUS"><i>COPERNICUS:</i></a></h4> - - -<h5><i>A DIALOGUE IN FOUR SCENES.</i></h5> - - -<p class="p2"><i>Scene</i> I.—<i>The First Hour and the Sun.</i></p> - - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. Good day, Excellency.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. Thanks; good-night as well.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. The horses are waiting, your Excellency.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. Very well.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. And the Morning Star has been up some time.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. All right. Let it rise and set, just as it pleases.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. What do I hear your Excellency say?</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. I wish you would leave me alone.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. But, Excellency, the night has already lasted so long, -that it can last no longer; and if we delay, imagine, Excellency, the -confusion that will ensue.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. I don't mean to stir, whatever happens.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>.0 Excellency! what is this? Does your Excellency feel ill?</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. No, no; I feel nothing, except that I don't wish to move. So you -can go and attend to your own affairs.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. How can I go unless your Excellency comes? I am the first -Hour of the day, and how can the day exist, if your Excellency does not -deign to go forth as usual?</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. If you will not be of the day, you shall be of the night; or -better, the hours of the night shall do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> double duty, and you and your -companions shall be idle. For you must know I am tired of this eternal -going round to give light to a race of little animals that live far -away in a ball of clay, so small that I, who have good sight, cannot -see it. During the night I have decided not to trouble myself any more -in this fashion. If men want light, let them make their own fires for -the purpose, or provide it in some other way.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. But, Excellency, how can the little fellows manage that? -It will be a very great expense for them to keep lanterns or candles -burning all day long. If only they could now discover a certain -atmosphere to warm and illumine their streets, rooms, shops, taverns, -and everything else at little expense, then they would not be so badly -off. But men will have to wait some three hundred years, more or less, -before they discover this; and meanwhile, all the oil, wax, pitch, and -tallow of the earth will be exhausted, and they will have nothing more -to burn.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. Let them hunt the will-o-the-wisp, and catch those shining -things called glow-worms.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. And how will they protect themselves against the cold? -For without the assistance of your Excellency, all the forests together -will not make a fire large enough to warm them. Besides, they will also -die of hunger, since the earth will no longer bring forth its fruits. -And so, after a few years, the seed of the poor little folk will be -lost. They will go groping about the earth, seeking food and warmth, -until having consumed every possible thing, and used up the last -flicker of fire, they will all die in the darkness, frozen like pieces -of rock-crystal.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. What is this to do with me? Am I the nurse of the human race; or -the cook, that I should look after the preparation of their food? And -why need I care if a few invisible little creatures, millions of miles -away from me, are unable to see, or bear the cold, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> deprived of -my light and warmth? Besides, even supposing, as you say, that I ought -to act the part of stove or fireplace to this human family, surely it -is more reasonable, if men want to warm themselves, that they should -come to the stove, than that the stove should go whirling round them. -Therefore, if the Earth requires me, let it come hither to satisfy its -needs. I want nothing from the Earth, that I should thus trouble myself -to rotate round it.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. Your Excellency means, if I understand rightly, that -henceforth the Earth must do for itself that which hitherto you have -done on its behalf.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. Yes: now and for the future.</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. Well, your Excellency knows best what is right, and can -do as it pleases you. But nevertheless, will your Excellency deign to -think what a number of beautiful and useful things will be destroyed -by this new decree. The day will be deprived of its handsome gilded -chariot, and beautiful horses, which bathe themselves in the sea. -Amongst other changes, we poor Hours must suffer; we shall no longer -have a place in heaven, but shall have to descend from our position -as celestial children to that of terrestrials, unless, as is more -probable, we dissolve into thin air instead. But be that as it may, the -difficulty will be to persuade the Earth to go round, necessarily a -hard thing, because it is unaccustomed to do so; and the experience of -rotating and exerting itself incessantly will be all the more strange, -seeing that hitherto it has never stirred from its present position. -If, then, your Excellency now begins to think of idleness, I fear the -Earth will be as little desirous of bestirring itself as ever it was.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. In that case, it must be pricked, and made to bestir itself -as much as is necessary. But the quickest and surest way is to find -a poet, or, better, a philosopher, who will persuade the Earth to -move itself, or persuasion being unsuccessful, will use force. For -philosophers and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> poets ordinarily manage these affairs. When I was -younger I used to have a great esteem for the poets, though they -rather caricatured me in representing me racing madly, great and -stout as I am, round and round a grain of sand, simply for the sake -of amusement or exercise. But now that I am older, I am more partial -to philosophy. I study to discern the utility, not the beauty of -things, and poetry seems to me either absurd or wearisome. I wish, -also, to have good substantial reasons for whatever I do. Now, I see -no reason why I should value a life of activity more than a life of -ease and idleness. I have determined, therefore, in future, to leave -the fatigues and discomforts to others, and for my own part to live -quietly at home, without undertaking business of any kind. This change -in me is partly due to my age, but has chiefly been brought about by -the philosophers, a race of people whose power and influence increase -daily. Consequently, to induce the Earth to rotate in my place, a poet -would intrinsically be better than a philosopher: because the poets -are accustomed to give a fictitious value to things by exaggerating -the truth, beauty, and utility of subjects about which they treat, and -because by raising a thousand pleasurable hopes, they often incite -people to fatigues they would else have avoided; whereas philosophers -weary them. But, now that the power of philosophers is so predominant, -I doubt whether a poet would be of much use, if even the Earth gave him -a hearing. Therefore, we had better have recourse to a philosopher. -It is true, philosophers are usually little suited, and still less -inclined, to stimulate other people to exertions; but possibly in so -extreme a case, they may be induced to act contrary to custom. The -Earth has, however, one alternative; it has the option of declining to -undertake all this hard labour. Its destruction will then ensue, and -I am far from sure that this would not be the best thing for it. But -enough of this: we shall see what will take place. Now, either you or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> -one of your companions had better go at once to the Earth. If there you -discover any one of these philosophers in the open air, regarding the -heavens, and wondering about the cause of this protracted night, as -well he may, take charge of him, and bring him hither on your back. Do -you clearly understand?</p> - -<p><i>First Hour</i>. Yes, Excellency. You shall be obeyed.</p> - - - -<p><i>Scene</i> II.—<i>Copernicus pacing the terrace of his house, with his eyes -anxiously directed towards the eastern horizon. A roll of paper in his -hand, which ever and anon he uses as a telescope.</i></p> - - -<p>This is a marvellous thing. Either the clocks are all wrong, or else -the sun should have risen more than an hour ago. Yet not a gleam of -light is to be seen in the east, though the sky is as bright and clear -as a mirror. All the stars shine as if it were midnight. I must go and -consult the Almagest and Sacrobosco, and see what they say about this -event. I have often heard talk of the night Jove passed with the wife -of Amphitryon, and I also remember reading a little while ago, in a -modern Spanish book, that the Peruvians record a very long night, at -the end of which the sun proceeded forth from a certain lake called -Titicaca. Hitherto I have regarded these as mere tales, and have never -wavered in my belief. Now, however, that I perceive reason and science -to be absolutely useless, I am determined to believe the truth of -these, and similar things. I will also visit the lakes and puddles in -the neighbourhood, and see if I can fish out the sun.</p> - -<p>Ha! what is this that I hear? It is like the flapping of the wings of -some huge bird.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p> - - -<p><i>Scene</i> III.—<i>The Last Hour and Copernicus.</i></p> - - -<p><i>Last Hour</i>. Copernicus, I am the Last Hour.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. The Last Hour! Well, I suppose I must be resigned. But I -beg of you, if possible, to give me enough time to make my will, and -put my things in order, before I die.</p> - -<p><i>Last Hour</i>. Die! What do you mean? I am not the last hour of your life.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. Oh, then, what are you? The last hour of the office of -the breviary?</p> - -<p><i>Last Hour</i>. I can quite imagine you prefer that one to the others, -when you are in your stall.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. But how do you know I am a Canon? And how is it you know -my name?</p> - -<p><i>Last Hour</i>. I procured my information about you, from certain people -in the street. I am, in fact, the Last Hour of day.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. Ah! now I understand. The First Hour is unwell; and that -is why day is not yet visible.</p> - -<p><i>Last Hour</i>. I have news for you. There will never be any more daylight -unless you provide it yourself.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. You would throw on me the responsibility of making -daylight? A fine thing, indeed!</p> - -<p><i>Last Hour</i>. I will tell you how. But first of all, you must come with -me at once to the house of the Sun, my father. You shall hear more when -we set out. His Excellency will explain everything when we arrive.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. I trust it is all right. But the journey, unless I am -mistaken, must be a very long one. And how can I take enough food -to prevent my dying of hunger a few years before reaching the Sun? -Besides, I doubt if his Excellency's lands produce the where-withal to -supply me with even a single meal.</p> - -<p><i>Last Hour</i>. Do not trouble yourself with these doubts. You will not -stay long in my father's house, and the journey will be completed in a -moment. For you must know that I am a spirit.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. Maybe. But I am a body.</p> - -<p><i>Last Hour</i>. Well, well: you are not a metaphysician that you need -excite yourself about these matters. Come now, mount on my shoulders, -and leave all the rest to me.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. Courage. There, it is done! I will pursue this novelty to -its issue.</p> - - - -<p><i>Scene</i> IV.—<i>Copernicus and the Sion.</i></p> - - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. Most noble Lord.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. Forgive me, Copernicus, if I do not offer you a chair: one does -not use such things here. But we will soon despatch our business. My -servant has already explained the matter to you; and from what the -child tells me, I imagine you will do very well for our purpose.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. My lord, I discern great difficulties in the matter.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. Difficulties ought not to frighten such a man as yourself. They -are even said to make the brave man still more courageous. But tell me -briefly of what these difficulties consist.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. In the first place, although philosophy is a great power, -I doubt whether it can persuade the Earth to change its comfortable -sitting posture for a state of restless activity; especially in these -times, which are not heroic.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. And if persuasion be ineffectual, you must try force.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. Willingly, Illustrious, if I were a Hercules, or even an -Orlando, instead of a mere Canon of Varmia.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. What has that to do with it? Did not one of your ancient -mathematicians say, that if he had standing room given him outside the -world, he would undertake to move heaven and earth? Now, you are not -required to move heaven, and behold, you are already in a place outside -the earth. Therefore, unless you are not so clever as that ancient, you -will no doubt be able to move the Earth, whether it be willing, or not.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. My lord, such a thing might be possible. But a lever -would be necessary, of such dimensions that neither I nor even -your Illustrious Lordship could pay half the cost of its materials -and manufacture. There are, however, other and far more serious -difficulties, which I will now mention.</p> - -<p>You know the Earth has hitherto occupied the principal position in -the Universe, that is the centre. Motionless, it has had nothing to -do but regard all the other spheres, great and small, brilliant and -obscure, continuously gyrating around and on all sides of it with a -marvellous regularity and speed. All things seem to be occupied in -its service; so that the Universe may be likened to a court, in the -midst of which the Earth sits as on a throne, surrounded by attendant -globes, like courtiers, guards, and servants, each of which fulfils -its respective office. Consequently, the Earth has always regarded -itself as Empress of the Universe. So far, indeed, little fault can be -found with its control, and I do not think your design an improvement -on the old state of affairs. But what shall I say to you about men? We -esteem ourselves (and shall always do so) to be in the same relation to -the rest of created beings as the Earth is to the Universe. And more -than this. Supreme among terrestrial creatures, we all, including the -ragged beggar who dines on a morsel of black bread, have a most exalted -idea of ourselves. We are each of us emperors, and our empire is only -bounded by the Universe, for it includes all the stars and planets, -visible and invisible. Man is, in his own > estimation, the final cause -of all things, including even your Illustrious Lordship.</p> - -<p>Now, if we remove the Earth from its place in the centre, and make it -whirl round and round unremittingly, what will be the consequence? -Simply, that it will act like all the other globes, and be enrolled -in the number of the planets. Then all its terrestrial majesty will -vanish, and the Earth will have to abdicate its imperial throne.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> Men, -too, will lose their human majesty, and be deprived of their supremacy; -they will be left alone with their rags, and miseries, which are not -insignificant.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. In short, Don Nicolas, what do you wish to prove by this -discourse? Is it that you have scruples of conscience lest the deed -should be treasonable?</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. No, it is not that, Illustrious. For, to the best of my -knowledge neither the Codes, nor the Digest, nor the books of public, -imperial, international, or natural law, make any mention of such -treason. What I wanted to show was, that this action, subverting our -planetary relationships, will not only work alteration in the order -of nature; for it will change the position of things <i>inter se</i>, and -the ends for which created beings now exist; it will also necessarily -make a great revolution in the science of metaphysics, and everything -connected with the speculative part of knowledge. The result will be -that men, even if they are able and willing to critically examine into -the why and wherefore of life, will discover themselves and their aims -to be very different from what they are now, or from what they imagine -them to be.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. My dear child, the thought of these things does not disturb me -much; so little respect have I for metaphysics, or physics, or even -alchemy, necromancy, or any such things. Besides, men will in time -become content with their position; or, if they do not like it, they -may argue the matter to their hearts' content, and will doubtless -succeed in believing just what they please. In this way they may still -deceive themselves under the names of Barons, Dukes, Emperors, or -anything else. If, however, they are inconsolable, I confess it will -not give me much uneasiness.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. Well, then, apart from men and the Earth, consider, -Illustrious, what may reasonably be expected to happen in regard -to the other planets. These, when they see the Earth reduced to -their condition, and doing precisely what they do, just like one of -themselves, will be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> jealous of its apparent superiority. They will be -dissatisfied with their own naked simplicity and sad loneliness, and -will desire to have their rivers, mountains, seas, plants, animals, and -men; for they will see no reason why they should be in the smallest -degree less endowed than the Earth. Thereupon will ensue another great -revolution in the Universe: an infinite number of new races and people -will instantaneously proceed from their soil, like mushrooms.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. Well, let them come, and the more the merrier. My light and heat -will suffice for them all without any extra expense. The Universe shall -have food, clothes, and lodging amply provided gratis.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. But, if your Illustrious Lordship will reflect a moment, -yet another objection may be discerned. The stars, having rivalled the -Earth, will turn their attentions to you. They will notice your fine -throne, noble court, and numerous planetary satellites. Consequently, -they also will wish for thrones. And more, they will desire to rule, as -you do, over inferior planets, each of which must of course be peopled -and ornamented like the Earth. It is needless to mention the increased -unhappiness of the human race. Their insignificance will be greater -than ever. They will burst out in all these millions of new worlds, so -that even the tiniest star of the milky way will be provided with its -own race of mortals. Now, looking at this, solely as affecting your -interests, I affirm that it will be very prejudicial. Hitherto you have -been, if not the first, certainly the second in the Universe; that is, -after the Earth; nor have the stars aspired to rival you in dignity. In -this new state, however, you will have as many equals as stars, each -with their respective stars. Beware then lest this change be ruinous to -your supremacy.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. You remember Cæsar's remark, when, crossing the Alps, he -happened to pass a certain miserable little barbarian village. He said -that he would rather be the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> first in that village, than the second -in Rome. Similarly I would rather be first in this my own world than -second in the Universe. But you must not think it is ambition that -makes me desirous of changing the present state of things; it is solely -my love of peace, or, more candidly, idleness. Therefore it is a small -matter to me whether I am first or last in the Universe: unlike Cicero, -I care more for ease than dignity.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. I also, Illustrious, have striven my utmost to obtain -this ease. But, supposing your Lordship is successful in your -endeavour, I doubt whether it will be of long duration. For, in the -first place, I feel almost sure that before many years have elapsed -you will be impelled to go winding round and round like a windlass, -or a wheel, without however varying your locality. Then, after a -time, you will probably be desirous of rotating round something—the -Earth for instance. Ah! well, be that as it may; if you persist in -your determination, I will try to serve you, in spite of the great -difficulties necessarily to be overcome. If I fail, you must attribute -the failure to my inability, not unwillingness.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. That is well, my Copernicus. Do your best.</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. There is however yet another obstacle.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. What is it?</p> - -<p><i>Copernicus</i>. I fear lest I should be burnt alive for my pains. In -which case, it would be improbable that I, like the Phoenix, should -rise from my ashes. I should therefore never see your Lordship's face -again.</p> - -<p><i>Sun</i>. Listen, Copernicus. You know that once upon a time I was a -prophet, when poetry ruled the world, and philosophy was scarcely -hatched. I will now utter my last prophecy. Put faith in me on the -strength of my former power. This is what I say. It may be that those -who come after you, and confirm your deeds, shall be burnt, or killed -in some other way; but you shall be safe, nor shall you suffer at -all on account of this undertaking. And to make your safety certain, -dedicate to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> the Pope the book<a name="FNanchor_1_33" id="FNanchor_1_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_33" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> you will write on the subject. If you -do this, I promise that you will not even lose your canonry.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_33" id="Footnote_1_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_33"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Copernicus did in effect dedicate his book on the -"Revolution of the Celestial Bodies," the printing of which was only -completed a few days before his death, to Pope Paul III. The system -expounded therein was condemned by a decree of Paul V. in 1616. This -condemnation remained in force until 1821, when it was revoked by Pius -VII. The sun is supposed to be in the centre, and motionless; the earth -and the rest of the planets move round it in elliptical orbits. The -heavens and stars are supposed to be stationary, and their apparent -diurnal motion from east to west is imputed to the earth's motion from -west to east.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_AN_ALMANAC_SELLER_AND_A_PASSER-BY" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_AN_ALMANAC_SELLER_AND_A_PASSER-BY"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY.</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Almanac Seller</i>. Almanacs! New Almanacs! New Calendars! Who wants new -Almanacs?</p> - -<p><i>Passer-by</i>. Almanacs for the New Year?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Yes, Sir.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Do you think this New Year will be a happy one?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Yes, to be sure, Sir.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. As happy as last year?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Much more so.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. As the year before?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Still more, Sir.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Why? Should you not like the New Year to resemble one of the -past years?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. No, Sir, I should not.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. How many years have gone by since you began to sell almanacs?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. About twenty years, Sir.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Which of the twenty should you wish the New Year to be like?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. I do not know.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Do you not remember any particular year which you thought a -happy one?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Indeed I do not, Sir.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. And yet life is a fine thing, is it not?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. So they say.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Would you not like to live these twenty years, and even all -your, past life from your birth, over again?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Ah, dear Sir, would to God I could!</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. But if you had to live over again the life you have already -lived, with all its pleasures and sufferings?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. I should not like that.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Then what other life would you like to live? Mine, or that of -the Prince, or whose? Do you not think that I, or the Prince, or any -one else, would reply exactly as you have done; and that no one would -wish to repeat the same life over again?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. I do believe that.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Then would you recommence it on this condition, if none other -were offered you?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. No, Sir, indeed I would not.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Then what life would you like?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Such an one as God would give me without any conditions.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. A life at hap-hazard, and of which you would know nothing -beforehand, as you know nothing about the New Year?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Exactly.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. It is what I should wish, had I to live my life over again, -and so would every one. But this proves that Fate has treated us all -badly. And it is clear that each person is of opinion that the evil he -has experienced exceeds the good, if no one would wish to be re-born on -condition of living his own life over again from the beginning, with -just its same proportion of good and evil. This life, which is such a -fine thing, is not the life we are acquainted with, but that of which -we know nothing; it is not the past life, but the future. With the New -Year Fate will commence treating you, and me, and every one well, and -the happy life will begin. Am I not right?</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Let us hope so.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Show me the best almanac you have.</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Here it is, Sir. This is worth thirty soldi.</p> - -<p><i>Passer</i>. Here are thirty soldi.</p> - -<p><i>Alm. Seller</i>. Thank you, Sir. Good day, Sir.—Almanacs! New Almanacs! -New Calendars!</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_PLOTINUS_AND_PORPHYRIUS" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_PLOTINUS_AND_PORPHYRIUS"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS.</i></a></h4> - - -<blockquote> - -<p>"One day when I, Porphyrius, was meditating about taking my -own life, Plotinus guessed my intention. He interrupted me, -and said that such a design could not proceed from a healthy -mind, but was due to some melancholy indisposition, and -that I must have change of air" (Ex. <i>Life of Plotinus</i>, by -Porphyrius).</p> - -<p>The same incident is recounted in the life of Plotinus by -Eunapius, who adds that Plotinus recorded in a book the -conversation he then held with Porphyrius on the subject.</p></blockquote> - -<p><i>Plotinus</i>. You know, Porphyrius, how sincerely I am your friend. You -will not wonder therefore that I am unquiet about you. For some time -I have noticed how sad and thoughtful you are; your expression of -countenance is unusual, and you have let fall certain words which make -me anxious. In short, I fear that you contemplate some evil design.</p> - -<p><i>Porphyrius</i>. How! What do you mean?</p> - -<p><i>Plotinus</i>. I think you intend to do yourself some injury; it were a -bad omen to give the deed its name. Listen to me, dear Porphyrius, and -do not conceal the truth. Do not wrong the friendship that has so long -existed between us. I know my words will cause you displeasure, and -I can easily understand that you would rather have kept your design -hid. But I could not be silent in such a matter, and you ought not to -refuse to confide in one who loves you as much as himself. Let us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> then -talk calmly, weighing our words. Open your heart to me. Tell me your -troubles, and let me be auditor of your lamentations. I have deserved -your confidence. I promise, on my part, not to oppose the carrying out -of your resolution, if we agree that it is useful and reasonable.</p> - -<p><i>Porphyrius</i>. I have never denied a request of yours, dear Plotinus. I -will therefore confess to you what I would rather have kept to myself; -nothing in the world would induce me to tell it to anyone else. You are -right in your interpretation of my thoughts. If you wish to discuss -the subject, I will not refuse, in spite of my dislike to do so; for -on such occasions the mind prefers to encompass itself with a lofty -silence, and to meditate in solitude, giving itself up for the time to -a state of complete self-absorption. Nevertheless, I am willing to do -as you please.</p> - -<p>In the first place, I may say that my design is not the consequence of -any special misfortune. It is simply the result of an utter weariness -of life, and a continuous ennui which has long possessed me like a -pain. To this may be added a feeling of the vanity and nothingness -of all things, which pervades me in body and soul. Do not say that -this disposition of mind is unreasonable, though I will allow that it -may in part proceed from physical causes. It is in itself perfectly -reasonable, and therein differs from all our other dispositions; for -everything which makes us attach some value to life and human things, -proves on analysis to be contrary to reason, and to proceed from some -illusion or falsity. Nothing is more rational than ennui.<a name="FNanchor_1_34" id="FNanchor_1_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_34" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Pleasures -are all unreal. Pain itself, at least mental pain, is equally false, -because on examination it is seen to have scarcely any foundation, or -none at all. The same may be said of fear and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> hope. Ennui alone, which -is born from the vanity of things, is genuine, and never deceives. If, -then, all else be vain, the reality of life is summed up in ennui.</p> - -<p><i>Plotinus</i>. It may be so. I will not contradict you as to that. But we -must now consider the nature of your project. You know Plato refused to -allow that man is at liberty to escape, like a fugitive slave, from the -captivity in which he is placed by the will of the gods, in depriving -himself of life.</p> - -<p><i>Porphyrius</i>. I beg you, dear Plotinus, to leave Plate alone now, -with his doctrines and dreams. It is one thing to praise, explain, -and champion certain theories in the schools and in books, but quite -another to practically exemplify them. School-teaching and boots -constrain us to admire Plato, and conform to him, because such is the -custom in the present day. Bat in real life, far from being admired, -he is even detested. It is true Plato is said to have spread abroad by -his writings the notion of a future life, thus leaving men in doubt as -to their fate after death, and serving a good purpose in deterring men -from evil in this life, through fear of punishment in the next. If I -imagined Plato to have been the inventor of these ideas and beliefs, I -would speak thus to him:—</p> - -<p>"You observe, O Plato, how inimical to our race the power which governs -the world has always been, whether known as Nature, Destiny, or Fate. -Many reasons contradict the supposition that man has that high rank -in the order of creation which we are pleased to imagine; but by no -reason can he be deprived of the characteristic attributed to him -by Homer—that of suffering. Nature, however, has given us a remedy -for all evils. It is death, little feared by those who are not fully -intelligent, and by all others desired.</p> - -<p>"But you have deprived us of this dearest consolation of our life, -full of suffering that it is. The doubts raised by you have torn this -comfort from our minds, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> made the thought of death the bitterest -of all thoughts. Thanks to you, unhappy mortals now fear the storm -less than the port. Driven from their one place of repose, and robbed -of the only remedy they could look for, they resign themselves to the -sufferings and troubles of life. Thus, you have been more cruel towards -us than Destiny, Nature, or Fate. And since this doubt, once conceived, -can never be got rid of, to you is it due that your fellow-men regard -death as something more terrible than life. You are to blame that rest -and peace are for ever banished from the last moments of man, whereas -all other animals die in perfect fearlessness. This one thing, O Plato, -was wanting to complete the sum of human misery.</p> - -<p>"True, your intention was good. But it has failed in its purpose. -Violence and injustice are not arrested, for evil-doers only realise -the terrors of death in their last moments, when quite powerless to do -more harm. Your doubts trouble only the good, who are more disposed -to benefit than injure their fellow-men, and the weak and timid, who -are neither inclined by nature nor disposition to oppress anyone. Bold -and strong men, who have scarcely any power of imagination, and those -who require some other restraint than mere law, regard these fears as -chimerical, and are undeterred from evil doing. We see daily instances -of this, and the experience of all the centuries, from your time down -to the present, confirms it. Good laws, still more, good education, and -mental and social culture,—these are the things that preserve justice -and mildness amongst men. Civilisation, and the use of reflection and -reason, make men almost always hate to war with each other and shed one -another's blood, and render them disinclined to quarrel, and endanger -their lives by lawlessness. But such good results are never due to -threatening fancies, and bitter expectation of terrible chastisement; -these, like the multitude and cruelty of the punishments used in -certain states, only serve to increase the baseness and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> ferocity of -men, and are therefore opposed to the well-being of human society.</p> - -<p>"Perhaps, however, you will reply that you have promised a reward -in the future for the good. What then is this reward? A state of -life which seems full of ennui, even less tolerable than our present -existence! The bitterness of your punishments is unmistakable; but the -sweetness of your rewards is hidden and secret, incomprehensible to our -minds. How then can order and virtue be said to be encouraged by your -doctrine? I will venture to say that if but few men have been deterred -from evil by the fear of your terrible Tartarus, no good man has been -led to perform a single praiseworthy action by desire of your Elysium. -Such a Paradise does not attract us in the least. But, apart from the -fact that your heaven is scarcely an inviting place, who among the -best of us can hope to merit it? What man can satisfy your inexorable -judges, Minos, Eacus, and Rhadamanthus, who will not overlook one -single fault, however trivial? Besides, who can say that he has reached -your standard of purity? In short, we cannot look for happiness in the -world to come; and however clear a man's conscience may be, or however -upright his life, in his last hour he will dread the future with its -terrible incertitude. It is due to your teaching that fear is a much -stronger influence than hope, and may be said to dominate mankind.</p> - -<p>"This then is the result of your doctrines. Man, whose life on earth -is wretched in the extreme, anticipates death, not as an end to all -his miseries, but as the beginning of a condition more wretched still. -Thus, you surpass in cruelty, not only Nature and Destiny, but the most -merciless tyrant and bloodthirsty executioner the world has ever known.</p> - -<p>"But what cruelty can exceed that of your law, forbidding man to put -an end to his sufferings and troubles by voluntarily depriving himself -of life, thereby<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> triumphing over the horrors of death? Other animals -do not desire to put an end to their life, because their unhappiness -is less than ours; nor would they even have sufficient courage to face -a voluntary death. But if they did wish to die, what should deter them -from fulfilling their desire? They are affected by no prohibition, nor -fear of the future. Here again you make us inferior to brute beasts. -The liberty they possess, they do not use; the liberty granted also to -us by Nature, so miserly in her gifts, you take away. Thus, the only -creatures capable of desiring death, have the right to die refused -them. Nature, Destiny, and Fortune overwhelm us with cruel blows, that -cause us to suffer fearfully; you add to our sufferings by tying our -arms and enchaining our feet, so that we can neither defend ourselves, -nor escape from our persecutors.</p> - -<p>"Truly, when I think over the great wretchedness of humanity, it seems -to me that your doctrines, above all things, O Plato, are guilty of -it, and that men may well complain of you more than of Nature. For the -latter, in decreeing for us an existence full of unhappiness, has left -us the means of escaping from it when we please. Indeed, unhappiness -cannot be called extreme, when we have in our hands the power to -shorten it at will. Besides, the mere thought of being able to quit -life at pleasure, and withdraw from the miseries of the world, is so -great an alleviation of our lot, that in itself it suffices to render -existence supportable. Consequently, there can be no doubt that our -chief unhappiness proceeds from the fear, that in abbreviating our life -we might be plunged into a state of greater misery than the present. -And not only will our misery be greater in the future, but it will -be so full of the refinement of cruelty, that a comparison of these -unexperienced tortures with the known sufferings of this life, reduces -the latter almost to insignificance.</p> - -<p>"You have easily, O Plato, raised this question of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> immortality; but -the human species will become extinct before it is settled. Your genius -is the most fatal thing that has ever afflicted humanity, and nothing -can ever exist more disastrous in its effects."</p> - -<p>That is what I would say to Plato, had he invented the doctrine we -are discussing; but I am well aware he did not originate it. However, -enough has been said. Let us drop the subject, if you please.</p> - -<p><i>Plotinus</i>. Porphyrius, you know how I revere Plato; yet in talking to -you on such an occasion as this, I will give you my own opinion, and -will disregard his authority. The few words of his that I spoke were -rather as an introduction than anything else. Returning to my first -argument, I affirm that not only Plato and every other philosopher, -but Nature herself, teaches us that it is improper to take away our -own life. I will not say much on this point, because if you reflect a -little, I am sure you will agree with me that suicide is unnatural. It -is indeed an action the most contrary possible to nature. The whole -order of things would be subverted if the beings of the world destroyed -themselves. And it is repugnant and absurd to suppose that life is -given only to be taken away by its possessor, and that beings should -exist only to become non-existent. The law of self-preservation is the -strictest law of nature. Its maintenance is enjoined in every possible -way on man and all creatures of the universe. And, apart from anything -else, do we not instinctively fear, hate, and shun death, even in spite -of ourselves? Therefore, since suicide is so utterly contrary to our -nature, I cannot think that it is permissible.</p> - -<p><i>Porphyrius</i>. I have already meditated on the subject from all points -of view; for the mind could not design such a step without due -consideration. It seems to me that all your reasoning is answerable -with just as much counter reasoning. But I will be brief.</p> - -<p>You doubt whether it be permissible to die without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> necessity. I ask -you if it be permissible to be unhappy? Nature, you say, forbids -suicide. It is a strange thing that since she is either unable or -unwilling to make me happy, or free me from unhappiness, she should -have the power to force me to live. If Nature has given us a love of -life, and a hatred of death, she has also given us a love of happiness, -and a hatred of suffering; and the latter instincts are much more -powerful than the former, because happiness is the supreme aim of all -our actions and sentiments of love or hatred. For to what end do we -shun death, or desire life, save to promote our well-being, and for -fear of the contrary?</p> - -<p>How then can it be unnatural to escape from suffering in the only way -open to man, that is, by dying; since in life it can never be avoided? -How, too, can it be true, that Nature forbids me to devote myself to -death, which is undoubtedly a good thing, and to reject life, which -is undoubtedly an evil and injurious thing, since it is a source of -nothing but suffering to me?</p> - -<p><i>Plotinus</i>. These things do not persuade me that suicide is not -unnatural. Have we not a strong instinctive horror of death? Besides, -we never see brute beasts, which invariably follow the instincts of -their nature (when not contrarily trained by man), either commit -suicide, or regard death as anything but a condition to be struggled -against, even in their moments of greatest suffering. In short, all -men who commit this desperate act, will be found to have lived out of -conformity to nature. They, on the contrary, who live naturally, would -without exception reject suicide, if even the thought proposed itself -to them.</p> - -<p><i>Porphyrius</i>. Well, if you like, I will admit that the action is -contrary to nature. But what has that to do with it, if we ourselves -do not conform to nature; that is, are no longer savages? Compare -ourselves, for instance, with the inhabitants of India or Ethiopia, who -are said to have retained their primitive manners and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> wild habits. You -would scarcely think that these people were even of the same species -as ourselves. This transformation of life, and change of manners and -customs by civilisation, has been accompanied, in my opinion, by an -immeasurable increase of suffering. Savages never wish to commit -suicide, nor does their imagination ever induce them to regard death -as a desirable thing; whereas we who are civilised wish for it, and -sometimes voluntarily seek it.</p> - -<p>Now, if man be permitted to live unnaturally, and be consequently -unhappy, why may he not also die unnaturally? For death is indeed -the only way by which he can deliver himself from the unhappiness -that results from civilisation. Or, why not return to our primitive -condition, and state of nature? Ah, we should find it almost impossible -as far as mere external circumstances are concerned, and in the more -important matters of the mind, quite impossible. What is less natural -than medicine? By this I mean surgery, and the use of drugs. They are -both ordinarily used expressly to combat nature, and are quite unknown -to brute beasts and savages. Yet, since the diseases they remedy are -unnatural, and only occur in civilised countries, where people have -fallen from their natural condition, these arts, being also unnatural, -are highly esteemed and even indispensable. Similarly, suicide, which -is a radical cure for the disease of despair, one of the outcomes of -civilisation, must not be blamed because it is unnatural; for unnatural -evils require unnatural remedies. It would indeed be hard and unjust -that reason, which increases our misery by forcing us to go contrary to -nature, should in this matter join hands with nature, and take from us -our only remaining hope and refuge, and the only resource consistent -with itself, and should force us to continue in our wretchedness.</p> - -<p>The truth is this, Plotinus. Our primitive nature has departed from us -for ever. Habit and reason have given<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> us a new nature in place of the -old one, to which we shall never return. Formerly, it was unnatural -for men to commit suicide, or desire death. In the present day, both -are natural. They conform to our new nature, which however, like the -old one, still impels us to seek our happiness. And since death is our -greatest good, is it remarkable that men should voluntarily seek it? -For our reason tells us that death is not an evil, but, as the remedy -for all evils, is the most desirable of things.</p> - -<p>Now tell me: are all other actions of civilised men regulated by the -standard of their primitive nature? If so, give me a single instance. -No, it is our present, and not our primitive nature, that interprets -our actions; in other words, it is our reason. Why then should suicide -alone be judged unreasonably, and from the aspect of our primitive -nature? Why should this latter, which has no influence over our life, -control our death? Why should not the same reason govern our death -which rules our life? It is a fact, whether due to reason or our -unhappiness, that in many people, especially those who are unfortunate -and afflicted, the primitive hatred of death is extinguished, and -even changed into desire and love, as I have said. Such love, though -incompatible with our early nature, is a reality in the present day. -We are also necessarily unhappy because we live unnaturally. It were -therefore manifestly unreasonable to assert that the prohibition which -forbade suicide in the primitive state should now hold good. This seems -to me sufficient justification of the deed. It remains to be proved -whether or not it be useful.</p> - -<p><i>Plotinus</i>. Never mind that side of the question, my dear Porphyrius, -because if the deed be permissible, I have no doubt of its extreme -utility. But I will never admit that a forbidden and improper action -can be useful. The matter really resolves itself into this: which is -the better, to suffer, or not to suffer? It is certain that most men -would prefer suffering mixed with enjoyment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> to a state devoid of both -suffering and enjoyment, so ardently do we desire and thirst after -joy. But this is beside the question, because enjoyment and pleasure, -properly speaking, are as impossible as suffering is inevitable. I mean -a suffering as continuous as our never satisfied desire for pleasure -and happiness, and quite apart from the peculiar and accidental -sufferings which must infallibly be experienced by even the happiest of -men. In truth, were we certain that in continuing to live, we should -continue thus to suffer, we should have sufficient reason to prefer -death to life; because existence does not contain a single genuine -pleasure to compensate for such suffering, even if that were possible.</p> - -<p><i>Porphyrius</i>. It seems to me that ennui alone, and the fact that we -cannot hope for an improved existence, are sufficiently cogent reasons -to induce a desire for death, even though our condition be one of -prosperity. And it is often a matter of surprise to me that we have no -record of princes having committed suicide through ennui and weariness -of their grandeur, like other men in lower stations of life. We read -how Hegesias, the Cyrenaic, used to reason so eloquently about the -miseries of life, that his auditors straightway went and committed -suicide; for which reason he was called the "death persuader," and -was at length forbidden by Ptolemy to hold further discourse on the -subject. Certain princes, it is true, have been suicides, amongst -others Mithridates, Cleopatra, and Otho. But these all put an end to -themselves to escape some peculiar evils, or from dread of an increase -of misfortune. Princes are, I imagine, more liable than other men to -feel a hatred of their condition, and to think favourably of suicide. -For have they not reached the summit of what is called human happiness? -They have nothing to hope for, because they have everything that -forms a part of the so-called good things of this life. They cannot -anticipate greater pleasure to-morrow than they have enjoyed to-day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> -Thus they are more unfortunately situated than all less exalted people. -For the present is always sad and unsatisfactory; the future alone is a -source of pleasure.</p> - -<p>But be that as it may. We see then that there is nothing to prevent -men voluntarily quitting life, and preferring death, save the fear -of another world. All other reasons are palpably ill-founded. They -are due to a wrong estimate, in comparing the advantages and evils of -existence; and whoever at any time feels a strong attachment to life, -or lives in a state of contentment, does so under a mistake, either of -judgment, will, or even fact.</p> - -<p><i>Plotinus</i>. That is true, dear Porphyrius. But nevertheless, let me -advise, nay implore, you to listen to the counsels of Nature rather -than Reason. Follow the instincts of that primitive Nature, mother of -us all, who, though she has manifested no affection for us in creating -us for unhappiness, is a less bitter and cruel foe than our own reason, -with its boundless curiosity, speculation, chattering, dreams, ideas, -and miserable learning. Besides, Nature has sought to diminish our -unhappiness by concealing or disguising it from us as much as possible. -And although we are greatly changed, and the power of nature within us -is much lessened, we are not so altered but that much of our former -manhood remains, and our primitive nature is not quite stifled within -us. In spite of all our folly, it will never be otherwise. So, too, -the mistaken view of life that you mention, although I admit that it -is in reality palpably erroneous, will continue to prevail. It is -held not only by idiots and the half-witted, but by clever, wise, and -learned men, and always will be, unless the Nature that made us—and -not man nor his reason—herself puts an end to it. And I assure you -that neither disgust of life, nor despair, nor the sense of the nullity -of things, the vanity of all anxiety, and the insignificance of man, -nor hatred of the world and oneself, are of long duration;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> although -such dispositions of mind are perfectly reasonable, and the contrary -unreasonable. For our physical condition changes momentarily in more or -less degree; and often without any especial cause life endears itself -to us again, and new hopes give brightness to human things, which once -more seem worthy of some attention, not indeed from our understanding, -but from what may be termed the higher senses of the intellect. This is -why each of us, though perfectly aware of the truth, continues to live -in spite of Reason, and conforms to the behaviour of others; for our -life is controlled by these senses, and not by the understanding.</p> - -<p>Whether suicide be reasonable, or our compromise with life -unreasonable, the former is certainly a horrible and inhuman action. It -were better to follow Nature, and remain man, than act like a monster -in following Reason. Besides, ought we not to give some thought to the -friends, relatives, acquaintance, and people with whom we have been -accustomed to live, and from whom we should thus separate for ever? And -if the thought of such separation be nothing to us, ought we not to -consider their feelings? They lose one whom they loved and respected; -and the atrocity of his death enhances their grief. I know that the -wise man is not easily moved, nor yields to pity and lamentation to -a disquieting extent; he does not abase himself to the ground, shed -tears immoderately, nor do other similar things unworthy of one who -clearly understands the condition of humanity. But such fortitude of -soul should be reserved for grievous circumstances that arise from -nature, or are unavoidable; it is an abuse of fortitude to deprive -ourselves for ever of the society and conversation of those who are -dear to us. He is a barbarian, and not a wise man, who takes no account -of the grief experienced by his friends, relations, and acquaintances. -He who scarcely troubles himself about the grief his death would cause -to his friends and family<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> is selfish; he cares little for others, and -all for himself. And truly, the suicide thinks only of himself. He -desires nought but his personal welfare, and throws away all thought -of the rest of the world. In short, suicide is an action of the most -unqualified and sordid egotism, and is certainly the least attractive -form of self-love that exists in the world.</p> - -<p>Finally, my dear Porphyrius, the troubles and evils of life, although -many and inevitable, when, as in your case, unaccompanied by grievous -calamity or bodily infirmity, are after all easy to be borne, -especially by a wise and strong man like yourself. And indeed, life -itself is of so little importance, that man ought not to trouble -himself much either to retain or abandon it; and, without thinking -greatly about it, we ought to give the former instinct precedence over -the latter.</p> - -<p>If a friend begged you to do this, why should you not gratify him?</p> - -<p>Now I earnestly entreat you, dear Porphyrius, by the memory of our -long friendship, put away this idea. Do not grieve your friends, who -love you with such warm affection, and your Plotinus,<a name="FNanchor_2_35" id="FNanchor_2_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_35" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> who has no -dearer nor better friend in the world. Help us to bear the burden -of life, instead of leaving us without a thought. Let us live, dear -Porphyrius,<a name="FNanchor_3_36" id="FNanchor_3_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_36" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> and console each other. Let us not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> refuse our share of -the sufferings of humanity, apportioned to us by destiny. Let us cling -to each other with mutual encouragement, and hand in hand strengthen -one another better to bear the troubles of life. Our time after all -will be short; and when death comes, we will not complain. In the last -hour, our friends and companions will comfort us, and we shall be -gladdened by the thought that after death we shall still live in their -memory, and be loved by them.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_34" id="Footnote_1_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_34"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> "Ennui is a state only experienced by the intelligent. -The greater the mind, the more constant, painful, and terrible is the -ennui it suffers. Ennui is in some respects the sublimest of human -sentiments" (<i>Leopardi's "Pensieri</i>" Nos. lxvii. and lxviii.)</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_35" id="Footnote_2_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_35"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> <i>Plotinus</i> was born 204 A.D. He began teaching philosophy -in Rome, and was highly esteemed at court. Eunapius says of him, "The -heavenly elevation of his mind, and his perplexed style, made him very -tiresome and unpleasant." He was ascetic in his habits; disparaged -patriotism; depreciated material things; purposely forgot his birthday; -and acted altogether rather as a spectator of other men's lives than as -a living man himself.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_36" id="Footnote_3_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_36"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> <i>Porphyrius</i> was born 233 A.D. He was a pupil of Plotinus, -and like him established a school of philosophy at Rome. From study of -the writings of Plotinus he fell into a state of disgust with life, -and retiring from Rome, lived alone in a solitary and wild part of -Sicily. Here he determined to put an end to his life by starvation. -He was found by Plotinus, who had followed him from Rome, in a state -of extreme weakness, and was, by his wise counsels, dissuaded from -completing his intention.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="COMPARISON_OF_THE_LAST_WORDS_OF_MARCUS_BRUTUS_AND_THEOPHRASTUS" id="COMPARISON_OF_THE_LAST_WORDS_OF_MARCUS_BRUTUS_AND_THEOPHRASTUS"><i>COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF MARCUS BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS.</i></a></h4> - - -<p>I think, in all ancient history there can be found no words more -lamentable and terrifying, yet withal, speaking humanly, more -true, than those uttered by Marcus Brutus shortly before death, in -disparagement of virtue. This is what, according to Dionysius Cassius, -he is reported to have said:—</p> - -<p>"O miserable virtue! Thou art but a mere phrase, and I have followed -thee, as though thou wert a reality. Fate is stronger than thee."</p> - -<p>Plutarch, in his life of Brutus, makes no mention of this, which has -induced Pier Vettori to conclude that Cassius has here taken licence -in prose often accorded to poetry. But its truth is confirmed by the -witness of Florus, who states that Brutus, when at the point of death, -exclaimed, that virtue was "an expression, and not a reality."</p> - -<p>Many people are shocked at those words of Brutus, and blame him for -uttering them. They infer from their meaning, either that virtue -is a sealed book to them, or else that they have never experienced -ill-fortune. The former inference alone is credible. In any case, it -is certain they but slightly understand, and still less realise the -unhappiness of human affairs, or else they stupidly wonder why the -doctrines of Christianity were not in force before the time of Christ.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p> - -<p>Other people interpret these words as demonstrating that Brutus was -not after all the noble and pious man he was supposed to have been. -They imagine that just before death he threw off the mask. But they are -wrong; and if they give Brutus credit for sincerity in uttering these -words in repudiation of virtue, let them consider how it were possible -for him to abandon what he never possessed, or to disassociate himself -from that with which he never had any association. If they think he was -insincere, and spoke designedly and with ostentation, let them explain -what object he could have in speaking vain and fallacious words, and -immediately afterwards acting in accordance with them? Are facts -deniable, simply because they are not in harmony with words?</p> - -<p>Brutus was a man overwhelmed by a great and unavoidable catastrophe. -He was disheartened, and wearied with life and fortune, and having -abandoned all desires and hopes, the deceitfulness of which he had -experienced, he determined to take his destiny into his own hands, and -to put an end to his unhappiness. Why should he, at the very moment -of eternal separation from his fellows, trouble to hunt the phantom -of glory, and study to give forth words and thoughts to deceive those -around him, and to gain human esteem, when he was about to leave -humanity for ever? What was it to him that he might gain a reputation -on that earth which appeared so hateful and contemptible to him?</p> - -<p>These words of Brutus are well known to most of us. The following -utterance of Theophrastus at the point of death is, I believe, less -known, though very worthy of consideration. It forms a parallel with -that of Brutus, both as to its substance and time of delivery. Diogenes -Laertius mentions it, not, in my opinion, as original to himself, but -as an extract from some more ancient and important work. He says that -Theophrastus, just before death, being asked by his disciples whether -he would leave them any token or words of advice, replied:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p> - -<p>"None, except that man despises and rejects many pleasures for the sake -of glory. But no sooner does he begin to live than death overtakes him. -Hence the love of glory is as fatal a thing as possible. Strive to live -happily: abandon studies, which are a weariness; or cultivate them only -so that they may bring you fame. Life is more vain than useful. As for -me, I have no time to think more about it; you must study what is most -expedient." So saying, he died.</p> - -<p>Other sayings of Theophrastus on this occasion are mentioned by Cicero -and St. Jerome. These are better known, but have nothing to do with our -subject.</p> - -<p>It would seem that Theophrastus lived to the age of more than a -hundred, having devoted all his lifetime to study and writing, and -having been an unwearied pursuer of glory. Suidas says that his death -was due to the excess of his studies, and that he died surrounded by -about two thousand of his disciples and followers, reverenced for his -wisdom throughout the whole of Greece, regretting his pursuit of glory, -just as Brutus repented of virtue. These two words, glory and virtue, -were by the ancients regarded as almost synonymous in meaning, though -it is not so in the present day. Theophrastus did not indeed say that -glory is more frequently a matter of fortune than merit, which is -oftener true now than in former times; but had he said so, there would -have been no difference between his idea and that of Brutus.</p> - -<p>Such abjurations, or rather apostasies, of those noble errors which -beautify, nay compose our very life, are of daily occurrence. They -are due to the fact that the human intelligence in process of time -discovers, not only the nakedness, but even the skeleton of things: -wisdom also, which was regarded by the ancients as the consolation -and chief cure for our unhappiness, has been obliged to impeach our -condition, and almost requires a consolation for itself, since had -not men followed it, they would not have known the greatness of their -misfortune, or at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> least would have been able to remedy it with hope. -But the ancients used to believe, according to the teaching of Nature, -that things were things, and not appearances, and that human life was -destined to partake of happiness as well as unhappiness. Consequently, -such apostasies as these were very rare, and were the result not of -passions and vices, but of a sentiment and realisation of the truth of -things. Therefore they deserve careful and philosophical consideration.</p> - -<p>The words of Theophrastus are the more surprising when we think of -the circumstances in which he died. He was prosperous and successful; -and it would seem as though he could not have a single cause for -regret. His chief aim, glory, he had succeeded in acquiring long -ago. The utterance of Brutus, on the other hand, was one of those -inspirations of misfortune which sometimes open out a new world to -our minds, and persuade us of truths that require a long time for -the mere intelligence to discover. Misfortune may indeed be compared -in its effect to the frenzy of lyric poets, who at a glance, as if -situated in a lofty place, take in as much of the domain of human -knowledge as requires many centuries before it be discerned by -philosophers. In almost all ancient writings (whether philosophical, -poetical, historical, or aught else), we meet with many very sorrowful -expressions, common enough to us nowadays, but strange to the people of -those times. These sentences, however, were mostly due to the innate -or accidental misfortune of the writer, or the persons who spoke them, -whether imaginary or real. And rarely we find on the monuments of the -ancients any expression of the sadness or ennui which they felt because -of the unreality of happiness, or their misfortunes, whether natural, -or due to force of circumstances. For when they suffered, they lamented -their sufferings as the only hindrance to their happiness, which they -not only considered it possible to obtain, but even man's right, -although Fate proved sometimes too strong.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> - -<p>Now, let us seek what could have placed in the mind of Theophrastus -this sentiment about the vanity of glory and life, which, considering -his epoch and nation, is an extraordinary one. In the first place, -we find that the studies of this philosopher were not limited to one -or two branches of science. The record of his writings, which are -mostly lost, informs us that his knowledge included little less than -everything then knowable. And this universal science was not like -that of Plato, subordinated to his imagination, but conformed to the -teaching of Aristotle in being the result of experience and reason; its -aim, too, was not the discovery of the beautiful, but that which is its -especial contrary, the useful. This being so, it is not wonderful that -Theophrastus should attain to the height of human wisdom,—that is, a -knowledge of the vanity of life, and wisdom itself. For it is a fact -that the numerous discoveries made recently by philosophers about the -nature of men and things, are chiefly the result of a comparison and -synthesis of the different sciences and studies, whereby the mutual -connection between the most distant parts of nature is demonstrated.</p> - -<p>Besides, from his book of "Characters" we learn how clearly -Theophrastus discerned the qualities and manners of men; indeed, with -the exception of the poets, very few ancient writers equal him in -this respect. And this faculty is the sure sign of a mind capable of -numerous, diverse, and powerful sensations. For, to produce a keen -representation of the moral qualities and passions of men, the writer -relies less on what actual facts he may have collected, or observations -made, about the manners of others, than on his own mind, even though -his personal habits be very different from those of his subjects.</p> - -<p>Massillon was asked one day what enabled him to describe so naturally -the habits and feelings of men, who, like himself, lived more in -solitude than society. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> replied: "I contemplate myself." Dramatists -and other poets do the same thing. Now a many-sided mind, subtle in -discernment, cannot but feel the nakedness and absolute unhappiness -of life; it acquires a tendency to sadness after meditation excited -by numerous studies, especially such as are concerned with the very -essence of things, like the speculative sciences.</p> - -<p>It is certain that Theophrastus, who loved study and glory above -everything, and was master or rather founder of a very numerous school, -knew and formally announced the uselessness of human exertions, -including his own teaching and that of others; the little affinity -existing between virtue and happiness of life; and the superior power -of fortune to merit in the acquirement of happiness, equally among -the wise and others. In this respect, perhaps, he was superior to -all the Greek philosophers, especially those preceding Epicurus, -from whom both in manners and thought he was essentially different. -This is owing partly to circumstances already mentioned, and is also -due to other things referred to by ancient writers on the subject -of his teaching It would seem as though his own fate has proved the -truth of his doctrine. For he is not esteemed by modern philosophers -as he ought to be, since all his moral writings are lost, with the -exception of his "Characters." His writings, too, on the subjects of -politics and laws, and almost all those relating to metaphysics, are -also missing. Besides, the ancient philosophers were little inclined -to give him credit for keener perception than they possessed; on the -contrary, many of them, especially such as were shallow and conceited, -blamed and ill-treated him. These men taught that the wise man is -essentially happy, and that virtue and wisdom suffice to procure -happiness; although they were only too well aware of the contrary, even -supposing they had any real knowledge of either the one or the other. -Philosophers will never be cured of this idea. Even the philosophy of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> -the present day teaches the same thing; whereas, correctly speaking, it -can only say that everything beautiful, delightful, and great, is mere -falsity and nothingness.</p> - -<p>But to return to Theophrastus. Most of the ancients were incapable of -the profound and sorrowful sentiment that inspired him. "Theophrastus -is roughly handled by all the philosophers in their writings and -schools for having praised this saying of Callisthenes: 'Fortune, not -wisdom, is the mistress of life.' They consider that no philosopher -ever gave expression to a weaker sentiment." So says Cicero, who in -another place remarks that Theophrastus in his book about "The Happy -Life," attributed much influence to fortune, which he considered a most -important factor of happiness. Again, he adds, "Let us make much use of -Theophrastus; but give virtue more reality and value than he gave to -it."</p> - -<p>Perhaps it may be imagined from these remarks that Theophrastus had -little sympathy with the weaknesses of human nature, and that he -waged war against their influence in public and private life, both -by his writings and actions. It might also be thought that he would -restrict the empire of the imagination in favour of that of reason. As -a matter of fact, he did just the contrary. Concerning his actions, -we read in Plutarch's book against Colotes that our philosopher twice -freed his country from a tyranny. As for his teachings, Cicero says -that Theophrastus in a writing on the subject of "Wealth," dilated -at considerable length on the advantages of magnificence and pomp -at the shows and national festivals; indeed he considered the chief -usefulness of riches to lie in the consequent power of expenditure -that accompanied them. This idea is blamed and ridiculed by Cicero, -with whom, however, I will not discuss the question, for his -superficial knowledge of philosophy might have easily led him to a -wrong conclusion. I imagine Cicero to have been a man rich in civil and -domestic virtues, but ignorant of the greatest stimulants and bulwarks -of virtue that the world<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> possesses, namely, those things that are -peculiarly adapted to excite and arouse the mind, and exercise the -powers of the imagination.</p> - -<p>I will merely say that those men among, the ancients and moderns -who knew best and realised most strongly and deeply the nullity of -everything, and the force of truth, have not only refrained from -endeavouring to lead others to their condition, but have even laboured -hard to conceal and disguise it from themselves. They acted like men -who had learnt from experience the wretchedness that resulted from -wisdom and knowledge. Many celebrated examples of this are furnished, -especially in recent times. Truly, if our philosophers fully understood -what they endeavour to teach, and realised in their own persons the -consequences of their philosophy, instead of welcoming their knowledge, -they would hate and abhor it. They would strive to forget what they -know, and to shut' their eyes to that which they see. They would take -refuge, as their best resource, in those sweet unrealities, which -Nature herself has placed in all our minds; nor would they think it -well to enforce on others the doctrine of the nothingness of all -things. If, however, desire of glory should incite them to do this -last, they will admit that in this part of the universe we can only -live by putting faith in things that are non-existent.</p> - -<p>There is another considerable difference between the circumstances -of Theophrastus and Brutus, that of time. When Theophrastus lived, -the influence of those fictions and phantoms which ruled the thoughts -and actions of the ancients, had not departed. The epoch of Brutus, -on the other hand, may be termed the last age of the imagination. -Knowledge and experience of the truth prevailed amongst the people. -Had it not been so, Brutus need not have fled from life as he did, -and the Roman republic would not have died with him. And not only the -republic, but also the whole of antiquity, that is, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> old customs -and characteristics of the civilised world, were at the point of -death, together with the opinions which gave birth to, and supported -them. Life had already lost its value, and wise men sought to console -themselves not so much for their fate as for existence itself; because -they regarded it as incredible that man should be born essentially -and solely for misery. Thus they arrived at the conception of another -life, which might explain the reason of virtue and noble actions. Such -explanation had hitherto been found in life itself, but was so no -longer, nor was it ever again to be found there.</p> - -<p>To these ideas of futurity are due the noble sentiments often expressed -by Cicero, especially in his oration for Archias.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_TRISTANO_AND_A_FRIEND" id="DIALOGUE_BETWEEN_TRISTANO_AND_A_FRIEND"><i>DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND.</i></a></h4> - - -<p><i>Friend</i>. I have read your book. It is as melancholy as usual.</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. Yes, as usual.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. Melancholy, disconsolate, hopeless. It is clear that this -life appears to you an abominable thing.</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. How can I excuse myself? I was then so firmly convinced of -the truth of my notion about the unhappiness of life.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. Unhappy it may be. But even then, what good ...</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. No, no; on the contrary, it is very happy. I have changed -my opinion now. But when I wrote this book I had that folly in my -head, as I tell you. And I was so full of it, that I should have -expected anything rather than to doubt the truth of what I wrote on the -subject. For I thought the conscience of every reader would assuredly -bear witness to the truth of my statements. I imagined there might -be differences of opinion as to the use or harm of my writings, but -none as to their truth. I also believed that my lamentations, since -they were aroused by misfortunes common to all, would be echoed in -the heart of every one who heard them. And when I afterwards felt -impelled to deny, not merely some particular observation, but the whole -fabric of my book, and to say that life is not unhappy, and that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> if -it seemed so to me, it must have been the effect of illness, or some -other misfortune peculiar to myself, I was at first amazed, astonished, -petrified, and for several days as though transported into another -world. Then I began to think, and was a little irritated with myself. -Finally I laughed, and said to myself that the human race possesses -a characteristic common to husbands. For a married man who wishes -to live a quiet life, relies on the fidelity of his wife, even when -half the world knows she is faithless. Similarly, when a man takes -up his abode in any country, he makes up his mind to regard it as -one of the best countries in the world, and he does so. For the same -reason, men, desiring to live, agree to consider life a delightful and -valuable thing; they therefore believe it to be so, and are angry with -whoever is of the contrary opinion. Hence it follows, that in reality -people always believe, not the truth, but what is, or appears to be, -best for them. The human race, which has believed, and will continue -to put faith in so many absurdities, will never acknowledge that it -knows nothing, that it is nothing, and that it has nothing to hope. No -philosopher teaching any one of these three things would be successful, -nor would he have followers, and the populace especially would refuse -to believe in him. For, apart from the fact that all three doctrines -have little to recommend them to any one who wishes to live, the two -first offend man's pride, and they all require courage and strength -of mind in him who accepts them. Now, men are cowards, of ignoble and -narrow minds, and always anticipating good, because always ready to -vary their ideas of good according to the necessities of life. They -are very willing, as Petrarch says, to surrender to fortune; very -eager and determined to console themselves in any misfortune; and -to accept any compensation in exchange for what is denied them, or -for that which they have lost; and to accommodate themselves to any -condition of life, however wicked and barbarous. When deprived of any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> -desirable thing, they nourish themselves on illusions, from which they -derive as much satisfaction as if their conceptions were the most -genuine and real things in the world. As for me, I cannot refrain from -laughing at the human race, enamoured of life, just as the people in -the south of Europe laugh at husbands enamoured of faithless wives. -I consider men show very little courage in thus allowing themselves -to be deceived and deluded like fools; they are not only content to -bear the greatest sufferings, but also are willing to be as it were -puppets of Nature and Destiny. I here refer to the deceptions of the -intellect, not the imagination. Whether these sentiments of mine are -the result of illness, I do not know; but I do know that, well or ill, -I despise men's cowardice, I reject every childish consolation and -illusive comfort, and am courageous enough to bear the deprivation of -every hope, to look steadily on the desert of life, to hide no part of -our unhappiness, and to accept all the consequences of a philosophy, -sorrowful but true. This philosophy, if of no other use, gives the -courageous man the proud satisfaction of being able to rend asunder the -cloak that conceals the hidden and mysterious cruelty of human destiny.</p> - -<p>This I said to myself, almost as though I were the inventor of this -bitter philosophy, which I saw rejected by every one as a new and -unheard-of thing. But, on reflection, I found that it dated from the -time of Solomon, Homer, and the most ancient poets and philosophers, -who abound with fables and sayings which express the unhappiness of -human life. One says that "man is the most miserable of the animals." -Another that, "it were better not to be born, or, being born, to die in -the cradle." Again, "whom the gods love, die young;" besides numberless -other similar sayings. And I also remembered that from then even until -now, all poets, philosophers, and writers, great and small, have in one -way or another echoed and confirmed the same doctrines.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> - -<p>Then I began to think again, and spent a long time in a state of -wonder, contempt, and laughter. At length I turned to study the matter -more deeply, and came to the conclusion that man's unhappiness is one -of the innate errors of the mind, and that the refutation of this idea, -through the demonstration of the happiness of life, is one of the -greatest discoveries of the nineteenth century. Now, therefore, I am at -peace, and confess I was wrong to hold the views I previously held.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. Then have you changed your opinion?</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. Of course. Do you imagine I should oppose the discoveries -of the nineteenth century?</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. Do you believe all the century believes?</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. Certainly. Why not?</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. You believe then in the infinite perfectibility of the human -race, do you not? <i>Tristano</i>. Undoubtedly.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. Do you also believe that the human race actually progresses -daily?</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. Assuredly. It is true that sometimes I think one of the -ancients was physically worth four of us. And the body is the man; -because (apart from all else) high-mindedness, courage, the passions, -capacity for action and enjoyment, and all that ennobles and vivifies -life, depend on the vigour of the body, without which they cannot -exist. The weak man is not a man, but a child, and less than a child, -because it is his fate to stand aside and see others live. All he can -do is to chatter. Life is not for him. Hence in olden times, and even -in more enlightened ages, weakness of body was regarded as ignominious.</p> - -<p>But with us, it is very long since education deigned to think of such -a base and abject thing as the body. The mind is its sole care. Yet, -in its endeavours to cultivate the mind, it destroys the body without -perceiving that the former is also necessarily destroyed. And even if -it were possible to remedy this false system of education, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> would be -impossible to discover, without a radical change in the state of modern -society, any cure for the other inconveniences of life, whether public -or private.</p> - -<p>Everything that formerly tended to preserve and perfect the body, seems -to-day to be in conspiracy for its destruction. The consequence is, -that, compared with the ancients, we are little better than children, -and they in comparison with us may indeed be termed perfect men. I -refer equally to individuals in comparison with individuals, as to the -masses (to use this most expressive modern term) compared to the masses.</p> - -<p>I will add also that the superior vigour of the ancients is manifested -in their moral and metaphysical systems.</p> - -<p>But I do not allow myself to be influenced by such trifling objections, -and I firmly believe that the human race is perpetually in a state of -progression.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. You believe also, if I rightly understand you, that -knowledge, or, as, it is called, enlightenment, continually increases.</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. Assuredly. Although I observe that the desire of knowledge -grows in proportion as the appreciation for study diminishes. And, -astonishing to say, if you count up the number of truly learned men who -lived contemporaneously a hundred and fifty years ago, or even later, -you will find them incomparably more numerous than at present. It may -perhaps be said that learned people are rare nowadays because knowledge -is more universally disseminated, instead of being confined to the -heads of a few; and that the multitude of educated people compensate -for the rarity of learned people. But knowledge is not like riches, -which whether divided or accumulated, always make the same total. In a -country where every one knows a little, the total knowledge is small; -because knowledge begets knowledge, but will not bear dispersion. -For superficial instruction cannot indeed be divided amongst many, -though it may be common to many unlearned men. Genuine knowledge -belongs only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> to the learned, and depth in knowledge to the few that -are very learned. And, with rare exceptions, only the man who is very -learned, and possessed of an immense fund of knowledge, is able to add -materially to the sum of human science. Now, in the present time, it is -daily more difficult to discover a really learned man, save perhaps in -Germany, where science is not yet dethroned.</p> - -<p>I utter these reflections simply for the sake of a little talk and -philosophising, not because I doubt for a single moment the truth of -what you say. Indeed, were I to see the world quite full of ignorant -impostors on the one hand, and presumptuous fools on the other, I -should still hold to my present belief that knowledge and enlightenment -are on the increase.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. Of course, then, you believe that this century is superior to -all the preceding ones?</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. Decidedly. All the centuries have had this opinion of -themselves; even those of the most barbarous ages. The present century -thinks so, and I agree with it. But if you asked me in what it is -superior to the others, and whether in things pertaining to the body or -the mind, I should refer you to what I said just now on the subject of -progress.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. In short, to sum it up in two words, do you agree with what -the journals say about nature, and human destiny? We are not now -talking of literature or politics, on which subjects their opinion is -indisputable.</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. Precisely. I bow before the profound philosophy of -the journals, which will in time supersede every other branch of -literature, and every serious and exacting study. The journals are the -guides and lights of the present age. Is it not so?</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. Very true. Unless you are speaking ironically, you have -become one of us.</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. Yes. Certainly I have.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. Then what shall you do with your book? Will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> you allow it to -go down to posterity, conveying doctrines so contrary to the opinions -you now hold?</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. To posterity? Permit me to laugh, since you are no doubt -joking; if I thought otherwise, I should laugh all the more. For it -is not a personal matter, but one relating to the individuals and -individual things of the nineteenth century; about whom and which there -is no fear of the judgment of posterity, since they will know no more -about the matter than their ancestors knew. "Individuals are eclipsed -in the crowd," as our modern thinkers elegantly say; which means, that -the individual need not put himself to any inconvenience, because, -whatever his merit, he can neither hope for the miserable reward of -glory, in reality, nor in his dreams.</p> - -<p>Leave therefore the masses to themselves; although I would ask the -wiseacres who illumine the world in the present day, to explain how the -masses can do anything without the help of the individuals that compose -them.</p> - -<p>But to return to my book, and posterity. Books now are generally -written in less time than is necessary for reading them. Their worth is -proportioned to their cost, and their longevity to their value. It is -my opinion that the twentieth century will make a very clean sweep of -the immense bibliography of the nineteenth. Perhaps however it will say -something to this effect: "We have here whole libraries of books which -have cost some twenty, some thirty years of labour, and some less, but -all have required very great exertion; let us read these first, because -it is probable there is much to be learnt from them. These at an end, -we will pass to lighter literature."</p> - -<p>My friend, this is a puerile age, and the few men remaining are -obliged to hide themselves for very shame, resembling, as they do, -a well-formed man in a land of cripples. And these good youths of -the century are desirous of doing all that their ancestors did. Like -children they wish to act on the spur of the moment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> without any -laborious preparation. They would like the progress of the age to be -such as to exempt them and their successors from all fatiguing study -and application in the acquirement of knowledge. For instance, a -commercial friend of mine told me the other day that even mediocrity -has become very rare. Scarcely any one is fit to fulfil properly the -duty which devolves upon him, either by necessity or choice. This -seems to me to mark the true distinction between this century and -the preceding ones. At all times greatness has been rare; but in -former centuries mediocrity prevailed, whereas in our century nullity -prevails. All people wish to be everything. Hence, there is such -confusion and riot, that no attention is paid to the few great men -who are still to be found, and who are unable to force a way through -the vast multitude of rivals. Thus, whilst the lowest people believe -themselves illustrious, obscurity and success in nothing is the common -fate both of the highest and lowest.</p> - -<p>But, long live statistics! Long live the sciences, economical, moral, -and political; the pocket encyclopædias; the manuals of everything; -and all the other fine creations of our age! And may the nineteenth -century live for ever! For though poor in results, it is yet very rich -and great in promise, which' is well known to be the best of signs. Let -us therefore console ourselves that for sixty-six<a name="FNanchor_1_37" id="FNanchor_1_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_37" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> more years this -admirable century will have the talking to itself, and will be able to -utter its own opinions.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. You speak, it seems, somewhat ironically. But you ought at -least to remember that this is a century of transition.</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. What do you infer from that? All centuries have been, and -will be, more or less transitional; because human society is never -stationary, and will never at any time attain to a fixed condition. -It follows therefore<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> that this fine word is either no excuse for the -nineteenth century, or is one common to all the centuries. It remains -to be seen whether the transition now in progress is from good to -better, or from bad to worse.</p> - -<p>But perhaps you mean to say that the present age is especially -transitional, inasmuch as it is a rapid passage from one state of -civilisation to another, absolutely different. In which case I would -ask your permission to laugh at this rapidity. Every transition -requires a certain amount of time, and when too rapidly accomplished, -invariably relapses, and the progress has to recommence from the -very beginning. Thus it has always been. For nature does not advance -by leaps; and when forced, no durable result is obtained. In short, -precipitous transitions are only apparent transitions, and do not -represent genuine progress.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. I advise you not to talk in this fashion with every one, -because if you do you will gain many enemies.</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. What does it matter? Henceforth, neither enemies nor -friends can do me much harm.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. Very probably you will be despised as one incapable of -comprehending the spirit of modern philosophy, and who cares little for -the progress of civilisation and the sciences.</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. I should be very sorry for that; but what can I do? If I am -despised, I will endeavour to console myself.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. But have you, or have you not, changed your opinions? And -what is to be done about your book?</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. It would be best to burn it. If it be not burnt, it may be -preserved as a book full of poetic dreams, inventions, and melancholy -caprices; or better, as an expression of the unhappiness of the writer. -Because, I will tell you in confidence, my dear friend, that I believe -you and every one else to be happy. As for myself, however, with your -permission, and that of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> the century, I am very unhappy, and all the -journals of both worlds cannot persuade me to the contrary.</p> - -<p><i>Friend</i>. I do not know the cause of this unhappiness of which you -speak. But a man is the best judge of his own happiness or unhappiness, -and his opinion cannot be wrong.</p> - -<p><i>Tristano</i>. Very true. And more, I tell you frankly that I do not -submit to my unhappiness, nor bow the head, and come to terms with -Destiny, like other men. I ardently wish for death above everything, -with such warmth and sincerity as I firmly believe few have desired it.</p> - -<p>I would not speak to you thus, if I were not sure that when the time -came I should not belie my words. I may add that although I do not -yet foresee the end of my life, I have an inward feeling that almost -assures me the hour of which I speak is not far distant. I am more -than ripe for death, and it seems to me too absurd and improbable, -that being dead spiritually, as I am, and the tale of my life being -told in every part, I should linger out the forty or fifty years with -which Nature threatens me. I am terrified at the mere thought of such -a thing. But, like all evils that exceed the power of imagination, -this seems to me a dream and illusion, devoid of truth. So that if any -one speaks to me about the distant future, as though I were to have a -part in it, I cannot help smiling to myself, so sure am I that I have -not long to live. This thought, I may say, alone supports me. Books -and studies, which I often wonder I ever loved, great designs, and -hopes of glory and immortality, are things now undeserving of even a -smile. Nor do I now laugh at the projects and hopes of this century. I -cordially wish them every possible success, and I praise, admire, and -sincerely honour their good intentions. But I do not envy posterity, -nor those who have still a long life before them. Formerly I used to -envy fools, imbeciles, and people with a high opinion of themselves,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> -and I would willingly have changed my lot with any one of them. Now, -I envy neither fools, nor the wise, the great, the small, the weak, -the powerful. I envy the dead, and with them alone would I exchange my -lot. Every pleasurable fancy, every thought of the future that comes -to me in my solitude, and with which I pass away the time, is allied -with the thought of death, from which it is inseparable. And in this -longing, neither the remembrance of my childish dreams, nor the thought -of having lived in vain, disturbs me any more as formerly. When death -comes to me, I shall die as peacefully and contentedly as if it were -the only thing for which I had ever wished in the world. This is the -sole prospect that reconciles me to Destiny.</p> - -<p>If, on the one hand, I were offered the fortune and fame of Cæsar or -Alexander, free from the least stain; and, on the other hand, death -to-day, I should unhesitatingly choose to die to-day.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_37" id="Footnote_1_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_37"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Written in 1834.</p></div> - -<h4>THE END.</h4> - -<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES ***</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 52356-h.htm or 52356-h.zip</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/3/5/52356/</div> -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Essays and Dialogues - -Author: Giacomo Leopardi - -Translator: Charles Edwardes - -Release Date: June 17, 2016 [EBook #52356] -[Last updated: January 4, 2021] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Images generously made available by the Bodleian Libraries, -Oxford.) - - - - - -ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES - -OF - -GIACOMO LEOPARDI. - -_TRANSLATED_ - -BY - -CHARLES EDWARDES. - -_With Biographical Sketch._ - -LONDON: - -TRBNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL. - -1882. - - - -CONTENTS. - - - BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH - - HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE - DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH - PRIZE COMPETITION OF THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME - DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO - DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL - DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON - THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN - DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT - DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER - PARINI ON GLORY - DIALOGUE BETWEEN RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES - REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI - DIALOGUE BETWEEN COLUMBUS AND GUTIERREZ - PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS - THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK - DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO - COPERNICUS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY - DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS - COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS - DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND - - - -BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. - - -"Manure with Despair, but let it be genuine, and you will have a noble -harvest."--RAHEL. - - -The name of Giacomo Leopardi is not yet a household word in the mouths -of Englishmen. Few of us have heard of him; still fewer have read -any of his writings. If known at all, he is probably coupled, in a -semi-contemptuous manner, with other foreign representatives of a phase -of poetic thought, the influence of which has passed its zenith. As -a contemporary of Byron, Leopardi is perhaps credited with a certain -amount of psychological plagiarism, and possibly disregarded as a mere -satellite of the greater planet. But if this be so, it is unjust. His -fame is his own, and time makes his isolation and grand individuality -more and more prominent. What Byron and Shelley, Millevoye, Baudelaire -and Gautier, Heine and Platen, Pouchkine and Lermontoff, are to -England, France, Germany, and Russia respectively, Leopardi is, in a -measure, to Italy. But he is more than this. The jewel of his renown -is triple-faceted. Philology, poetry, and philosophy were each in turn -cultivated by him, and he was of too brilliant an intellect not to -excel in them all. As a philologist he astonished Niebuhr and delighted -Creuzer; as a poet he has been compared with Dante; as a philosopher -he takes high rank among the greatest and most original men of modern -times. One of his biographers (Dovari: "Studio di G. Leopardi," Ancona, -1877) has termed him "the greatest philosopher, poet, and prose-writer -of the nineteenth century." Though such eulogy may be, and doubtless -is, excessive, the fact that it has been given testifies to the -extraordinary nature of the man who is its subject. - -In Germany and France, Leopardi is perhaps as well known and highly -appreciated as in Italy. His poems have been translated into the -languages of those countries; and in France, within the last year, two -more or less complete versions of his prose writings have appeared. -Biographies, reviews, and lighter notices of the celebrated Italian -are of repeated and increasing occurrence on the Continent. England, -however, knows little of him, and hitherto none of his writings have -been made accessible to the English reading public. The following brief -outline of his life may in part help to explain the peculiarly sombre -philosophical views which he held, and of which his works are chiefly -an elaboration. - -Giacomo Leopardi was born at Recanati, a small town about fifteen miles -from Ancona, on the 29th June 1798. He was of noble birth, equally on -the side of his father and mother. Provided with a tutor at an early -age, he soon left him far behind in knowledge; and when only eight -years old, he discarded the Greek grammar he had hitherto used, and -deliberately set himself the task of reading in chronological order the -Greek authors of his father's library. It was due to his own industry, -and his father's care, that later he acquired a perfect acquaintance -with classical literature. In 1810 he received his first tonsure, in -token of his dedication to the Church; but this early promise was not -destined to be fulfilled. Before he was eighteen years of age Leopardi -had attained recognised distinction for the amount and matter of his -erudition. The mere catalogue of his writings--chiefly philological--by -that time is of sufficient length to excite wonder, and their -nature is still more surprising. Latin commentaries and classical -annotations were apparently child's play to him. Writing in 1815 to -the Roman scholar Cancellieri, who had noticed one of these classical -productions, Leopardi says: "I see myself secured to posterity in -your writings.... Commerce with the learned is not only useful, but -necessary for me." He was only seventeen when he completed a task -which represented the sum of all his early study. This was an "Essay -on the Popular Errors of the Ancients," of considerable length (first -published posthumously), in the course of which he cites more than four -hundred authors, ancient and modern. A single extract will suffice to -show that his youthful powers of expression were as precocious as his -learning, though his judgment was doubtless at fault. He thus reviews -the wisdom of the Greeks: - - "The philosophy of the ancients was the science of - differences; and their academies were the seats of confusion - and disorder. Aristotle condemned what Plato had taught. - Socrates mocked Antisthenes; and Zeno scandalised Epicurus. - Pythagoreans, Platonians, Peripatetics, Stoics, Cynics, - Epicureans, Sceptics, Cyrenaics, Megarics, Eclectics - scuffled with and ridiculed one another; while the truly - wise laughed at them all. The people, left to themselves - during this hubbub, were not idle, but laboured silently to - increase the vast mound of human errors." - -He ends this Essay with a eulogy of the Christian religion: "To live -in the true Church is the only way to combat superstition." Shortly -afterwards, increasing knowledge, which Goethe has called "the -antipodes of faith," enabled him to perceive that Roman Catholicism, -the antidote which he then prescribed for superstition, was itself full -charged with the poison he sought to destroy. - -In 1817 Leopardi made acquaintance by letter with Pietro Giordani, one -of the leading literary men of the day, and a man of varied experience -and knowledge. In his first letter Leopardi opens his heart to his new -friend: - - "I have very greatly, perhaps immoderately, yearned for - glory ... I burn with love for Italy, and thank Heaven that - I am an Italian. If I live, I will live for literature; for - aught else, I would not live if I could." (21st March 1817.) - -A month later, from the same source we are able to discern traces -of that characteristic of Leopardi's temperament which by certain -critics is thought to explain his philosophy. Writing to Giordani, -he expatiates on the discomforts of Recanati and its climate; and -proceeds:-- - - "Added to all this is the obstinate, black, and barbarous - melancholy which devours and destroys me, which is nourished - by study, and yet increases when I forego study. I have in - past times had much experience of that sweet sadness which - generates fine sentiments, and which, better than joy, may - be said to resemble the twilight; but my condition now is - like an eternal and horrible night. A poison saps my powers - of body and mind."-- - -In the same letter he gives his opinion on the relative nature of prose -and poetry. - - "Poetry requires infinite study and application, and its art - is so profound, that the more you advance in proficiency, so - much the further does perfection seem to recede.... To be a - good prose writer first, and a poet later, seems to me to be - contrary to nature, which first creates the poet, and then - by the cooling operation of age concedes the maturity and - tranquillity necessary for prose." - - (30th April 1817.) - -The correspondence between Leopardi and Giordani lasted for five years, -and it is from their published letters that we are able to form the -best possible estimate of Leopardi's character and aspirations. His own -letters serve as the index of his physical and mental state. In them -we trace the gradual failure of his health, the growth of sombreness -in his disposition, and the change which his religious convictions -underwent. During his twentieth year he suffered severely in mind and -body. Forced to lay aside his studies, he was constantly a prey to -ennui, with all its attendant discomforts. He thus writes to Giordani -of his condition, in August 1817: - - "My ill-health makes me unhappy, because I am not a - philosopher who is careless of life, and because I am - compelled to stand aloof from my beloved studies.... Another - thing that makes me unhappy, is thought. I believe you know, - but I hope you have not experienced, how thought can crucify - and martyrise any one who thinks somewhat differently from - others. I have for a long time suffered such torments, - simply because thought has always had me entirely in its - power; and it will kill me unless I change my condition. - Solitude is not made for those who burn and are consumed in - themselves." (1st August 1817.) - -His mental activity was numbed by his physical incapacity; the two -combined reduced him to a state of despair. There is a noble fortitude -in the following words of another letter addressed to Giordani:-- - - "I have for a long time firmly believed that I must die - within two or three years, because I have so ruined myself - by seven years of immoderate and incessant study.... I am - conscious that my life cannot be other than unhappy, yet I - am not frightened; and if I could in any way be useful, I - would endeavour to bear my condition without losing heart. - I have passed years so full of bitterness, that it seems - impossible for worse to succeed them; nevertheless I will - not despair even if my sufferings do increase ... I am born - for endurance." - - (2d March 1818.) - -Leopardi was now of age, and at the time of life when mans aspirations -are keenest. He had repeatedly tried to induce his father to let him go -forth into the world, and take his place in the school of intellect; -but all his endeavours were in vain. Though seconded by Giordani, who -some months before had become personally acquainted with his young -correspondent during a visit of a few days to Casa Leopardi, the Count -was resolute in refusing to grant his son permission to leave Recanati. -Giacomo, driven to desperation, conceived a plan by which he hoped to -fulfil his desire in spite of the paternal prohibition. The following -extract from the Count's diary furnishes the gist of the matter, and -also gives us some small insight into his own character:-- - - "Giacomo, wishing to leave the country, and seeing that I - was opposed to his doing so, thought to obtain my consent by - a trick. He requested Count Broglio to procure a passport - for Milan, so that I might be alarmed on hearing of it, - and thus let him go. I knew about it, because Solari wrote - unwittingly to Antici, wishing Giacomo a pleasant journey. I - immediately asked Broglio to send me the passport, which he - did with an accompanying letter. I showed all to my son, and - deposited the passport in an open cupboard, telling him he - could take it at his leisure. So all ended." - -Thus the plot failed, and Giacomo was constrained to resign himself, -as best he could, to a continuance of the "life worse than death" -which he lived in Recanati. Two letters written in anticipation of the -success of his scheme, one to his father, and the other to Carlo, his -brother, are of most painful interest. They suggest unfilial conduct -on his part, and unfatherly treatment of his son on the part of Count -Monaldo. - - "I am weary of prudence," he writes in the letter to Carlo, - "which serves only as a clog to the enjoyment of youth ... - How thankful I should be if the step I am taking might act - as a warning to our parents, as far as you and our brothers - are concerned! I heartily trust you will be less unhappy - than myself. I care little for the opinion of the world; - nevertheless, exonerate me if you have any opportunity of - doing so.... What am I? a mere good-for-nothing creature. - I realise this most intensely, and the knowledge of - it has determined me to take this step, to escape the - self-contemplation which so disgusts me. So long as I - possessed self-esteem I was prudent; but now that I despise - myself, I can only find relief by casting myself on fortune, - and seeking dangers, worthless thing that I am.... It were - better (humanly speaking) for my parents and myself that I - had never been born, or had died ere now. Farewell, dear - brother." - -The letter to his father is in a different key. It is stern and severe, -and contains reproofs, direct and inferential, for his apparent -indifference to his sons' future prospects. Giacomo upbraids him with -intentional blindness to the necessities of his position as a youth of -generally acknowledged ability, for whom Recanati could offer no scope, -or chance of renown. He goes on to say: - - "Now that the law has made me my own master, I have - determined to delay no longer in taking my destiny on my - own shoulders. I know that man's felicity consists in - contentment, and that I shall therefore have more chance - of happiness in begging my bread than through whatever - bodily comforts I may enjoy here.... I know that I shall be - deemed mad; and I also know that all great men have been - so regarded. And because the career of almost every great - genius has begun with despair, I am not disheartened at - the same commencement in mine. I would rather be unhappy - than insignificant, and suffer than endure tedium.... - Fathers usually have a better opinion of their sons than - other people; but you, on the contrary, judge no one so - unfavourably, and therefore never imagined we might be born - for greatness.... It has pleased Heaven, as a punishment, - to ordain that the only youths of this town with somewhat - loftier aspirations than the Recanatese should belong to - you, as a trial of patience, and that the only father who - would regard such sons as a misfortune should be ours." - -The relationship between Giacomo and his parents has been a vexed -question with all his biographers, who, for the most part, are of the -opinion that they had little sympathy with him in the mental sufferings -he underwent. The Count has been called "despota sistematico" in the -administration of his household; and the most favourably disposed -writers have agreed to regard him as somewhat of a Roman father. But -there does not seem to be sufficient evidence to support the theory -that he was intentionally harsh and repressive to the extent of cruelty -in his treatment of his children. He was an Italian of the old school, -and as such his conduct was probably different from that of more -modern Italian fathers; but that was all. - -In 1819, when his whole being was in a turmoil of disquiet, Leopardi -made his dbut as a poet, with two Odes--the one addressed to Italy, -and the other on the monument to Dante, then recently erected in -Florence. The following literal translation of the first stanza of the -Ode to Italy gives but a faint echo of the original verse:-- - - "O my country, I see the walls and arches, the columns, - the statues, and the deserted towers of our ancestors; but - their glory I see not, nor do I see the laurel and the iron - which girt our forefathers. To-day, unarmed, thou showest a - naked brow and naked breast. Alas! how thou art wounded! How - pale thou art, and bleeding! That I should see thee thus! - O queen of beauty! I call on heaven and earth, and ask who - thus has humbled thee. And as a crowning ill, her arms are - weighed with chains; her hair dishevelled and unveiled; and - on the ground she sits disconsolate and neglected, her face - hid in her knees, and weeping. Weep, Italia mine, for thou - hast cause, since thou wert born to conquer 'neath Fortune's - smiles and frowns. - - O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archi - E le colonne e i simulacri e l' erme - Torri degli avi nostri, - Ma la gloria non vedo, - Non vedo il lauro e il ferro ond' eran carchi - I nostri padri antichi. Or fatta inerme, - Nuda la fronte e nudo il petto mostri. - Oim quante ferite, - Che lividor, che sangue! oh qual ti veggio, - Formosissima donna! Io chiedo al cielo, - E al mondo: dite, dite: - Chi la ridusse a tale? E questo peggio, - Che di catene ha carene ambe le braccia. - Si che sparte le chiome e senza velo - Siede in terra negletta e sconsolata, - Nascondendo la faccia - Tra le ginocchia, e piange. - Piangi, che ben hai donde, Italia mia, - Le genti a vincer nata - Et nella fausta sorte e nella ria." - -These odes, which represent the first fruits of his muse, ring with -enthusiasm. They are the expression of a soul fired with its own flame, -which serves to illumine and vivify a theme then only too real in his -country's experience, the sufferings of Italy. Patriotism pervades -his earliest verse; sadness and hopelessness that of later times. For -these two odes Giordani bestowed unsparing eulogy on his young protg. -Before their appearance he had begun to regard Leopardi as the rising -genius of Italy, and had not hesitated to say to him, "Inveni hominem!" -Now, however, his admiration was unbounded; he thus apostrophised him: -"O nobilissima, e altissima, e fortissima anima!" He referred to the -reception of his poems at Piacenza in these terms: "They speak of you -as a god." - -In 1822 Leopardi first left home. Repeatedly, year after year, he -had besought his father to permit him to see something of the world. -He longed to associate with the men who represented the intellect of -his country. With his own fellow-townsmen he had little sympathy, and -they on their part regarded him as a phenomenon, eccentric rather than -remarkable. They gave him the titles of "little pedant," "philosopher," -"hermit," &c., in half ironical appreciation of his learning. As he -was naturally very sensitive, these petty vexations became intensified -to him, and were doubtless one of the chief reasons of his unfailing -dislike for his native place. In one of his essays, that of "Parini -on Glory," we discover a reference to Leopardi's life at Recanati, -which place is really identical with the Bosisio of the essay. Yet the -prophet who is not a prophet in his own country when living, seldom -fails of recognition after death. A statue is now raised to Leopardi -in the place that refused to honour him in life. The appreciative -recognition he failed to attract in Recanati, he hoped to obtain at -Rome. But Count Monaldo, his father, long maintained his resistance to -his son's wishes. Himself of a comparatively unaspiring mind, content -with the fame he could acquire in his own province, he saw no necessity -why his son should be more ambitious. Probably also his paternal love -made him fearful of the dangers of the world, to which his son would -be exposed. Of these hazards he knew nothing from experience; and -they were doubtless magnified to him by his imagination. Yet, though -naturally a man rather deficient in character than otherwise, Count -Monaldo was, as we have seen, in his own household, a stern not to -say unreasonable disciplinarian. Only after repeated solicitations -from his son, and remonstrances from his friends, did he give Giacomo -the desired permission, chiefly in the hope that at Rome he might be -induced to enter the Church, towards which he had latterly manifested -some signs of repugnance. The five months spent by Leopardi in Rome -sufficed to disenchant him of his ideas of the world of life. A day or -two after his arrival he writes to Carlo his brother: - - "I do not derive the least pleasure from the great things I - see, because I know that they are wonderful, without feeling - that they are so. I assure you their multitude and grandeur - wearied me the first day." - - (25th November 1822.) - -Again, to Paulina his sister: "The world is not beautiful; rather it is -insupportable, unless seen from a distance." - -Ever prone to regard the real through the medium of the ideal, he was -bitterly disappointed with his first experience of men. The scholar, -whom he was prepared to revere, proved on acquaintance to be-- - - "a blockhead, a torrent of small talk, the most wearisome - and afflicting man on earth. He talks about the merest - trifles with the deepest interest, of the greatest things - with an infinite imperturbability. He drowns you in - compliments and exaggerated praises, and does both in so - freezing a manner, and with such nonchalance, that to hear - him one would think an extraordinary man the most ordinary - thing in the world." (25th November 1822.) - -The stupidest Recanatese he termed wiser and more sensible than the -wisest Roman. Again, to his father he complains of the superficiality -of the so-called scholars of Rome. - - "They all strive to reach immortality in a coach, as bad - Christians would fain enter Paradise. According to them, the - sum of human wisdom, indeed the only true science of man, - is antiquity. Hitherto I have not encountered a lettered - Eoman who understands the term literature as meaning - anything except archology. Philosophy, ethics, politics, - eloquence, poetry, philology, are unknown things in Rome, - and are regarded as childish playthings compared to the - discovery of some bit of copper or stone of the time of Mark - Antony or Agrippa. The best of it is that one cannot find - a single Eoman who really knows Latin or Greek; without a - perfect acquaintance with which languages, it is clear that - antiquity Cannot be Studied." (9th December 1822.) - -He was disheartened by the depraved condition of Roman literature. -Everywhere he saw merit disregarded or trodden under foot. The city was -full of professional poets and poetesses, and literary cliques formed -for the purpose of the self-laudation of their members. Illustrious -names of the past were insulted by the pseudo-great men of the day, -whose fame was founded on writings of the most contemptible nature. -These circumstances made Leopardi confess, in a letter to his brother, -that had he not - - "the harbour of posterity, and the conviction that in time - all would take its proper place (illusory hope, but the - only, and most necessary one for the true scholar)," (16th - December 1822.) - -he would abandon literature once for all. But it was only during -moments of depression that such words as these escaped him. He -loved study for its own sake; fame was, after all, but a secondary -consideration. Nor were men of genuine worth entirely wanting in Rome. -Niebuhr, then Prussian ambassador at the Papal Court, Reinhold, the -Dutch ambassador, Mai, subsequently a cardinal, were noble exceptions -to the general inferiority. By them Leopardi was highly esteemed. -Niebuhr especially was profoundly struck with his genius. "I have at -last seen a modern Italian worthy of the old Italians and the ancient -Romans," was his remark to De Bunsen after his first interview with the -young scholar. Both he and De Bunsen became firm friends with Leopardi. -They endeavoured their utmost to procure for him some official -appointment from Cardinal Consalvi, then Secretary of State, and his -successor; but owing to the intrigues, prejudices, and disturbances of -the Papal Court they were unable to effect anything on his behalf. It -was an unfulfilled intention of De Bunsen's, later in life, to write -a memoir of Leopardi, for whom he always felt the highest esteem and -admiration. - -Count Monaldo's wish that his son should become an ecclesiastic was -never realised. Leopardi was of too honest a nature to profess what was -not in accordance with his convictions. The secular employment that he -sought, he could not obtain, so perforce he seems to have turned his -mind towards literary work--the drudgery of letters as distinct from -the free, untrammelled pursuit of literature. He obtained the charge -of cataloguing the Greek manuscripts of the Barberine Library, and his -spirits rose in anticipation of some discovery he hoped to make which -might render him famous. "In due time we will astonish the world," he -writes to his father. He was indeed successful in finding a fragment -of Libanius hitherto unpublished; but the glory seems to have been -stolen from him, since the manuscript was ushered forth to the world by -alien hands. Poor Leopardi! all his hopes seemed destined to be proved -illusive. It was time for him to leave a place that could furnish him -with no other pleasure than that of tears. "I visited Tasso's grave, -and wept there. This is the first and only pleasure I have experienced -in Rome" (Letter to Carlo, February 15, 1823). Already he had begun -to steel himself to the shocks of fortune; suffering and misfortune -he could bear; mental agony and despair were too strong for him. In a -long letter to his sister Paulina, he tries to impart to her a little -of the philosophy of Stoicism which he had taken to himself. She was -distressed about the rupture of a matrimonial arrangement contracted -by the Count between her and a certain Roman gentleman of position and -fortune. Leopardi thus consoles her: - - "Hope is a very wild passion, because it necessarily carries - with it very great fear.... I assure you, I Paolina mia,' - that unless we can acquire a little indifference towards - ourselves, life is scarcely possible, much less can it be - happy. You must resign yourself to fortune, and not hope too - deeply.... I recommend this philosophy to you, because I - think you resemble me in mind and disposition." (19th April - 1823.) - -Four years later Leopardi confesses the insufficiency of his own -remedies. Writing to Dr. Puccinotti in 1827, he says: - - "I am weary of life, and weary of the philosophy of - indifference which is the only cure for misfortune and - ennui, but which at length becomes an ennui itself. I look - and hope for nothing but death." - - (16th August 1827.) - -In May 1823, he left Rome, and returned to Recanati. - -The succeeding ten years of Leopardi's life were, during his intervals -of health, devoted to poetry and literature. He had passed the Rubicon -of his hopes; henceforth he studied to expound to the world the -uselessness of its own anticipations, and its essential unhappiness. -His bodily infirmities increased with years. His frame, naturally -weak, suffered from the effects of early over-application; his eyes -and nerves were a constant trouble to him. To obtain what relief was -possible from change of air, and to remove himself from Recanati, -which he detested increasingly, Leopardi went to Bologna, Florence, -Milan, and Pisa, wintering now at one place, now at another. From -family reasons, his father was unable to supply him with sufficient -money to secure his independence. Consequently he was obliged to -turn to literature for a livelihood. The publisher Stella, of Milan, -willingly engaged his services, and for several years Leopardi was -in receipt of a small but regular payment for his literary labours. -He compiled Chrestomathies of Italian prose and poetry, and made -numerous fragmentary translations from the classics. A commentary on -Petrarch, to which he devoted much time and care, is, in the words -of Sainte-Beuve, "the best possible guide through such a charming -labyrinth." As he said of himself, "mediocrity is not for me," so in -all that he undertook the mark of his genius appeared. At Florence -Leopardi was honoured by the representatives of Italian literature and -culture, who there formed a brilliant coterie. Colletta was desirous -of his co-operation in the "History of Naples," with which he was -occupying the last years of his life. The "Antologia" and "Nuove -Ricoglitore" reviews were open to contributions from his pen. Giordani, -Niccolini, Capponi, and Gioberti, amongst others, welcomed him with -open arms. To these his Tuscan friends he dedicated his "Canti" in -1830, with the following touching letter:-- - - "MY DEAR FRIENDS,--Accept the dedication of this book. - Herein I have striven, as is often done in poetry, to hallow - my sufferings. This is my farewell (I cannot but weep in - saying it) to literature and studies. Once I hoped these - dear resources would have been the support of my old age: - pleasures of childhood and youth might vanish, I thought, - and their loss would be supportable if I were thus cherished - and strengthened. But ere I was twenty years of age, my - physical infirmities deprived me of half my powers; my life - was taken, yet death was not bestowed on me. Eight years - later I became totally incapacitated; this, it seems, will - be my future state. Even to read these letters you know - that I make use of other eyes than mine. Dear friends, my - sufferings are incapable of increase; already my misfortune - is too great for tears. I have lost everything, and am but a - trunk that feels and suffers." ... - -It is scarcely wonderful that, under such circumstances, his philosophy -should fail him. A code of ethics, however admirable intrinsically, has -but cold consolation to offer to one whose life is prolonged pain. -Leopardi at one time allowed the idea of suicide to rest, and almost -take root, in his mind. He describes the incident: "A great desire -comes into my mind to terminate once for all these wretched years of -mine, and to make myself more completely motionless." But he was of a -nature noble and strong enough to resist such temptation. - -He left Recanati for the last time in 1830. The next two years were -passed in Florence, Rome, and Pisa. Whilst in Rome, Leopardi received -substantial proof of his fame in being elected an Academician of the -Crusca. At length the doctors recommended him to try Naples, from the -mild air and general salubrity of which place they anticipated much -improvement in his condition. Thither he went in company with a young -friend, Antonio Ranieri, whose acquaintance he had made in Florence. -In the house of Ranieri he stayed from 1833 until his death in 1837, -tended by him and his sister Paulina (his _second_ Paulina, as he used -to call her) with a devotedness and affection as rare as it was noble. -Posterity will couple together the names of Ranieri and Leopardi as -naturally as we associate together those of Severn and Keats. All that -could be done for the unfortunate poet, Ranieri did. His condition was -a singular one. Before he left Florence for Naples, the doctor said of -him that his frame did not possess sufficient vitality to generate a -mortal illness; yet he was seldom, if ever, free from suffering. He -died on the 14th June 1837, as he and his friend were on the point of -setting out from Naples to a little villa that Ranieri possessed on one -of the slopes of Vesuvius. On the night of the 15th he was buried, in -the church of St. Vitale, near the reputed grave of Virgil. His tomb is -marked by a stone erected at the expense of Ranieri, bearing the signs -of the cross, and the owl of Minerva, together with an inscription from -the pen of Giordani. The few following lines from his own verse would -form a suitable epitaph for one whose life was spent in bodily and -mental disquietude:-- - - "O weary heart, for ever shalt thou rest - Henceforth. Perished is the great delusion - That I thought would ne'er have left me. Perished! - Nought now is left of all those dear deceits; - Desire is dead, and not a hope remains. - Rest then for ever. Thou hast throbbed enough; - Nothing here is worth such palpitations. - Our life is valueless, for it consists - Of nought but ennui, bitterness, and pain. - This world of clay deserveth not a sigh. - Now calm thyself; conceive thy last despair, - And wait for death, the only gift of Fate." - - (Poem "A Se Stesso.") - -These words might have been an echo of kyamuni's utterance beneath -the sacred fig-tree of Bdhimanda, when, according to the legend, he -was in process of transformation from man to Buddha: the resemblance is -at any rate a remarkable one. - -In 1846, the Jesuits made an impudent attempt to convince the public -that Leopardi died repenting of his philosophical views, and that he -had previously expressed a desire to enter the Society of Jesus. A -long letter from a certain Francesco Scarpa to his Superior, giving -a number of pretended details of Leopardi's history, conversion, and -death, appeared in a Neapolitan publication, entitled "Science and -Faith." Ranieri came forward to show the entire falsity of these -statements; and to give a more authoritative denial to them, he engaged -the willing help of Vicenzo Gioberti. The latter in his "Modern Jesuit" -contested their truth in every respect. He said: "The story put forward -in this letter is a tissue of lies and deliberate inventions; it is -sheer romance from beginning to end." It is thought by some people -that Leopardi's father was concerned in this Jesuit manifesto. But, -although the Count was doubtless shocked beyond measure that his son -did not hold the same beliefs as himself, it is scarcely credible that -he should concoct a series of such absurdities as were contained in -Scarpa's letter. - -Leopardi anticipated that posterity, and even his contemporaries, would -endeavour to explain the pessimism of his philosophy by his personal -misfortunes and sufferings. Accordingly, in a letter to the philologist -Sinner, he entered a protest against such a supposition: - - "However great my sufferings may have been, I do not seek - to diminish them by comforting myself with vain hopes, - and thoughts of a future and unknown happiness. This same - courage of my convictions has led me to a philosophy - of despair, which I do not hesitate to accept. It is - the cowardice of men, who would fain regard existence - as something very valuable, that instigates them to - consider my philosophical opinions as the result of my - sufferings, and that makes them persist in charging to my - material circumstances that which is due to nothing but my - understanding. Before I die, I wish to make protest against - this imputation of weakness and trifling; and I would beg of - my readers to burn my writings rather than attribute them to - my sufferings." - - (24th May 1832.) - -Ranieri thus describes Leopardi's personal appearance: - - "He was of middle height, inclined to stoop, and fragile; - his complexion was pale; his head was large, and his brow - expansive; his eyes were blue and languid; his nose was well - formed (slightly aquiline), and his other features were very - delicately chiselled; his voice was soft and rather weak; - and he had an ineffable and almost celestial smile." - -His friend here scarcely even suggests what others have perhaps unduly -emphasised, that is, Leopardi's deformity. He was slightly humpbacked; -doubtless the consequence of those studies which simultaneously ruined -him and made him famous. - -It were an omission not to refer to the influence which love exerted -over Leopardi's life. So strong was this, in the opinion of one of his -critics, that he even ascribes his philosophy to an "infelicissimo -amore." Another writer says of him that "his ideal was a woman." -Ranieri asserts that he died unmarried, after having twice felt the -passion of love as violently as it was ever realised by any man. His -poems also testify how omnipotent at one time was this bitter-sweet -sensation. - - "I recall to mind the day when love first assaulted me; when - I said, Alas! if this be love, how it pains me!" - - (The First Love.) - -Again: - - "It was morning, the time when a light and sweeter sleep - presses our rested lids. The sun's first grey light began to - gleam across the balcony, through the closed windows into - my still darkened chamber. Then it was that I saw close by, - regarding me with fixed eyes, the phantom form of her who - first taught me to love, and left me Weeping." (The Dream.) - -His poem to Aspasia is a frank confession of love, and the humiliation -he suffered in its rejection. It is a noble, yet a terrible poem. -Opening with a description of the scene that met his eye as he entered -the room where his charmer sat, "robed in the hue of the melancholy -violet, and surrounded by a wondrous luxury," pressing "tender and -burning kisses on the round lips" of her children, and displaying "her -snowy neck," he saw as it were "a new heaven, and a new earth, and the -lustre of a celestial light." - - "Like a divine ray, O woman, thy beauty dazzled my thought. - Beauty is like such music as seems to open out to us an - unknown Elysium. He who loves is filled with the ecstasy - of the phantom love conceived by his imagination. In the - woman of his love he seeks to discover the beauties of - his inspired vision; in his words and actions he tries - to recognise the personality of his dreams. Thus when he - strains her to his bosom, it is not the woman, but the - phantom of his dream that he embraces." - -Then comes the awakening. He vituperates the reality for not attaining -to the standard of his ideal. - - "Rarely the woman's nature is comparable with that of the - dream image. No thought like ours can dwell beneath those - narrow brows. Vain is the hope that man forges in the fire - of those sparkling eyes. He errs in seeking profound and - lofty thoughts in one who is by nature inferior to man in - all things. As her members are frailer and softer, so is her - mind more feeble and confined." - -He betrays his position, and gives the key to his unjust censure of -woman's powers. - - "Now, boast thyself, for thou canst do so. Tell how thou art - the only one of thy sex to whom I have bent my proud head, - and offered my invincible heart. Tell how thou hast seen me - with beseeching brows, timid and trembling before thee (I - burn with indignation and shame in the avowal), watching - thy every sign and gesture, beside myself in adoration of - thee, and changing expression and colour at the slightest of - thy looks. The charm is broken; my yoke is on the ground, - sundered at a single blow." (Aspasia.) - -Who were the real objects of Leopardi's affection, is not at all clear. -Certain village girls of Recanati, immortalised in his verse as Nerina -and Silvia, were the inspirers of his first love; but his brother Carlo -bears witness to the superficial nature of his affection in their -cases. They merely served as the awakeners of the sensation; his own -mind and imagination magnified it into a passion. True it is that his -nature was one that yearned and craved for love in no ordinary degree. -When at Rome, isolated from his family, he wrote to Carlo: "Love me, -for God's sake. I need love, love, love, fire, enthusiasm, life." He -addressed similar demands to Giordani and others with whom he was -on the most intimate terms. Indeed we are tempted to conjectures as -to what might have been the fruit of Leopardi's life had he found a -helpmate and a consoler in his troubles. - -A brief consideration of the general nature of Leopardi's poetry and -prose may not be out of place in this short summary. - -His poems are masterpieces of conception and execution. Their matter -may be open to criticism; but their manner is beyond praise. His odes -are of the nobler kind. Full of fire and vigour, they reach the sublime -where he stimulates his fellow-countrymen to action, and urges them -to aspire to a freedom, happily now obtained. His elegies breathe out -an inspired sorrow. They are the pro-duct of a mind filled with the -sense of the misery that abounds on earth, and unable, though desirous, -to discern a single ray of light in the gloom of existence. His -lyrical pieces are the most beautiful and emotional of his poems. The -following, entitled "The Setting of the Moon," though pervaded with the -spirit of sadness that is so predominant a characteristic of Leopardi's -verse, contains some charming imagery:-- - - "As in the lonely night, over the silvered fields and the - waters where the zephyrs play, where the far-off shades take - a thousand vague appearances and deceitful forms, amid the - tranquil waves, the foliage and the hedges, the hill-slopes - and the villages, the moon arrived at heaven's boundary - descends behind the Alps and Apennines into the infinite - bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea; whilst the world grows pale, - and the shadows disappear, and a mantle of darkness shrouds - the valley and the hills; night alone remains, and the - carter singing on his way salutes with a sad melody the last - reflection of that fleeing light which hitherto had led his - steps: So vanishes our youth, and leaves us solitary with - life. So flee away the shadows which veiled illusive joys; - and so die too the distant hopes on which our mortal nature - rested. Life is left desolate and dark, and the traveller, - trying to pierce the gloom, looks here and there, but seeks - in vain to know the way, or what the journey yet before him; - he sees that all on earth is strange, and he a stranger - dwelling there.... You little hills and strands, when falls - the light which silvers in the west the veil of night, shall - not for long be orphaned. On the other side of heaven the - first grey light of dawn shall soon be followed by the sun, - whose fiery rays shall flood you and the ethereal fields - with a luminous stream. But mortal life, when cherished - youth has gone, has no new dawn, nor ever gains new light; - widowed to the end it stays, and on life's other shore, made - dark by night, the gods have set the tomb's dark seal." - -In his interpretation of nature he is literal, but withal truly poetic: -he worships her in the concrete, but vituperates her in the abstract, -as representative to him of omnipresent Deity, creative, but also -destructive. The two or three poems that may be termed satirical, -are at the same time half elegiac. In them he ridicules and censures -the folly of his contemporaries, and mourns over the mystery of -things. To these, however, there is one exception, the longest of all -his poems. This is known as the "Continuation of the Battle of the -Frogs and Mice," It consists of eight cantos, comprising about three -thousand lines, and was first published posthumously. The abruptness -of its ending gives the idea, erroneous or not, of incompleteness. -Leopardi had, several years before, translated and versified Homer's -"Batrachomyomachia," and this satire takes up the story where Homer -ends. It is exclusively a ridicule of the times, with especial -reference to his own country and her national enemy, Austria. In style -and treatment it has been compared with Byron's "Don Juan," from which, -however, it totally differs in its intrinsic character. It abounds in -beauties of description, sentiment, and expression, and well deserves -to be considered his _chef d'oeuvre_. Leopardi thus describes his -method of poetic composition:-- - - "I compose only when under an inspiration, yielding to - which, in two minutes, I have designed and organised - the poem. This done, I wait for a recurrence of such - inspiration, which seldom happens until several weeks have - elapsed. Then I set to work at composition, bub so slowly - that I cannot complete a poem, however short, in less than - two or three weeks. Such is my method; without inspiration - it were easier to draw water from a stone than a single - verse from my brain." - -Leopardi's reputation was firmly established by the appearance of his -"Operette morali," as his prose writings were termed. Monti classed -them as the best Italian prose compositions of the century. Gioberti -compared them to the writing of Machiavelli. Giordani, with his usual -tendency to extravagance, gives his friend the following pompous -panegyric:--"His style possesses the conciseness of Speroni, the -grandiloquence of Tasso, the smoothness of Paruta, the purity of Gelli, -the wit of Firenzuola, the solidity and magnificence of Pallavicino, -the imagination of Plato, and the elegance of Cicero." Leopardi has -been aptly termed an aristocrat in his writing. Too much of a reasoner -to be very popular with the masses, who do not care for the exertion of -sustained thought, his logic is strikingly clear to the intelligent. -His periods are occasionally as long as those of Machiavelli or -Guicciardini, but their continuity and signification are never obscure. -Ranieri bears witness to the fact that his prose was the fruit of very -great labour. - -The subject and tendency of Leopardi's writings will be evident to -the reader of the following dialogues. Framed on the model of Lucian, -they will compare favourably with the writings of the Greek satirist -in subtlety and wit, in spite of their sombre tone. They cannot be -said to possess much originality, save in treatment. The subjects -discussed, and even the arguments introduced, are mostly old. Every -acute moraliser since the world began has, in more or less degree -commensurate with his ability, debated within himself the problems -here considered. Facts, beliefs, opinions, theories, may be marshalled -to produce an infinite number of diverse harmonies; but no one such -combination formed by the mind of man may be put forward as the true -and ultimate explanation of the mystery of life. Leibnitz, with his -harmony of universal good, is as fallible as Leopardi or Schopenhauer -with their harmonies of evil. In either case the real is sacrificed -to the ideal, whether of good or evil. Either from temperament or -circumstances, these philosophers were predisposed to give judgment on -life, favourably or adversely, without duly considering the attributes -of existence. As M. Dapples, in his French version of Leopardi, has -remarked, he early withdrew from actual life, _i.e._, life with all -those manifold sensations which he himself defines to be the only -constituents of pleasure in existence. His body proved little else than -the sensation of suffering. All his vitality was concentrated in his -mind; so that he was scarcely a competent and impartial judge of the -ordinary pleasures and ills of life. He could not be otherwise than -prejudiced by his own experiences, or rather lack of experiences. Yet, -though Leopardi was physically incapable of many of life's pleasures, -he none the less passionately yearned for them. Strength and desire -struggled within him, and the former only too frequently proved weaker -than the latter. Thus he was innately adapted for pessimism. - -We consider Leopardi to have been a man of the grandest intellectual -powers, capable originally of almost anything to which the human mind -could attain; but that his reason, later in life, became somewhat -perverted by his sufferings. Were human life as absolutely miserable -a thing as he represents it to be, it would be insupportable. That -he should so regard it does not seem remarkable when we consider his -circumstances; he was poor, seldom free from pain, and unsupported by -a creed. For the sufferings of his life, he could see no shadow of -atonement or compensation: a future state was incomprehensible to him. -He bestows much gratuitous pity on the human race, which we, though -revering his genius, may return to him as more deserving of it than -ourselves. His heart was naturally full of the most lively affection; -but he could never sufficiently satisfy the yearnings of his nature. -Like Ottonieri, whose portrait is his own to a great extent, his -instincts were noble; like him also he died without effecting much in -proportion to his powers. - -The conclusions of Leopardi's philosophy may be thus summed up. The -universe is an enigma, totally insoluble. The sufferings of mankind -exceed all good that men experience, estimating the latter in -compensation for the former. Progress, or, as we call it, civilisation, -instead of lightening man's sufferings, increases them; since it -enlarges his capacity for suffering, without proportionately augmenting -his means of enjoyment. - -How far are these conclusions refutable? It may be regarded as -indubitable that the first two cannot be refuted without the aid -of revelation. Science is incompetent to explain the "why" and the -"wherefore" of the universe; it is yet groping to discover the "how." -Still less can any satisfactory explanation be given of the purpose -for which suffering exists, unless we rely on revelation. Religion, -which modern philosophers somewhat contemptuously designate as "popular -metaphysics," can alone afford an explanation of these problems. -kyamuni, nearly 2500 years ago, asked, "What is the cause of all the -miseries and sufferings with which man is afflicted?" He himself gave -what he considered to be the correct answer: "Existence;" and then he -traced existence to the passions and desires innate in man. These last -were to be conquered in the condition of insensibility to all material -things called "Nirvana," Truly his remedy was a radical one, and had -he succeeded in procuring universal acceptance for his doctrines, the -human race would have become extinct a few generations later than his -own time. But "Nirvana" is unnatural if it be nothing else; unnatural -in itself and in the steps that lead up to it. And although it is -due to Schopenhauer, and his more or less heterodox disciples, that -this Buddhistic dogma is regarded theoretically by some people with a -certain amount of favour, we think the instincts of life are strong -enough within them all to resist any decided inclination on their part -to carry it into effect. - -As for the third conclusion, it must be admitted that man's -susceptibilities of suffering are enlarged with increasing culture. -Leopardi has shown us that the more vividly we realise the evils that -surround and affect us, so much the more keenly do they arouse in us -sensations of pain. Knowledge of them makes us suffer from them. The -bliss of ignorance is rudely dispelled by the cold hand of science. But -must this necessarily continue? May not the same progress which exposes -the wound find the salve to heal it? We trust and think so, in spite -of all assertions to the contrary. There is nothing in the near future -of humanity that need alarm us: men will not work less because they -think more; nor is there any sufficient reason to show that increasing -knowledge must represent increasing sorrow. As Johnson has said: -"The cure for the greatest part of human miseries is not radical but -palliative." For the material means of palliation we look to science. -We hope and think that there is good to be gained from these writings -of Leopardi, in spite of the tone of despair that rings throughout -them. His theory of the "infelicit" of things, cheerless though it -be, often suggests ideas, sublime in themselves and noble in their -effect; and the very essence of his philosophy resolves itself into a -recommendation to act, rather than by contemplation to lose the power -of action; for, as he says, "A life must be active and vigorous, else -it is not true life, and death is preferable to it." - -A brief reference to the most recent publications on Leopardi may be -interesting as tending to throw light on his domestic relationships, -and as giving us an idea of his own habits in private life. Antonio -Ranieri (now in his seventy-sixth year) in a book[1] published at -Naples in 1880 gives many interesting details of the poet's life. -He first met him at Florence, and was touched with compassion for -his unfortunate state. Ill and helpless, he was incapable of doing -anything but weep in despair at the thought of being obliged to return -to his native place. "Recanati and death are to me one and the same -thing," he exclaimed through his tears. Ranieri in a generous moment -replied: "Leopardi, you shall not return to Recanati. The little that -I possess is enough for two. As a benefit to me, not to yourself, we -will henceforth live together." This was the beginning of what Ranieri -calls his "vita nuova." He conducted Leopardi from Florence to Rome; -thence back to Florence; and finally from Florence to Naples. The -doctors everywhere shrugged their shoulders at his case, and suggested, -as delicately as possible, the mortal nature of his maladies. At Naples -Ranieri and his sister Paulina did all they could for Leopardi, and -from 1833 to his death in 1837 supplied all his wants. He could seldom -see to read or write. "We used to read to him constantly and regularly, -and were fortunately conversant with the languages he knew," says -Ranieri. Occasionally he was able to go to the theatre, and enjoyed -it greatly. In his habits he seems to have tried his friend's temper -and patience considerably. He was wont to turn night into day, and -day into night. Ranieri and his sister often did the same in order to -read, work, and talk with him. He breakfasted between three and five -o'clock in the afternoon, and dined about midnight. Like Schopenhauer, -he delighted in after-dinner conversation, which he termed "one of -the greatest pleasures of life." He was very obstinate in personal -matters, disobeying the doctors in his diet and everything else. His -fondness for his old clothes was remarkable; he loved them for their -associations. Ranieri mentions "a certain very ancient overcoat which -for seven years" had tormented him, and which he used to entreat -Leopardi to lay aside, but which he clung to with an incredible -affection, preferring it to a new one that he allowed the moths to -destroy. The mere names of wind, cold, and snow were enough to pale -him. He could not bear fire, and formerly used to pass the winters -three parts submerged in a sack of feathers, reading and writing thus -the greater part of the day. He was very terrified when the cholera -appeared at Naples, to avoid which he and Ranieri went to a country -house of the latter's on one of the slopes of Vesuvius. Here Leopardi -wrote his poem "La Ginestra," inspired by the desolate scenes at the -foot of the mountain. He died suddenly at Naples, as he and Ranieri's -household were about to set off again for the country. The Neapolitan -Journal "Il Progresso," in an article on Lis death, remarked of him -that "such brilliancy is not allowed to illumine the earth for long." - -"Notes Biographiques sur Leopardi et sa Famille" (Paris, 1881). This -is a book of considerable value. Written by the widow of Count Carlo -Leopardi, Giacomo's younger brother, and his "other self," it is -most valuable as delineating the characters of Leopardi's father and -mother. A softer light is shed on the character of Leopardi's mother. -We learn that she was not passionless, hard, and unsympathetic, as we -had previously supposed her to be. On the contrary, she was a good -woman, of deep affection, who made it the aim of her married life -to work for the welfare of the family of which she became a member. -Weighted with debt almost to the point of exhaustion, the estates of -Casa Leopardi needed a skilful and vigorous administrator, if they were -to continue in the hands of their old owners. Count Monaldo Leopardi -was not such an administrator. He was a man devoted "tout entier -science," and occupying himself more with bibliology and archology -than with the finances of his estate. The Jews of Perousa, Milan, and -the March towns would, sooner or later, have tightened their hold on -the Leopardi patrimony to such a degree that the ancient family could -only have continued to exist as proprietors on sufferance. But, in the -words of the authoress of this book, Providence watched over the house -"en lui envoyant dans la jeune marquise Adelaide Antici l'ange qui -devait la sauver." The young bride accepted her position with an entire -knowledge of the responsibilities that would accompany it. She took -the reins of the neglected administration, and set herself the task -of restoring the fortunes of Casa Leopardi. By her exertions the Pope -was made acquainted with their difficulties, and by his intervention -an arrangement was made between the creditors and the Leopardi family, -whereby the former were restrained from demanding the amount of their -debt for forty years, receiving thereon in the mean time interest at -8 per cent, per annum. This was the life-work of Countess Leopardi. -During forty years she administered the finances of Casa Leopardi, and -by the end of that time succeeded in freeing the family from the burden -with which it had been long encumbered. She died in 1857, ten years -after her husband, and twenty years later than her eldest son, Giacomo. - -ST. MARK'S PLACE, WOLVERHAMPTON, - -_December_, 1881. - - -[Footnote 1: _Sette anni di Sodalizio con Giacomo Leopardi._] - - -The following works, amongst others, have been made use of in the -preparation of this volume:-- - - Opere Leopardi. 6 vols. Firenze, 1845. - - Opere inedite Leopardi. Cugnoni: Halle, 1878. - - Studio di Leopardi. A. Baragiola: Strasburg, 1876. - - Traduction complte de Leopardi. F. A. Aulard: Paris, 1880. - - Opuscules et Penses de Leopardi. A. Dapples: Paris, 1880. - - G. Leopardi: sa Vie et ses Oeuvres. Bouch Leclercq: Paris, - 1874. - - Le Pessimisme. E. Caro: Paris, 1878. - - Pessimism. Jas. Sully: London, 1877. - - La Philosophie de Schopenhauer. Th. Ribot: Paris, 1874. - - Il Buddha, Confucio, e Lao-Tse. C. Puini: Firenze, 1878. - - Artide in Quarterly Review on Leopardi. 1850. - - Artide in Fraser's Magazine, Leopardi and his Father: a - Study, by L. Villari. November 1881. - - - - -_HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE._ - - -It is said that the first inhabitants of the earth were everywhere -created simultaneously. Whilst children they were fed by bees, goats, -and doves, as the poets say the infant Jove was nourished. The earth -was much smaller than it is at present, and devoid of mountains and -hills. The sky was starless. There was no sea; and the world as a whole -was far less varied and beautiful than it now is. - -Yet men were never weary of looking at the sky and the earth, which -excited within them feelings of wonder and admiration. They considered -them both to be of infinite extent, majesty, and magnificence. Their -souls were filled with joyous hopes, and every sensation of life gave -them inexpressible pleasure. Their contentment daily increased, so that -they at length thought themselves supremely happy. In this peaceful -state of mind they passed their infancy and youth. - -Arrived at a mature age, their feelings began to experience some -alteration. As their early hopes, to which they had perseveringly -adhered, failed of realisation, they no longer put faith in them. But, -on the other hand, present happiness isolated from anticipation of -the future, did not suffice them; especially seeing that, either from -habit or because the charm of a first acquaintanceship had worn off, -nature and all the incidents of life gave them much less pleasure than -at first. They travelled over the earth, and visited the most distant -lands. This they could easily do, because there were neither seas, -mountains, nor obstacles of any kind to oppose them. After a few years, -most men had proved the finite nature of the earth, the boundaries of -which were by no means so remote as to be unattainable. They found -too, that all countries of the world, and all men, with but slight -differences, were alike. These discoveries I so greatly increased their -discontent, that a weariness of life became prevalent among men even -before they had passed the threshold of manhood. And as men grew older, -this feeling gradually transformed itself into a hatred of existence, -so that at length, seized by despair, they in one way or another -hesitated not to abandon the light and life once so beloved. - -It seemed to the gods a shocking thing that living creatures should -prefer death to life, and should destroy themselves for no other -reason than that they were weary of existence. It also amazed them -beyond measure to find their gifts held in such contempt, and so -unequivocally rejected by men. They thought the world had been endowed -with sufficient beauty, goodness, and harmony to make it not merely -a bearable, but even a highly enjoyable place of residence for every -living thing, and especially for man, whom they had fabricated with -peculiar care, and a marvellous perfection. At the same time, touched -with a deep feeling of compassion for the distress men exhibited, they -began to fear lest the renewal and increase of these deplorable actions -might not soon result in the extinction of the human race, contrary -to destiny, and they would thus lose the most perfect work of their -creation, and be deprived of the honours they received from men. - -Jove determined therefore to improve the condition of men, since it -seemed necessary, and to increase the means whereby they might obtain -happiness. They complained of the deceitfulness of things; which were -neither as great, beautiful, perfect, nor varied as they at first -imagined them to be; but were, on the contrary, small, imperfect, and -monotonous. They derived no pleasure from their youth; still less -were they satisfied with the times of maturity, and old age. Their -infancy alone gave them pleasure, and yearning for the sweetness of -their early days, they besought Jove to make their condition one of -perpetual childhood. But the god could not satisfy them in this matter; -for it was contrary to the laws of nature, and the divine decrees and -intentions. Neither could he communicate his own infinity to mortal -creatures, nor the world itself, any more than he could bestow infinite -happiness and perfection on men and things. It seemed best to him to -extend the limits of creation, at the same time increasing the world's -diversity and beauty. In fulfilment of this intention, he enlarged -the earth on all sides; and made the sea to flow as a separation -between inhabited places, so that it might vary the aspect of things, -and by severing their roads, prevent men from easily discovering the -confines of the world. He also designed the sea to serve as a vivid -representation of the infinity which they desired. Then it was that the -waters covered the island Atlantis, as well as many other vast tracts -of country; but the remembrance of this island alone has survived the -multitude of centuries that have passed since that time. - -Jove formed valleys by lowering certain places; and by exalting others -he created hills and mountains. He bespread the night with stars; -purified the atmosphere; increased the brilliancy and light of day; -intensified the colours of the sky and the country, and gave them -more variety. He also mixed the generations of men, so that the aged -of one generation were contemporaneous with the children of another. -Above all, Jove determined to multiply resemblances of that infinity -for which men so eagerly craved. He could not really satisfy them, but -wishing to soothe and appease their imagination, which he knew had -been the chief source of their happiness in childhood, he employed many -expedients like that of the sea. He created the echo, and hid it in -valleys and caverns, and gave to the forests a dull deep whispering, -conjoined with a mysterious undulation of their tree-tops. He created -also the gorgeous land of dreams, and gave men power to visit it in -their sleep. There they could experience such perfect happiness as -could not in reality be accorded to them. This served as a substitute -for the vague unrealisable conception of felicity formed by men within -themselves, and to which Jove himself could not have given any real -expression, had he desired to do so. - -By these means the god infused new strength and vigour into the minds -of men, and endeared life to them again, so that they were full of -admiration for the beauty and immensity of nature. This happy state -lasted longer than the previous one. Its duration was chiefly due to -the diversity of ages among men, whereby those who were chilled and -wearied with their experience of the world, were comforted by the -society of others full of the ardency and hopefulness of youth. - -But in process of time this novelty wore off, and men again became -discontented and wearied with life. So despondent did they become, -that then is said to have originated the custom attributed by history -to certain ancient nations; the birth of a child was celebrated with -tears, and the death of a parent was the occasion of rejoicing for his -deliverance.[1] At length wickedness became universal. This was either -because men thought that Jove disregarded them, or because it is the -nature of misfortune to debase even the noblest minds. - -It is a popular error to imagine that man's misfortunes are the result -of his impiety and iniquity. On the contrary, his wickedness is the -consequence of his misfortunes. - -The gods avenged themselves for their injuries, and punished mortals -for their renewed perverseness, by the deluge of Deucalion. There were -only two survivors of this shipwreck of the human race, Deucalion -and Pyrrha. These unhappy ones were filled with the sense of their -wretchedness, and far from regretting the loss of all their fellows, -themselves loudly invoked death from the summit of a rock. But Jove -commanded them to remedy the depopulation of the earth, and seeing that -they had not the heart to beget a new generation, directed them to take -stones from the hill-sides, and cast them over their shoulders. From -these stones men were created, and the earth was again peopled. - -The history of the past had enlightened Jove as to the nature of men, -and had shown him that it is not sufficient for them, as for other -animals, merely to live in a state of freedom from sorrow and physical -discomfort. He knew that whatever their condition of life, they would -seek the impossible, and if unpossessed of genuine evils, would -torment themselves with imaginary ones. The god resolved therefore -to employ new means for the preservation of the miserable race. For -this purpose he used two especial artifices. In the first place, he -strewed life with veritable evils; and secondly, instituted a thousand -kinds of business and labour, to distract men as much as possible from -self-contemplation, and their desires for an unknown and imaginary -happiness. - -He began by sending a multitude of diseases, and an infinite number -of other calamities among them, with the intention of varying the -conditions of life so as to obviate the feeling of satiety which had -resulted before, and to induce men to esteem the good things they -possessed so much the more by contrast with these new evils. The -god hoped that men would be better able to bear the absence of the -happiness they longed for, when occupied and under the discipline of -suffering. He also determined by means of these physical infirmities -and exertions, to reduce the vigour of men's minds, to humble their -pride, to make them bow the head to necessity, and be more contented -with their lot. He knew that disease and misfortune would operate as a -preventive to the committal of those acts of suicide which had formerly -been rife; for they would not only make men cowardly and weak, but -would help to attach them to life by the hope of an existence free from -such sufferings. For it is a characteristic of the unfortunate that -they imagine happiness will wait on them as soon as the immediate cause -of their present misfortune is removed. - -Jove then created the winds and the rain-clouds, prepared the thunder -and lightning, gave the trident to Neptune, launched comets, and -arranged eclipses. By means of these and other terrible signs, he -resolved to frighten mortals from time to time, knowing that fear -and actual danger would temporarily reconcile to life, not only the -unhappy, but even those who most detested and were most disposed to put -an end to their existence. - -As a cure for the idleness of the past, Jove gave to men a taste and -desire for new foods and drinks, unprocurable, however, without the -greatest exertions. Previous to the deluge men had lived on water, -herbs, and such fruits as were yielded by the earth and the trees, -just as certain people of California and other places live even in the -present day. He assigned different climates to different countries, -and appointed the seasons of the year. Hitherto there had been no -diversity of temperature in any place, but the atmosphere was uniformly -so equable and mild that men were ignorant of the use of clothing. Now, -however, they were obliged to exert themselves industriously to remedy -the inclemency and changeability of the weather. - -Jove gave Mercury command to lay the foundations of the first cities, -and to divide men into different races, nations, and languages, -separated by feelings of rivalry and discord. He was also commissioned -to teach them music and those other arts, which, owing to their nature -and origin, are still called divine. Jove himself distributed laws and -constitutions to the new nations. Finally, as a supreme gift, he sent -among men certain sublime and superhuman Phantoms, to whom he committed -very great influence and control over the people of the earth. They -were called Justice, Virtue, Glory, Patriotism, &c. Among these -Phantoms was one named Love, which then first entered the world. For -previous to the introduction of clothes, the sexes were drawn towards -one another by merely a brute instinct, far different from love. The -feeling was comparable to that which we experience towards articles of -food and such things, that we desire, but do not love. - -By these divine decrees the condition of man was infinitely -ameliorated, and rendered easier and pleasanter than before; in spite -of the fatigues, sufferings, and terrors which were now inseparable -from humanity. And this result was chiefly due to the wonderful -chimeras, whom some men regarded as genii, others as gods, and whom -they followed with an intense veneration and enthusiasm for a very long -time. To such a pitch was their ardour excited by the poets and artists -of the times, that numbers of men did not hesitate to sacrifice their -lives to one or other of these Phantoms. Far from displeasing Jove, -this fact gratified him exceedingly, for he judged that if men esteemed -their life a gift worthy of sacrifice to these fine and glorious -illusions, they would be less likely to repudiate it as before. This -happy state of affairs was of longer duration than the preceding -ages. And even when after the lapse of many centuries, a tendency to -decline became apparent, existence, thanks to these bright illusions, -was still easy and bearable enough, up to a time not very far distant -from the present. This decline was chiefly due to the facility with -which men were able to satisfy their wants and desires; the growing -inequality between men in their social and other conditions, as -they receded farther and farther from the republican models founded -by Jove; the reappearance of vanity and idleness as a consequence of -this retrocession; the diminishing interest with which the variety of -life's incidents inspired them; and many other well-known and important -causes. Again men were filled with the old feeling of disgust for their -existence, and again their minds clamoured for an unknown happiness, -inconsistent with the order of nature. - -But the total revolution of the fortunes of men, and the end of that -epoch which we nowadays designate as the "old world," was due to one -especial influence. It was this. Among the Phantoms so appreciated -by the ancients was a certain one called Wisdom. This Phantom had -duly contributed to the prosperity of the times, and like the others -received high honour from men, a number of whom consecrated themselves -to her service. She had frequently promised her disciples to show -them her mistress, the Truth, a superior spirit who associated with -the gods in heaven, whence she had never yet descended. The Phantom -assured them that she would bring Truth among men, and that this spirit -would exercise so marvellous an influence over their life, that in -knowledge, perfection, and happiness they would almost rival the gods -themselves. But how could a shadow fulfil any promise, much less induce -the Truth to descend to earth? So after a long confiding expectancy, -men perceived the falseness of Wisdom. At the same time, greedy of -novelty because of the idleness of their life, and stimulated partly -by ambition of equalling the gods, and partly by the intensity of -their yearning for the happiness they imagined would ensue from the -possession of Truth, they presumptuously requested Jove to lend them -this noble spirit for a time, and reproached him for having so long -jealously withheld from men the great advantages that would follow from -the presence of Truth. They with one accord expressed dissatisfaction -with their lot, and renewed their former hateful whinings about the -meanness and misery of human things. The Phantoms, once so dear to -them, were now almost entirely abandoned, not that men had discerned -the unreality of their nature, but because they were so debased in -mind and manners as to have no sympathy with even the appearance of -goodness. Thus they wickedly rejected the greatest gift of gods to -men, and excused themselves by saying that none but inferior genii had -been sent on earth, the nobler ones, whom they would willingly have -worshipped, being retained in heaven. - -Many things long before this had contributed to lessen the goodwill -of Jove towards men, especially the magnitude and number of their -vices and crimes, which were far in advance of those punished by the -deluge. He was out of patience with the human race, the restless -and unreasonable nature of which exasperated him. He recognised the -futility of all effort on his part to make men happy and contented. -Had he not enlarged the world, multiplied its pleasures, and increased -its diversity? Yet all things were soon regarded by men (desirous and -at the same time incapable of infinity) as equally restricted and -valueless. Jove determined therefore to make a perpetual example of the -human race. He resolved to punish men unsparingly, and reduce them to -a state of misery far surpassing their former condition. Towards the -attainment of this end, he purposed sending Truth among men, not for -a time only as they desired, but for eternity, and giving her supreme -control and dominion over the human race, instead of the Phantoms that -were now so greatly despised. - -The other gods marvelled at this decision of Jove, as likely to -exalt the human race to a degree prejudicial to their own dignity. -But he explained to them that all genii are not beneficial, and that -apart from this, it was not of the nature of Truth to produce the -same results among men as with the gods. For whereas to the gods -she unveiled the eternity of their joy, to mortals she would expose -the immensity of their unhappiness, representing it to them not as a -matter of chance, but as an inevitable and perpetual necessity. And -since human evils are great in proportion as they are believed to -be so by their victims, it may be imagined how acute an affliction -Truth will prove to men. The vanity of all earthly things will be -apparent to them; they will find that nothing is genuine save their -own unhappiness. Above all, they will lose hope, hitherto the greatest -solace and support of life. Deprived of hope, they will have nothing -to stimulate them to any exertions; consequently work, industry, and -all mental culture will languish, and the life of the living will -partake of the inertness of the grave. Yet in spite of their despair -and inactivity, men will still be tormented by their old longing -for happiness intensified and quickened, because they will be less -distracted by cares, and the stir of action. They will also be deprived -of the power of imagination, which in itself could mysteriously -transport them into a state of happiness comparable to the felicity for -which they long. - -"And," said Jove, "all those representations of infinity which I -designedly placed in the world to deceive and satisfy men, and all the -vague thoughts suggestive of happiness, which I infused into their -minds, will yield to the doctrines of Truth. The earth, which formerly -displeased them for its insignificance, will do so increasedly when its -true dimensions are known, and when all the secrets of nature are made -manifest to them. And finally, with the disappearance of those Phantoms -that alone gave brightness to existence, human life will become aimless -and valueless. Nations and countries will lose even their names, for -with Patriotism will vanish all incentive to national identities. Men -will unite and form one nation and one people (as they will say), and -will profess a universal love for the race. But in reality there will -be the least possible union amongst them; they will be divided into as -many peoples as there are individuals. For having no special country -to love, and no foreigners to hate, every man will hate his neighbour, -and love only himself. The evil consequences of this are incalculable. -Nevertheless, men will not put an end to their unhappiness by depriving -themselves of life, because under the sway of Truth they will become -as cowardly as miserable. Truth will increase the bitterness of their -existence, and at the same time bereave them of sufficient courage to -reject it." - -These words of Jove moved the gods to compassion for the human race. -It seemed to them that so great inflictions were inconsistent with the -divine attribute of mercy. - -But Jove continued: "There will remain to humanity a certain -consolation proceeding from the Phantom Love, which alone I purpose -leaving among men. And even Truth, in spite of her almost omnipotence, -will never quite prevail over Love, nor succeed in chasing this Phantom -from the earth, though the struggle between them will be perpetual. -Thus the life of man, divided betwixt the worship of Truth and Love, -will consist of two epochs, during which these influences will -respectively control his mind and actions. To the aged, instead of -the solace of Love, will be granted a state of contentment with their -existence, similar to that of other animals. They will love life for -its own sake, not for any pleasure or profit they derive from it." - -Accordingly, Jove removed the Phantoms from earth, save only Love, -the least noble of all, and sent Truth among men to exercise over -them perpetual rule. The consequences foreseen by the god were not -long in making themselves manifest. And strange to say, whereas the -spirit before her descent on earth, and when she had no real authority -over men, was honoured by a multitude of temples and sacrifices, her -presence had the effect of cooling their enthusiasm on her behalf. -With the other gods this was not so; the more they made themselves -manifest, the more they were honoured; but Truth saddened men, and -ultimately inspired them with such hatred that they refused to worship -her, and only by constraint rendered her obedience. And whereas -formerly, men who were under the especial influence of any one of -the ancient Phantoms, used to love and revere that Phantom above the -others, Truth was detested and cursed by those over whom she gained -supreme control. So, unable to resist her tyranny, men lived from -that time in the complete state of misery, which is their fate in the -present day, and to which they are eternally doomed. - -But not long ago, pity, which is never exhausted in the minds of -the gods, moved Jove to compassionate the wretchedness of mortals. -He noticed especially the affliction of certain men, remarkable for -their high intellect, and nobility, and purity of life, who were -extraordinarily oppressed by the sway of Truth. Now in former times, -when Justice, Virtue, and the other Phantoms directed humanity, the -gods had been accustomed at times to visit the earth, and sojourn -with men for awhile, always on such occasions benefiting the race, or -particular individuals, in some especial manner. But since men had -become so debased, and sunk in wickedness, they had not deigned to -associate with them. Jove therefore, pitying our condition, asked the -immortals whether any one of them would visit the earth as of old, -and console men under their calamities, especially such as seemed -undeserving of the universal affliction. All the gods were silent. -At length Love, the son of celestial Venus, bearing the same name as -the Phantom Love, but very different in nature and power, and the -most compassionate of the immortals, offered himself for the mission -proposed by Jove. This deity was so beloved by the other gods, that -hitherto they had never allowed him to quit their presence, even for -a moment. The ancients indeed imagined that the god had appeared to -them from time to time; but it was not so. They were deceived by the -subterfuges and transformations of the Phantom Love. The deity of the -same name first visited mankind after they were placed under the empire -of Truth. - -Since that time the god has rarely and briefly descended, because of -the general unworthiness of humanity, and the impatience with which -the celestials await his return. When he comes on earth he chooses the -tender and noble hearts of the most generous and magnanimous persons. -Here he rests for a short time, diffusing in them so strange and -wondrous a sweetness, and inspiring them with affections so lofty and -vigorous, that they then experience what is entirely new to mankind, -the substance rather than the semblance of happiness. Sometimes, though -very rarely, he brings about the union of two hearts, abiding in them -both simultaneously, and exciting within them a reciprocal warmth and -desire. All within whom he dwells beseech him to effect this union; -but Jove forbids him to yield to their entreaties, save in very few -instances, because the happiness of such mutual love approaches too -nearly to the felicity of the immortals. - -The man in whom Love abides is the happiest of mortals. And not only is -he blessed by the presence of the deity, but he is also charmed by the -old mysterious Phantoms, which, though removed from the lot of men, by -Jove's permission follow in the train of Love, in spite of the great -opposition of Truth, their supreme enemy. But Truth, like all the other -genii, is powerless to resist the will of the gods. And, since destiny -has granted to Love a state of eternal youth, the god can partially -give effect to that first desire of men, that they might return to the -happiness of their childhood. In the souls he inhabits, Love awakens -and vivifies, so long as ha stays there, the boundless hopes, and the -sweet and fine illusions of early life. Many persons, ignorant and -incapable of appreciating Love, vituperate and affront the god, even to -his face. But he disregards these insults, and exacts no vengeance for -them, so noble and compassionate is his nature. Nor do the other gods -any longer trouble themselves about the crimes of men, being satisfied -with the vengeance they have already wrought on the human race, and -the incurable misery which is its portion. Consequently, wicked and -blasphemous men suffer no punishment for their offences, except that -they are absolutely excluded from being partakers of the divine favours. - - -[Footnote 1: See Herodotus, Strabo, &c.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS._ - - -_Hercules_. Father Atlas, Jove's compliments, and in case you should be -weary of your burden, I was to relieve you for a few hours, as I did -I don't know how many centuries ago, so that you may take breath, and -rest a little. - -_Atlas_. Thanks, dear Hercules, and I am very much obliged to Jove. -But the world has become so light, that this cloak which I wear as a -protection against the snow, incommodes me more. Indeed, were it not -Jove's will that I should continue to stand here, supporting this ball -on my back, I would put it under my arm, or in my pocket, or suspend it -from a hair of my beard, and go about my own affairs. - -_Hercules_. How has it become so light? I can easily see it has changed -shape, and has become a sort of roll, instead of being round as when I -studied cosmography in preparation for that wonderful voyage with the -Argonauts. But still I cannot see why its weight should have diminished. - -_Atlas_. I am as ignorant of the reason as you are. But take the thing -for a moment in your hand, and satisfy yourself of the truth of my -assertion. - -_Hercules_. Upon my word, without this test, I would not have believed -it. But what is this other novelty that I discover? The last time I -bore it, I felt a strong pulsation on my back, like the beat of an -animal's heart; and I heard a continuous buzzing like a wasp's nest. -But now, it throbs more like a watch with a broken spring, and as for -the buzzing, I don't hear a sound of it. - -_Atlas_. I know nothing of this either, except that long ago, the world -ceased making any motion, or sensible noise. I even had very great -suspicions that it was dead, and expecting daily to be troubled by -its corruption, I considered how and where I should bury it, and what -epitaph I should place on its tomb. But when I saw that it did not -decompose, I came to the conclusion that it had changed from an animal -into a plant, like Daphne and others; and this explained its silence -and immobility. I began to fear lest it should soon wind its roots -round my shoulders, or bury them in my body. - -_Hercules_. I am rather inclined to think it is asleep, and that its -repose is like that of Epimenides,[1] which lasted more than half a -century. Or perhaps it is like Hermotimus,[2] whose soul used to leave -his body when it pleased, and stay away many years, disporting itself -in foreign lands. To put an end to this game, the friends of Hermotimus -burned the body; so that the spirit returning, found its home -destroyed, and was obliged to seek shelter in another body, or an inn. -So, to prevent the world from sleeping for ever, or lest some friend, -thinking it were dead, should set it on fire, let us try to arouse it. - -_Atlas_. I am willing. But how shall we do it? - -_Hercules_. I would give it a good blow with this club, if I were not -afraid of smashing it, and were I not sure that it would crack under -the stroke like an egg. Besides, I fear lest the men, who in my time -used to wrestle with lions, but are now only a match for fleas, should -faint from so sudden a shock. Suppose I lay aside my club, and you your -cloak, and we have a game at ball with the poor little sphere. I wish -I had brought the rackets that Mercury and I use in the celestial -courts, but we can do without them. - -_Atlas_. A likely thing indeed! So that your father seeing our game, -may make a third, and with his thunderbolt precipitate us both I do not -know where, as he did Phaeton into the Po! - -_Hercules_. That might be, if, like Phaeton, I were the son of a poet, -and not his own son; and if there were not this difference between -us, that whereas poets formerly peopled cities by the melody of their -art, I could depopulate heaven and earth by the power of my club. And -as for Jove's bolt, I would kick it hence to the farthest quarter of -the empyrean. Be assured that even if I wished to appropriate five -or six stars for the sake of a game, or to make a sling of a comet, -taking it by the tail, or even to play at ball with the sun, my father -would make no objection. Besides, our intention is to do good to the -world, whereas Phaeton simply wished to show off his fleetness before -the Hours, who held the steps for him when he mounted his chariot. He -also wanted to gain reputation as a skilful coach-man, in the eyes of -Andromeda, Callisto, and the other beautiful constellations, to whom, -it is said, he threw, in passing, lustre bonbons, and comfits of light; -and to make a fine parade of himself before the celestial gods during -his journey that day, which chanced to be a festival. In short, don't -give a thought to the possibility of my father's wrath. In any case, I -will bear all the blame; so throw off your cloak, and send me the ball. - -_Atlas_. Willingly or not, I must do as you wish; since you are strong -and armed, whereas I am old and defenceless. But do take care lest it -fall, in which case it will have fresh swellings, or some new fracture, -like that which separated Sicily from Italy, and Africa from Spain. And -if it should get chipped in any way, there might be a war about what -men would call the detachment of a province or kingdom. - -_Hercules_. Rely on me. - -_Atlas_. Then here goes. See how it quivers on account of its altered -shape! - -_Hercules_. Hit a little harder; your strokes scarcely reach me. - -_Atlas_. It is the fault of the ball. The south-west wind catches it, -because of its lightness. - -_Hercules_. It is its old failing to go with the wind. - -_Atlas_. Suppose we were to inflate the ball, since it has no more -notion of a bounce than a melon. - -_Hercules_. A new shortcoming! Formerly it used to leap and dance like -a young goat. - -_Atlas_. Look out! Run quickly after that. For Jove's sake, take care -lest it fall! Alas! it was an evil hour when you came here. - -_Hercules_. You sent me such a bad stroke that I could not possibly -have caught it in time, even at the risk of breaking my neck. Alas, -poor little one!... How are you? Do you feel bad anywhere? I don't hear -a sigh, nor does a soul move. They are all still asleep. - -_Atlas_. Give it back to me, by all the horns of the Styx, and let me -settle it again on my shoulders. And you, take your club, and hasten -to heaven to excuse me with Jove for this accident, which is entirely -owing to you. - -_Hercules_. I will do so. For many centuries there has been in my -father's house a certain poet, named Horace. He was made court poet -at the suggestion of Augustus, who has been deified by Jove for his -augmentation of the Eoman power. In one of his songs, this poet says -that the just man would stir not, though the world fell. Since the -world has now fallen, and no one has moved, it follows that all men are -just. - -_Atlas_. Who doubts the justice of men? But do not lose time; run -and exculpate me with your father, else I shall momentarily expect a -thunderbolt to transform me from Atlas into Etna. - - -[Footnote 1: See Pliny, Diogenes Laertius, Apollonius, Varr, &c.] - -[Footnote 2: See Apollonius, Pliny, Tertullian, &c.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH._ - - -_Fashion_. Madam Death, Madam Death! - -_Death_. Wait until your time comes, and then I will appear without -being called by you. - -_Fashion_. Madam Death! - -_Death_. Go to the devil. I will come when you least expect me. - -_Fashion_. As if I were not immortal! - -_Death_. Immortal? - -"Already has passed the thousandth year," - -since the age of immortals ended. - -_Fashion_. Madam is as much a Petrarchist as if she were an Italian -poet of the fifteenth or eighteenth century. - -_Death_. I like Petrarch because he composed my triumph, and because he -refers so often to me. But I must be moving. - -_Fashion_. Stay! For the love you bear to the seven cardinal sins, stop -a moment and look at me. - -_Death_. Well. I am looking. - -_Fashion_. Do you not recognise me? - -_Death_. You must know that I have bad sight, and am without -spectacles. The English make none to suit me; and if they did, I should -not know where to put them. - -_Fashion_. I am Fashion, your sister. - -_Death_. My sister? - -_Fashion_. Yes. Do you not remember we are both born of Decay? - -_Death_. As if I, who am the chief enemy of Memory, should recollect it! - -_Fashion_. But I do. I know also that we both equally profit by the -incessant change and destruction of things here below, although you do -so in one way, and I in another. - -_Death_. Unless you are speaking to yourself, or to some one inside -your throat, raise your voice, and pronounce your words more -distinctly. If you go mumbling between your teeth with that thin -spider-voice of yours, I shall never understand you; because you ought -to know that my hearing serves me no better than my sight. - -_Fashion_. Although it be contrary to custom, for in France they do -not speak to be heard, yet, since we are sisters, I will speak as you -wish, for we can dispense with ceremony between ourselves. I say then -that our common nature and custom is to incessantly renew the world. -You attack the life of man, and overthrow all people and nations from -beginning to end; whereas I content myself for the most part with -influencing beards, head-dresses, costumes, furniture, houses, and -the like. It is true, I do some things comparable to your supreme -action. I pierce ears, lips, and noses, and cause them to be torn -by the ornaments I suspend from them. I impress men's skin with hot -iron stamps, under the pretence of adornment. I compress the heads -of children with tight bandages and other contrivances; and make it -customary for all men of a country to have heads of the same shape, as -in parts of America and Asia. I torture and cripple people with small -shoes. I stifle women with stays so tight, that their eyes start from -their heads; and I play a thousand similar pranks. I also frequently -persuade and force men of refinement to bear daily numberless fatigues -and discomforts, and often real sufferings; and some even die -gloriously for love of me. I will say nothing of the headaches, colds, -inflammations of all kinds, fevers--daily, tertian, and quartan--which -men gain by their obedience to me. They are content to shiver with -cold, or melt with heat, simply because it is my will that they cover -their shoulders with wool, and their breasts with cotton. In fact, they -do everything in my way, regardless of their own injury. - -_Death_. In truth, I believe you are my sister; the testimony of a -birth certificate could scarcely make me surer of it. But standing -still paralyses me, so if you can, let us run; only you must not creep, -because I go at a great pace. As we proceed you can tell me what you -want. If you cannot keep up with me, on account of our relationship I -promise when I die to bequeath you all my clothes and effects as a New -Year's gift. - -_Fashion_. If we ran a race together, I hardly know which of us would -win. For if you run, I gallop, and standing still, which paralyses you, -is death to me. So let us run, and we will chat as we go along. - -_Death_. So be it then. Since your mother was mine, you ought to serve -me in some way, and assist me in my business. - -_Fashion_. I have already done so--more than you,--imagine. Above all, -I, who annul and transform other customs unceasingly, have nowhere -changed the custom of death; for this reason it has prevailed from the -beginning of the world until now. - -_Death_. A great miracle forsooth, that you have never done what you -could not do! - -_Fashion_. Why cannot I do it? You show how ignorant you are of the -power of Fashion. - -_Death_. Well, well: time enough to talk of this when you introduce the -custom of not dying. But at present, I want you, like a good sister, -to aid me in rendering my task more easy and expeditious than it has -hitherto been. - -_Fashion_. I have already mentioned some of my labours which are a -source of profit to you. But they are trifling in comparison with those -of which I will now tell you. - -Little by little, and especially in modern times, I have brought into -disuse and discredit those exertions and exercises which promote bodily -health; and have substituted numberless others which enfeeble the -body in a thousand ways, and shorten life. Besides, I have introduced -customs and manners, which render existence a thing more dead than -alive, whether regarded from a physical or mental point of view; -so that this century may be aptly termed the century of death. And -whereas formerly you had no other possessions except graves and vaults, -where you sowed bones and dust, which are but a barren seed, now you -have fine landed properties, and people who are a sort of freehold -possession of yours as soon as they are born, though not then claimed -by you. And more, you, who used formerly to be hated and vituperated, -are in the present day, thanks to me, valued and lauded by all men of -genius. Such an one prefers you to life itself, and holds you in such -high esteem that he invokes you, and looks to you as his greatest hope. - -But this is not all. I perceived that men had some vague idea of an -after-life, which they called immortality. They imagined they lived in -the memory of their fellows, and this remembrance they sought after -eagerly. Of course this was in reality mere fancy, since what could it -matter to them when dead, that they lived in the minds of men? As well -might they dread contamination in the grave! Yet, fearing lest this -chimera might be prejudicial to you, in seeming to diminish your honour -and reputation, I have abolished the fashion of seeking immortality, -and its concession, even when merited. So that now, whoever dies may -assure himself that he is dead altogether, and that every bit of him -goes into the ground, just as a little fish is swallowed, bones and -all. - -These important things my love for you has prompted me to effect. I -have also succeeded in my endeavour to increase your power on earth. I -am more than ever desirous of continuing this work. Indeed, my object -in seeking you to-day was to make a proposal that for the future we -should not separate, but jointly might scheme and execute for the -furtherance of our respective designs. - -_Death_. You speak reasonably, and I am willing to do as you propose. - - - - -_PRIZE COMPETITION ANNOUNCED BY THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS._ - - -The Academy of Sillographs, ardently desiring to advance the common -welfare, and esteeming nothing more conformable to this end than the -promotion of the progress - -"Of the happy century in which we live," - -as says an illustrious poet, has taken in hand the careful -consideration of the nature and tendency of our time. After long and -mature consultation, the Academy has resolved to call our era the -age of machines; not only because the men of to-day live and move -perhaps more mechanically than in past times, but also on account of -the numerous machines now invented and utilised for so many different -purposes. To such an extent indeed is this carried, that machines and -not men may be said to manage human affairs, and conduct the business -of life. This circumstance greatly pleases the said Academy, not so -much because of the manifest convenience of the arrangement, as for two -reasons, which it thinks very important, although ordinarily they are -not so regarded. The one is the possibility that in process of time the -influence and usefulness of machines may extend to spiritual as well -as material things. And as by virtue of these machines and inventions, -we are already protected from lightning, storms, and other such evils -and terrors; similarly there may be discovered some cure for envy, -calumny, perfidy, and trickery; some safety-cord or other invention -to deliver us from egotism, from the prevalence of mediocrity, from -prosperous fools, bad and debased persons, from the universal spirit -of indifference, from the wretchedness peculiar to the wise, the -cultivated, the noble-minded, and from other discomforts which for many -centuries have been more invincible than either lightning or tempests. -The other and chief reason concerns the unhappy condition of the human -race. Most philosophers despair of its improvement, or the cure of its -defects, which probably equal or exceed in number its virtues. They -believe it would be easier to entirely re-create the race in another -way, or to substitute a different "genus" altogether, than to amend -it. The Academy of Sinographs is therefore of opinion that it is very -expedient for men to withdraw from the business of life as much as -possible, and gradually to resign in favour of machines. And being -resolved to support with all its might the progress of this new order -of things, it now begs to offer three prizes for the inventors of the -three following machines. - -The aim of the first machine must be to represent a friend warranted -not to abuse or ridicule his absent friend; nor forsake his friend when -he hears him made the subject of jest; nor to seek the reputation of -acuteness, sarcasm, and the power of exciting men's laughter at his -friend's expense; nor to divulge or boast of secrets confided to him; -nor to take advantage of his friend's intimacy and confidence in order -to supplant and surpass him; nor to envy his friend's good fortune. -But it must be solicitous for his friend's welfare, join issue with -him against his misfortunes, and assist him in deeds as well as words. -Reference to the treatises of Cicero and the Marquise of Lambert on -"Friendship" may be advantageously made for further suggestions as to -the manufacture of this automaton. The Academy thinks the invention -of this machine ought not to be regarded as either impossible, or -even very difficult, seeing that besides the automata of Regiomontano, -Vaucanson, and others, and the one in London which drew figures and -portraits, and wrote from dictation, there are machines that can even -play chess unassisted. Now in the opinion of many "savants," human -life is a game, and some assert it to be a thing even more frivolous. -They say that the game of chess is a more rationally conceived thing, -and its hazards are less uncertain than those of life. Besides, -Pindar has called life a thing of no more substance than the dream of -a shadow; in which case it ought not to be beyond the capacity of a -vigilant automaton. As to speech, there is no reason why men should -not be able to communicate this to machines of their manufacture. For -amongst examples of manufactures so endowed, we may number the statue -of Memnon, and the head formed by Albertus Magnus; this latter was -so loquacious that St. Thomas Aquinas, irritated at its incessant -tittle-tattle, broke it in pieces. And if the parrot of Nevers (though -certainly this was an animal, however small a one) could converse, how -much more credible that a machine, conceived by the mind of man, and -constructed by his hands, should be able to acquire such attainments? -The machine ought not to be so talkative as the parrot of Nevers, and -other similar ones, which we see and hear everywhere; nor as the head -made by Albertus Magnus; for it must not weary its friend, thereby -inciting him to its destruction. - -The inventor of this machine shall receive a reward of a gold medal -weighing four hundred sequins, which on the one side shall have a -representation of the figures of Pylades and Orestes, and on the other -side the name of the person rewarded, together with the inscription, -"First verifier of the ancient fables." - -The second machine must be an artificial man worked by steam, adapted -and constructed for virtuous and magnanimous actions. The Academy is of -opinion that since no other method appears to exist, steam ought to -be capable of directing an animated automaton in the paths of virtue -and glory. Candidates for this competition are referred to books of -poems and romances for suggestions as to the qualities and powers with -which to endow the figure. The reward to be a gold medal weighing four -hundred and fifty sequins, stamped on the one side with some fanciful -design significative of the age of gold, and on its reverse the name of -the inventor of the machine, together with this inscription from the -fourth eclogue of Virgil: "Quo ferrea primum desinet ac toto surget -gens aurea mundo." - -The third machine should be empowered to act as a woman, realising -the conception formed partly by Count Baldassar Castiglione, who -describes his idea in the book of the "Cortegiano," and partly by -others, easily discoverable in various writings which must be consulted -and combined with those of the Count. Nor ought the invention of this -machine to appear impossible to men of our times, when it be remembered -that Pygmalion long ago, in an age far from scientific, was able to -fabricate a spouse with his own hands, who was considered to be the -best woman that had ever existed. To the originator of this machine -a gold medal weighing five hundred sequins is assigned, on the one -side of which shall be represented the Arabian Phoenix of Metastasio, -perched on a tree of some European species, and on the other side shall -be written the name of the recipient, with the inscription, "Inventor -of faithful women, and conjugal happiness." The Academy decrees that -the cost of these prizes must be defrayed with what was discovered in -the satchel of Diogenes, late Secretary of this Academy, or by means -of one of the three golden asses that belonged to three Sillographic -Academicians, Apuleius, Firenzuola, and Macchiavelli; all which -property passed to the Sillographists by will of the deceased, as may -be read in the Chronicles of the Academy. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME._ - - -_Goblin_. You here, son of Beelzebub! where are you going? - -_Gnome_. My father has sent me to find out what these rascals of men -are doing. He is inclined to suspect something, because it is so -long since they gave us any trouble, and in all his realms there is -not a single one to be seen. He wonders whether any great change has -taken place, and thinks perhaps they have returned to the primitive -system of barter, whereby they use sheep instead of gold and silver; -or the civilised people have become dissatisfied with paper notes for -money, as they have often been, or have taken to cowrie shells such as -savages use; or the laws of Lycurgus have been re-established. The last -possibility seems to him the least likely. - -_Goblin_. "You seek them in vain, for they are all dead," as said the -survivors in a tragedy where the principal personages died in the last -act. - -_Gnome_. What do you mean? - -_Goblin_. I mean that men are all dead, and the race is lost. - -_Gnome_. My word! what news for the papers! But how is it they have not -already mentioned it? - -_Goblin_. Stupid. Do you not see that if there are no men there will be -no more newspapers? - -_Gnome_. Yes, that is true. But how shall we know in future the news of -the world? - -_Goblin_. News! what news? That the sun rises and sets? That it is hot -or cold? That here or there it has rained or snowed, or been windy? - -Since men disappeared, Fortune has unbandaged her eyes, put on -spectacles, and attached her wheel to a pivot. She sits with arms -crossed, watching the world go round without troubling herself in the -least as to its affairs. There are no more kingdoms nor empires to -swell themselves, and burst like bubbles, for they have all vanished. -There is no more war; and the years are as like one another as two peas. - -_Gnome_. No one will know the day of the month, since there will be no -more calendars printed! - -_Goblin_. What a misfortune! Nevertheless, the moon will continue her -course. - -_Gnome_. And the days of the week will be nameless! - -_Goblin_. What does it matter? Do you think they will not come unless -you call them? Or, that once passed, they will return if you call out -their names? - -_Gnome_. And no one will take any count of the years! - -_Goblin_. We shall be able to say we are young when we are old; and we -shall forget our cares when we cannot fix their anniversary. Besides, -when we are very old, we shall not know it, nor be expecting death -daily. - -_Gnome_. But how is it these rogues have disappeared? - -_Goblin_. Some killed themselves with fighting; others were drowned in -the sea. Some ate each other. Not a few committed suicide. Some died of -ennui in idleness; and some turned their brains with study. Debauch, -and a thousand other excesses, put an end to many more. In short, they -have arrived at their end, by endeavouring, as long as they lived, to -violate the laws of nature, and to go contrary to their welfare. - -_Gnome_. Still, I do not understand how an entire race of animals can -become extinct without leaving any trace behind it. - -_Goblin_. You who are a specialist in geology ought to know that the -circumstance is not a new one, and that many kinds of animals lived -anciently, which to-day are nowhere to be found except in the remains -of a few petrified bones. Moreover, these poor creatures employed none -of the means used by men for their destruction. - -_Gnome_. It may be so. I should dearly like to resuscitate one or two -of the rascals, just to know what they would think when they saw all -going on as before, in spite of the disappearance of the human race. -Would they then imagine that everything was made and maintained solely -for them? - -_Goblin_. They would not like to realise that the world exists solely -for the use of the Goblins. - -_Gnome_. You are joking, my friend, if you mean what you say. - -_Goblin_. Why? Of course I do. - -_Gnome_. Go along with you, buffoon! who does not know that the world -is made for the Gnomes? - -_Goblin_. For the Gnomes, who live underground! That is one of the best -jokes I have ever heard. What good are the sun, moon, air, sea, and -country to the Gnomes? - -_Gnome_. And pray of what use to the Goblins are the mines of gold and -silver, and the whole body of earth, except the outer skin? - -_Goblin_. Well, well: suppose we abandon the discussion. It is -unimportant after all. For I imagine even the lizards and gnats think -the whole world was created for their exclusive service. Let each of us -believe what we please, for nothing will make us change our opinion. -But, between ourselves, if I had not been born a Goblin, I should be in -despair. - -_Gnome_. And I, had I not been born a Gnome. But I should like to -know what men would say of their impertinence in former times, when, -besides other misdeeds, they sank thousands of underground shafts, and -stole our goods from us by force, asserting that they belonged to the -human race. Nature, they said, concealed and buried the things down -below, as a sort of game at hide and seek, just to see if they could -discover and abstract them. - -_Goblin_. I do not wonder at that, since they not only imagined the -things of the world were at their service, but they also regarded -them as a mere trifle compared to the human race. They called their -own vicissitudes "revolutions of the world;" and histories of their -nations, "histories of the world;" although the earth contained about -as many different species of animals as living individual human beings. -Yet these animals, though made expressly for the use of men, were never -conscious of the so-called revolutions of the world! - -_Gnome_. Then even the fleas and gnats were made for the service of men? - -_Goblin_. Just so. To exercise their patience, men said. - -_Gnome_. As if, apart from fleas, man's patience were not tried -sufficiently! - -_Goblin_. And a certain man named Chrysippus termed pigs pieces of meat -expressly prepared by nature for man's table. Their souls, he said, -served the purpose of salt, in preserving them from decay. - -_Gnome_. In my opinion, if Chrysippus had had a little sense (salt) in -his brain, instead of imagination (soul), he would never have conceived -such an idea. - -_Goblin_. Here is another amusing circumstance. An infinite number -of species of animals were never seen, nor heard of by men their -masters, either because they lived where man never set foot, or because -they were too small to be observed. Many others were only discovered -during the last days of the human race. The same may be said of -plants, minerals, &c. Similarly, from time to time, by means of their -telescopes, they perceived some star or planet, of the existence of -which hitherto, during thousands and thousands of years, they had been -ignorant. They then immediately entered it on the catalogue of their -possessions; for they regarded the stars and planets as so many candles -placed up above to give light to their dominions, because they were -wont to transact much business in the night. - -_Gnome_. And in summer, when they saw those little meteor flames -that rush through the air at night, they imagined them to be sprites -employed in snuffing the candles for the good of mankind. - -_Goblin_. Yet now that they are all gone, the earth is none the worse -off. The rivers still flow, and the sea, although no longer used for -navigation and traffic, is not dried up. - -_Gnome_. The stars and planets still rise and set; nor have they gone -into mourning. - -_Goblin_. Neither has the sun put on sackcloth and ashes, as it did, -according to Virgil, when Csar died; about whom I imagine it concerned -itself as little as Pompey's Pillar. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO._ - - -_Malambruno_. Spirits of the deep, Farfarello, Ciriatto, Raconero, -Astarotte, Alichino, or whatever else you are called, I adjure you in -the name of Beelzebub, and command you by virtue of my art, which can -unhinge the moon, and nail the sun in the midst of the heavens, come -one of you with your prince's permission, to put all the powers of hell -at my disposal. - -_Farfarello_. Here I am. - -_Mal_. Who are you? - -_Far_. Farfarello, at thy service. - -_Mal_. Have you the mandate of Beelzebub? - -_Far_. I have; and can thus do for thee all that the king himself could -do, and more than lies in the power of all other creatures together. - -_Mal_. It is well. I wish to be satisfied in but one desire. - -_Far_. Thou shalt be obeyed. What is it? Dost thou wish for majesty -surpassing that of the Atrides? - -_Mal_. No. - -_Far_. More wealth than shall be found in El Dorado, when it is -discovered? _Mal_. No. - -_Far_. An empire as large as that of which Charles V. dreamt one night? - -_Mal_. No. - -_Far_. A mistress chaster than Penelope? - -_Mal_. No: methinks the devil's aid were superfluous for that. - -_Far_. Honours and success, however wicked thou mayst be? - -_Mal_. I should rather more need the devil, if I wished the contrary, -under such circumstances. - -_Far_. Then what dost thou want? - -_Mal_. Make me happy for a moment. - -_Far_. I cannot. - -_Mal_. Why? - -_Far_. I give you my word of honour--I cannot do it. - -_Mal_. The word of honour of a good demon? - -_Far_. Yes, to be sure. Thou shouldest know that there are good devils -as well as good men. - -_Mal_. And you must know that I will hang you by the tail to one of -these beams if you do not instantly obey me without more words. - -_Far_. It were easier for you to kill me, than for me to satisfy your -demands. - -_Mal_. Then return with my malediction, and let Beelzebub come himself. - -_Far_. Beelzebub and the whole army of hell would be equally powerless -to render you or any of your race happy. - -_Mal_. Not even for a single moment? - -_Far_. As impossible for a moment, half a moment, or the thousandth -part of a moment, as for a lifetime. - -_Mal_. Well, since you cannot make me happy in any way, at least free -me from unhappiness. - -_Far_. On condition that you no longer love yourself above everything -else. - -_Mal_. I shall only cease doing that when I die. - -_Far_. But as long as you live you will be unable to do it. Your nature -would tolerate anything rather than that. - -_Mal_. So it is. - -_Far_. Consequently, loving yourself above everything, you desire your -own happiness more than anything. But because this is unattainable, you -must necessarily be unhappy. - -_Mal_. Even when engaged in pleasure; since no gratification can make -me happy, or satisfy me. - -_Far_. Truly none. - -_Mal_. And because pleasure cannot satisfy my soul's innate desire for -happiness, it is not true pleasure, and during its continuance I shall -still be unhappy. - -_Far_. As you say: because in men and other living beings, the -deprivation of happiness, even though pain and misfortune be wanting, -implies express unhappiness. This, too, during the continuance of -so-called pleasures. - -_Mal_. So that from birth to death our unhappiness never ceases for an -instant. - -_Far_. Yes, it ceases whenever you sleep dreamlessly, or when, from one -cause or another, you are deprived of your senses. - -_Mal_. But never, so long as we are sensible that we live. - -_Far_. Never. - -_Mal_. So that in fact it were better not to live than to live. - -_Far_. If the absence of unhappiness be better than unhappiness itself. - -_Mal_. Then? - -_Far_. Then if you would like to give me your soul before its time, I -am ready to carry it away with me. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL._ - - -_Nature_. Go, my beloved child. You shall be regarded as my favoured -one for very many centuries. Live: be great and unhappy. - -_Soul_. What evil have I done before beginning to live, that you -condemn me to this misery? - -_Nature_. What misery, my child? - -_Soul_. Do you not ordain that I am to be unhappy? - -_Nature_. Yes; but only so far as to enable you to be great, which you -cannot become without unhappiness. Besides, you are destined to animate -a human body, and all men are of necessity unhappy from their birth. - -_Soul_. It were more reasonable that you made happiness a necessity; or -this being impossible, it were better not to bring men into the world. - -_Nature_. I can do neither the one thing nor the other, because I am -subordinate to Destiny, who decrees the contrary. The reason of this -is as much a mystery to myself as to you. Now that you are created and -designed to animate a human being, no power in the world can save you -from the unhappiness common to men. Moreover, your infelicity will be -especially great, owing to the perfection with which I have fashioned -you. - -_Soul_. I know nothing yet, because I have only just begun to live. -Doubtless this is why I do not understand you. But tell me, is -greatness the same thing as extreme unhappiness? If, however, they are -different, why could not the one be separated from the other? - -_Nature_. In the souls of men, and proportionately in those of all -animals, they are inseparable, because excellence of soul implies great -capacity for knowledge, which in exposing to men the unhappiness of -humanity may be termed unhappiness itself. Similarly, a life of greater -intensity involves a greater love of self, manifested in different -ways. An increased desire for happiness is a consequence of this -self-love and increased unhappiness, because of the impossibility of -satisfying this desire, and as the unfortunate condition of humanity -becomes realised. All this is decreed from the beginning of creation, -and is unalterable by me. - -Moreover, the keenness of your intellect and the strength of your -imagination will lessen considerably your power of self-control. Brute -animals readily adapt all their faculties and powers to the attainment -of their ends; but men rarely do so, being usually prevented by their -reason and imagination, which give birth to a thousand doubts in -deliberation, and a thousand hindrances in execution. The less men -are inclined or accustomed to deliberate, the more prompt are they in -decision, and the more vigorous in action. But such souls as yours, -self-contained, and proudly conscious of their greatness, are really -powerless for self-rule, and often succumb to irresolution both in -thought and action. This temperament is one of the greatest curses of -human life. - -Added to this, although by your noble talents you will easily and -quickly excel most men in profound knowledge and works of the greatest -difficulty, you will yet find it almost impossible to learn, or put in -practice, a host of things, trivial enough, but very essential, for -your intercourse with others. At the same time, you; will see your -inferiors, and even men of scarcely any intelligence, perfectly at home -with these things. Such difficulties and miseries as these occupy and -surround great souls; but they are amply atoned for by fame, praise, -and honours paid to their greatness, and by the lasting memory they -leave behind them. - -_Soul_. Whence will come these praises and honours,--from heaven, from -you, or from whom? - -_Nature_. From men, who alone can dispense them. - -_Soul_. But I thought my ignorance of those things necessary for the -intercourse of life, which intellects inferior to mine so easily -comprehend, would cause me to be despised and shunned, not praised by -men. I thought too that I should surely live unknown to most of them, -because of my unfitness for their society. - -_Nature_. I have not the power to foresee the future, so I cannot say -exactly how men will behave to you whilst you are on earth. But judging -from past experience, I think they will probably be jealous of you. -This is another misfortune to which great minds are peculiarly liable. -Perhaps too, they will despise you, and treat you with indifference. -Fortune herself, and even circumstances, are usually unfriendly to such -as you. - -But directly after your death, as happened to one named Camoens, or a -few years later, like Milton, you will be eulogised and lauded to the -skies, if not by every one, at any rate by the few men of noble minds. -Perhaps the ashes of your body will be deposited in a magnificent tomb, -and your likeness reproduced in many different forms, and passed about -from hand to hand. Men will also study your life and writings, and at -length the world will ring with your name. Always provided you are not -hindered by evil fortune, or even by the very excess of your genius, -from leaving undoubted testimonies of your merit; instances are not -wanting of such unfortunates, known only to myself and Destiny. - -_Soul_. O mother, I care not if I be deprived of all knowledge, so long -as I obtain what I most desire, happiness. And as for glory, I know not -whether it be a good or evil thing, but I do know that I shall only -value it in so far as it procures me happiness, directly or indirectly. -Now, on your own showing, the excellence with which you have endowed -me, though it may be fruitful of glory, is also productive of the -greatest unhappiness. Yet even this paltry glory I may not gain until -I am dead, when I fail to see how I shall benefit by it. And besides, -there is the probability that this phantom glory, the price of so much -suffering, may be obtained neither in life nor after death. - -In short, from what you yourself have said, I conclude that far from -loving me with peculiar affection, as you affirmed, you bear me greater -malice than that of which I can be the victim, either at the hands -of men or Destiny. Why else should you have endowed me with this -disastrous excellence, about which you boast so much, and which will be -the chief stumbling-block in the road to happiness, the only thing for -which I care? - -_Nature_. My child, all men are destined to be unhappy, as I have said, -without any fault of mine. But in the midst of this universal misery, -and amid the infinite vanity of all their pleasures and joys, glory -is by most men considered to be the greatest good of life, and the -worthiest object of ambition and fatigue. Therefore, not hatred but a -feeling of especial kindliness, has prompted me to assist you as far as -I could in your attainment of this glory. - -_Soul_. Tell me: among the animals you mentioned, are there any of less -vitality and sensibility than men? - -_Nature_. All are so, in more or less degree, beginning with plants. -Man, being the most perfect of them all, has greater life and power of -thought than all other living beings. - -_Soul_. Then if you love me, place me in the most imperfect thing -existing, or that being impossible, at least deprive me of this -terrible excellence, and make me like the most stupid and senseless -soul you have ever created! - -_Nature_. I can satisfy your second request, and will do so, since you -reject the immortality I would have given you. - -_Soul_. And instead of the immortality, I beseech you to hasten my -death as much as possible. - -_Nature_. I will consult Destiny about that. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON_ - - -_Earth_. Dear Moon, I know that you can speak and answer questions like -a human being, for I have heard so from many of the poets. Besides, our -children say you have really a mouth, nose, and eyes like every one -else, and that they see them with their own eyes, which at their time -of life ought to be very sharp. As for me, no doubt you know that I am -a person; indeed, when I was young, I had a number of children; so you -will not be surprised to hear me speak. And the reason, my fine Moon, -why I have never uttered a word to you before, although I have been -your neighbour for I don't know how many centuries, is that I have been -so occupied as to have no time for gossip. But now my business is so -trifling that it can look after itself. I don't know what to do, and am -ready to die of ennui. So in future, I hope we may often have some talk -together; and I should like to know all about your affairs, if it does -not inconvenience you to recount them to me. - -_Moon_. Be easy on that score. May the Fates never trouble me more -than you are likely to! Talk as much as you please, and although, as I -believe you know, I am partial to silence, I will willingly listen and -reply, to oblige you. - -_Earth_. Do you hear the delightful sound made by the heavenly bodies -in motion? - -_Moon_. To tell you the truth, I hear nothing. - -_Earth_. Nor do I; save only the whistling of the wind, which blows -from my poles to the equator, and from the equator to the poles, and -which is far from musical. But Pythagoras asserts that the celestial -spheres make an incredibly sweet harmony, and that you take part in the -concert, and are the eighth chord of this universal lyre. As for me, I -am so deafened by my own noise that I hear nothing. - -_Moon_. I also am doubtless deafened, since I hear no more than you. -But it is news to me that I am a chord. - -_Earth_. Now let us change the subject. Tell me; are you really -inhabited, as thousands of ancient and modern philosophers affirm--from -Orpheus to De Lalande? In spite of all my efforts to prolong these -horns of mine, which men call mountains and hills, and from the summits -of which I look at you in silence, I have failed to discern a single -one of your inhabitants. Yet I am told that a certain David Fabricius, -whose eyes were keener than those of Lynceus, at one time observed your -people extending their linen to be dried by the sun. - -_Moon_. I know nothing about your horns. I will admit that I am -inhabited. - -_Earth_. What colour are your men? - -_Moon_. What men? - -_Earth_. Those that you contain. Did you not say you were inhabited? - -_Moon_. Yes, what then? - -_Earth_. Does it not follow that all your inhabitants are animals? - -_Moon_. Neither animals nor men, though I am really in ignorance as to -the nature of either the one or the other. As for the men you speak of, -I have not an idea what you mean. - -_Earth_. Then what sort of creatures are yours? - -_Moon_. They are of very many different kinds, as unknown to you, as -yours are to me. - -_Earth_. This is so strange that if you yourself had not informed me of -it, I would never have believed it. Were you ever conquered by any of -your inhabitants? - -_Moon_. Not that I know of. But how? And for what reason? - -_Earth_. Through ambition and jealousy; by means of diplomacy and arms. - -_Moon_. I do not know what you mean by arms, ambition, and diplomacy. -Indeed, I understand nothing of what you say. - -_Earth_. But surely if you do not understand the meaning of arms, -you know something of war; because, not long ago, a certain doctor -discovered through a telescope, which is an instrument for seeing a -long distance, that you possessed a fine fortress with proper bastions. -Now this is certain proof that your races are at any rate accustomed to -sieges and mural battles. - -_Moon_. Pardon me, Mother Earth, if I reply to you a little more at -length than would be expected from one so subjugated as it seems I -am. But in truth, you appear to me more than vain to imagine that -everything in the world is conformable to your things; as if Nature -had no other intention than to copy you exactly in each of her -creations. I tell you I am inhabited, and you jump to the conclusion -that my inhabitants are men. I assert that they are not, and whilst -admitting that they may be another race of beings, you endow them with -qualities and customs similar to those of your people. You also speak -to me about the telescope of a certain doctor. But it seems to me the -sight of these telescopes is about as good as that of your children, -who discover that I have eyes, a mouth, and a nose, all of which I am -ignorant of possessing. - -_Earth_. Then it is not true that your provinces are intersected by -fine long roads, and that you are cultivated; which things are clearly -discernible with a telescope from Germany.[1] - -_Moon_. I do not know whether I am cultivated, and I have never -observed my roads. - -_Earth_. Dear Moon, you must know that I am of a coarse composition, -and very simple-minded. No wonder therefore that men easily deceive -me. But I can assure you that if your own inhabitants do not care -to conquer you, you are by no means free from such danger; for at -different times many people down here have thought of subduing you, -and have even made great preparations for doing so. Some have tried -to reach you by going to my highest places, standing on tiptoe, and -stretching out their arms. Besides, they have made a careful study of -your surface, and drawn out maps of your countries. They also know -the heights of your mountains, and even their names. I warn you of -these things out of pure goodwill, so that you may be prepared for any -emergency. - -Now, permit me to ask you another question or two. Are you much -disturbed by the dogs that bay at you? What do you think of those -people who show you another moon in a well? Are you masculine or -feminine[2]--because anciently there was a difference of opinion. Is -it true that the Arcadians came into the world before you?[3] Are your -women, or whatever I should call them, oviparous, and did one of their -eggs fall down to us, once upon a time?[4] Are you perforated like -a bead, as a modern philosopher believes?[5] Are you made of green -cheese, as some English say? Is it true that Mahomet one fine night cut -you in two like a water melon, and that a good piece of your body fell -into his cloak? Why do you like to stay on the tops of minarets? What -do you think of the feast of Bairam? - -_Moon_. You may as well go on. I need not answer such questions, nor -depart from my accustomed habit of silence. If you wish to be so -frivolous, and can find nothing else to talk to me about except matters -incomprehensible to me, your people had better construct another planet -to rotate round them, which they can design and populate as they -please. You seem unable to talk of anything but men, and dogs, and such -things, of which I know as much as of that one great being round which -I am told our sun turns. - -_Earth_. Truly the more I determine not to touch on personal matters, -the less I succeed in my resolution. But for the future I will be more -careful. Tell me; do you amuse yourself by drawing up my sea-water, and -then letting it fall again? - -_Moon_. It may be. But if I have done this, or other such things, I am -unaware of it. And you, it seems to me, do not consider what you effect -here, which is of so much the more importance as your size and strength -are greater than mine. - -_Earth_. I know nothing of these effects, except that from time to -time I deprive you of the sun's light, and myself of yours, and that I -illumine you during your nights, as is sometimes evident to me. - -But I am forgetting one thing, which is the most important of all. I -should like to know if Ariosto is correct in saying that everything man -loses, such as youth, beauty, health, the vigour and money spent in -the pursuit of glory, in the instruction of children, and founding or -promoting useful institutions, flies to you; so that you possess all -things pertaining to man, except folly, which has never left mankind. -If this be true, I reckon you ought to be so full as to have scarcely -any space unoccupied, especially since men have recently lost a great -many things (such as patriotism, virtue, magnanimity, righteousness), -not merely in part, or singly, as in former times, but completely, and -without exception. And certainly if you have not got these things, I do -not know where else they can be. But supposing you have them, I wish -we could come to an agreement whereby you might soon return the lost -things to me; for I imagine you must be greatly encumbered, especially -with common sense, which I understand crowds you very much. In return -for this, I will see that men pay you annually a good sum of money. - -_Moon_. Men again! Though folly, as you say, has not left your domains, -you wish nevertheless to make an utter fool of me, by depriving me of -what reason I possess, to supply the deficiency in your people. But I -do not know where this reason of yours is, nor whether it can be found -in the universe. I know well that it is not here, any more than the -other things you mention. - -_Earth_. At least, you can tell me if your inhabitants are acquainted -with vices, misdeeds, misfortunes, suffering, and old age; in short, -evils? Do you understand these names? - -_Moon_. Yes, I understand these well enough, and not only the names. I -am full of them, instead of the other things. - -_Earth_. Which are the more numerous among your people, virtues or -vices? - -_Moon_. Vices, by a long way. - -_Earth_. Does pleasure or pain predominate? - -_Moon_. Pain is infinitely more prevalent. - -_Earth_. And your inhabitants, are they mostly happy or unhappy? - -_Moon_. So unhappy that I would not exchange my lot with the happiest -of them. - -_Earth_. It is the same here. I wonder why we differ so much in other -things, yet agree in this. - -_Moon_. I am also like you in shape, I rotate like you, and am -illumined by the same sun. It is no more wonderful that we should -resemble each other in these things, than that we should possess -common failings; because evil is as common to all the planets of the -universe, or at least of the solar system, as rotundity, movement, and -light. And if you could speak loud enough for Uranus or Saturn, or -any other planet, to hear you, and were to ask them if they contained -unhappiness, and whether pleasure or pain predominated, each would -answer as I have done. I speak from experience, for I have already -questioned Venus and Mercury, to whom I am now and then nearer than -you. I have also asked certain comets which have passed by me; they all -replied to the same effect. I firmly believe even the sun and every -star would make the same response. - -_Earth_. Still I am very hopeful. In future I trust men will permit me -to experience much happiness. - -_Moon_. Hope as much as you please. I will answer for it you may hope -for ever. - -_Earth_. Ha! Did you hear that? These men and animals of mine are -making an uproar. It is night on the side from which I am speaking -to you, and at first they were all asleep. But, thanks to our -conversation, they are now wide awake, and very frightened. - -_Moon_. And here, on the other side, you see it is day. - -_Earth_. Yes. Now I do not wish to terrify my people, or interrupt -their sleep, which is the best thing they possess; so let us postpone -conversation until another opportunity. Adieu, and good-day to you. - -_Moon_. Adieu. Good-night. - - -[Footnote 1: See German newspapers of March 1824, for particulars of -the discoveries attributed to Gruithuisen.] - -[Footnote 2: See Macrobius, _Saturnal_: lib. 3. cap. 8; Tertullian, -_Apolog_., cap. 15. The moon was also honoured as the god moon. In the -German language moon is masculine.] - -[Footnote 3: See Menander, lib. 1. cap. 15, _in Rhetor_, graec. veter.] - -[Footnote 4: Athen: lib. 2. _ed. Casaub_. p. 57.] - -[Footnote 5: Antonio di Ulloa. See Carli, _Lettere Americane_, par. 4. -lett. 7. Milan, 1784.] - - - - -_THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS._ - - -In the year 833,265 of the reign of Jove, the College of the Muses -caused certain notices to be printed and affixed in the public places -of the city and suburbs of Hypernephelus. These notices contained an -invitation to all the gods, great and small, and the other inhabitants -of the city, who had recently or anciently originated some praiseworthy -invention, to make representation thereof, either actually, or by model -or description, to certain judges nominated by this College. And, -regretting that its well-known poverty prevented it from displaying the -liberality it would have liked to show, the College promised to reward -the one whose invention should be judged the finest or most useful, -with a crown of laurel. In addition to the prize itself, the College -would give the victor permission to wear the crown, day and night, in -public and private life, and both in the city and outside it; he might -also be painted, sculptured, or modelled in any manner or material -whatever, with the emblem of victory on his brow. - -Not a few of the gods contested the prize, simply to kill time, a -thing as necessary for the citizens of Hypernephelus, as for the -people of other towns. They had no wish for the crown, which was about -as valuable as a cotton night-cap; and as for the glory, if even men -despise it as soon as they become philosophers, it may be imagined in -what esteem the phantom was held by the gods, who are so much wiser -than the wisest of men, if indeed they are not the sole possessors of -wisdom, as Pythagoras and Plato affirm. - -The prize was awarded with an unanimity hitherto unheard of in cases of -reward bestowed on the most meritorious. Neither were there any unfair -influences exercised, such as favouritism, underhand promises, or -artifice. Three competitors were chosen: Bacchus, for the invention of -wine; Minerva, for that of oil, with which the gods were daily wont to -be anointed after the bath; and Vulcan, for having made a copper pot of -an economical design, by which cooking could be expeditiously conducted -with but little fire. It was necessary to divide the prize into three -parts, so there only remained a little sprig of laurel for each of the -victors. But they all three declined the prize, whether in part or the -whole. Vulcan said, that since he was obliged to stand the greater part -of his time at the forge fire, perspiring and considerably exerting -himself, the encumbrance on his brow would be a great annoyance to -him; added to which, the laurel would run risk of being scorched or -burnt, if some spark by chance were to fall on its dry leaves and set -it on fire. Minerva excused herself on the ground of having to wear a -helmet large enough, as Homer says, to cover the united armies of a -hundred cities; consequently any increase of this weight would be very -inconvenient, and out of the question. Bacchus did not wish to change -his mitre and chaplet of vine leaves for the laurel, which, however, -he would willingly have accepted, had he been allowed to put it up as -a sign outside his tavern; but the Muses declined to grant it for that -purpose. Finally, the wreath remained in the common treasury of the -College. - -None of the competitors for the prize envied the three successful -gods; nor did they express vexation at the award, nor dispute the -verdict--with one exception, Prometheus. This god brought to the -contest the clay model he had used in the formation of the first man. -Attached to the model was some writing which explained the qualities -and office of the human race, his invention. The chagrin displayed -by Prometheus in this matter caused no little astonishment; since -all the other gods, whether victors or vanquished, had regarded the -whole affair as a joke. But on further inquiry it transpired that what -he especially desired, was not the honour, but rather the privilege -accompanying success. Some thought he meant to use the laurel as a -protection for his head against storms; as it is said of Tiberius that -whenever he heard thunder, he donned his crown, esteeming the laurel -proof against thunderbolts. But this suggestion was negatived by the -fact that the city of Hypernephelus never experienced either thunder -or lightning. Others, more rationally, affirmed that Prometheus, owing -to age, had begun to lose his hair, and being greatly troubled at this -misadventure, as are many mortals in similar circumstances (and either -not having read Synesius' eulogy on baldness, or being unconvinced -by it), wished, like Julius Csar, to hide the nakedness of his head -beneath the leafy diadem. - -But to turn to facts. One day Prometheus, talking with Momus, bitterly -complained of the preference given to the wine, oil, and copper-pot, -in comparison with the human race, which he said was the finest -achievement of the immortals that the universe had ever seen. And not -being able sufficiently to convince Momus, who gave various reasons -against this assertion, they made a wager on the subject. Prometheus -proposed that they should descend together to the earth, and alighting -by chance in the first place they should discover inhabited by man in -each of the five parts of the world, they might find out whether or -not there were in all or most of these parts conclusive evidence that -man is the most perfect creature of the universe. Momus accepted the -wager; and having settled the amount, they began without delay to -descend towards the earth. First of all they directed themselves to the -New World, which, from its name, and the fact that as yet none of the -immortals had set foot in it, greatly excited their curiosity. - -They touched ground towards the north of Popuyan, not far from the -river Cauca, in a place which showed many signs of human habitation. -There were traces of cultivation, level roads broken and impassable -in places, trees cut and strewn about, appearances of what might -be graves, and here and there human bones were scattered. But the -celestials could neither hear the voice, nor see the shadow of a living -man, though they listened acutely, and looked all around them. They -proceeded, walking and flying, for the distance of many miles, passing -mountains and rivers, and finding everywhere the same traces of human -habitation, and the same solitude. - -"How is it these countries are now deserted," said Momus to Prometheus, -"though they were evidently once inhabited?" - -Prometheus mentioned the inundations of the sea, earthquakes, storms, -and heavy rains, which he knew were ordinary occurrences in the -tropics. Indeed, as if in confirmation of his words, they could -distinctly hear in the neighbouring forests the incessant patter of -rain-drops falling from the branches of trees agitated by the wind. - -But Momus was unable to understand how that locality could be affected -by inundations of the sea, which was so distant as not to be visible on -any side. Still less could he comprehend why the earthquakes, storms, -and rains should have destroyed the human beings of the country, -sparing however, the jaguars, apes, ants, eagles, parrots, and a -hundred other kinds of animals and birds which surrounded them. - -At length, descending into an immense valley, they discovered a little -cluster of houses, or wooden cabins, covered with palm leaves, and -environed on all sides by a fence like a stockade. Before one of these -cabins, many persons, some standing, some sitting, were gathered round -an earthen pot suspended over a large fire. - -The two celestials, having taken human form, drew near, and Prometheus, -courteously saluting them all, turned to the one who seemed to be their -chief, and asked him what they were doing. - -_Savage_. Eating, as you see. - -_Prom_. What savoury food have you got? - -_Savage_. Only a little bit of meat. - -_Prom_. Of a domestic, or wild animal? - -_Savage_. Domestic, in truth, since it is my own son. - -_Prom_. What! Had you then, like Pasipha, a calf for your son? - -_Savage_. Not a calf, but a child like every one else. - -_Prom_. Do you mean what you say? Is it your own flesh and blood that -you are eating? - -_Savage_. My own? No. But certainly that of my son. Why else did I -bring him into the world, and nourish him? - -_Prom_. What! To eat him? - -_Savage_. Why not? and I will also eat his mother when she can have no -more children. - -_Momus_. As one eats the hen after her eggs. - -_Savage_. And I will likewise eat my other women, when they can no -longer have children. And why also should I keep these slaves of mine -alive, if it were not that from time to time they give me children to -eat? But when they are old, I will eat them all one after the other, if -I live.[1] - -_Prom_. Tell me, do these slaves belong to your tribe or to another? - -_Savage_. Another. - -_Prom_. Far from here? - -_Savage_. A very long way. A river divides their huts from ours. And -pointing with his finger to a hillock, he added: They used to live -there, but our people have destroyed their dwellings. - -By this time it seemed to Prometheus that many of the savages were -standing looking at him with the sort of appreciative gaze that a cat -gives to a mouse. So, to avoid being eaten by his own manufactures, he -rose suddenly on the wing, and Momus followed his example. And such -was their fright that in setting out they unconsciously behaved as did -the Harpies towards the Trojans when at meat. But the cannibals, more -hungry, or less dainty, than the companions of neas, continued their -horrid repast. - -Prometheus, very dissatisfied with the New World, turned immediately -towards Asia, the older one. Having traversed almost in an instant the -space which lies between the East and West Indies, they both descended -near Agra, in a field where they saw a number of people. These were -all gathered round a funeral pyre of wood, by which men with torches -were standing, ready to set it on fire; and on a platform was a young -woman very sumptuously attired, and wearing a variety of barbaric -adornments, who, dancing and shouting, displayed signs of the liveliest -joy. Prometheus, seeing her, imagined that a second Lucretia or -Virginia, or some imitator of the children of Erectheus, of Iphigenia, -Codrus, Menecius, Curtius, or Decius, was about to sacrifice herself -voluntarily on behalf of her country, in obedience to the decree of -some oracle. Learning however that the woman was about to die because -her husband was dead, he supposed that, like Alcestis, she wished at -the cost of her own life to reanimate her husband. But, when they -informed him that she was only induced to burn herself because it was -customary for widows of her caste to do so, and that she had always -hated her husband, that she was drunk, and that the dead man, instead -of being resuscitated, was to be burnt in the same fire, he abruptly -turned his back on the spectacle, and set out for Europe. On their way -thither, Prometheus and his companion held the following conversation. - -_Momus_. Did you think, when at so great a hazard you stole fire from -heaven to give to men, that some of them would make use of it to cook -one another in pots, and others voluntarily to burn themselves? - -_Prom_. No, indeed! But consider, dear Momus, that the men we have -hitherto seen are barbarians; and one must not judge of human nature -from barbarians, but rather from civilised people, to whom we are now -going. I have a strong conviction that among these latter we shall see -things, and hear words, which will astonish as much as delight you. - -_Momus_. I for my part do not see, if men are the most perfect -race of the universe, why they need be civilised in order not to -burn themselves, or eat their own children. Other animals are all -uncivilised, and yet none of them deliberately burn themselves, -except the phoenix, which is fabulous; rarely they eat their own -kind; and much more rarely make food of their own offspring by any -chance whatever; neither do they specially give birth to them for -that purpose. I also understand that of the five divisions of the -world, only the smallest possesses even incompletely the civilisation -that you praise. To this may be added minute portions of other parts -of the world. And you yourself will not venture to assert that the -civilisation of the present day is such that the men of Paris or -Philadelphia have reached the highest possible state of perfection. -Yet, to enable them to attain to their present imperfect state of -civilisation, how much time has had to elapse? Even as many years as -the world can number from its origin to the existing age. Again, almost -all the inventions which have been of greatest use or importance in the -advancement of civilisation have originated rather fortuitously than -rationally. Hence, human civilisation is a work of chance rather than -nature, and where opportunity has been lacking, the people are still -barbarians, though on the same level of age as civilised people. - -Consequently I make the following deductions: that man in the savage -state is many degrees inferior to every other animal; that civilisation -as compared with barbarism is only possessed even in the present day -by a small portion of the human race; that these privileged people -have only reached their existing state of culture after the lapse of -many ages, and more by chance than anything else; and finally, that -the present state of civilisation is imperfect. Consider, therefore, -whether your opinion about the human race would not be better expressed -in saying, that it is chief among races, but supreme rather in -imperfection than perfection. It does not affect the case that men -themselves, in talking and reasoning, continually confuse perfection -and imperfection, arguing as they do from certain preconceived notions, -which they take for palpable truths. It is certain that the other -races of creatures were each from the very beginning in a state of -perfection. And, since it is clear that man in a savage state compares -unfavourably with other animals, I do not understand how beings, -naturally the most imperfect among the races, as it seems men are, come -to be esteemed superior to all others. - -Added to which, human civilisation, so difficult to acquire, and almost -impossible to perfect, is not so immutable that it cannot relapse. -In fact, we find it has done so several times, among people who once -possessed a high degree of culture. - -In conclusion, I think your brother Epimetheus would have gained the -prize before you, had he brought to the judges his model of the first -ass, or first frog. I will, however, quite agree with you as to the -perfection of man, if you on your part will admit that his excellence -is of the kind attributed to the world by Plotinus. This philosopher -says the world in itself is supremely perfect, but containing as it -does every conceivable evil, it is in reality as bad as can be. From -the same point of view, I might perhaps agree with Leibnitz, that the -present world is the best of all possible worlds. - -There can be no doubt that Prometheus had prepared a concise and -crushing reply to all this reasoning; but it is very certain he did not -give it expression, for just then they found themselves over the city -of London. The gods descended, and seeing a great many people rushing -to the door of a private house, they mixed with the crowd, and entered -the building. Within, they found a dead man, who had been shot in the -breast, laid out on a bed. He had a pistol clenched in his right hand, -and by his side lay two children, also dead. There were several people -of the house in the room, who were being questioned by magistrates, -while an official wrote down their replies. - -_Prom_. Who are these unfortunate beings? - -_Servant_. My master and his children. - -_Prom_. Who has killed them? - -_Servant_. My master himself. - -_Prom_. What! Do you mean to say he killed his children and himself? - -_Servant_. Yes. - -_Prom_. Alas! Why did he do that? Surely some great misfortune must -have befallen him. - -_Servant_. None that I know of. - -_Prom_. Perhaps he was poor, or despised by every one, unfortunate in -love, or in disgrace at court. - -_Servant_. On the contrary, he was very rich, and I believe universally -esteemed. He cared nothing about love, and was in high favour at court. - -_Prom_. Then why has he done this thing? - -_Servant_. He was weary of life,--so he says in the writing he has left. - -_Prom_. What are these judges doing? - -_Servant_. Taking evidence as to whether my master was out of his mind -or not. Unless he is proved to have been insane, his goods fall to the -crown by law; and really there is nothing to prevent their so doing. - -_Prom_. But had he no friend or relative to whom he could entrust his -children instead of killing them? - -_Servant_. Yes, he had; and especially one friend, to whom he has -commended his dog.[2] - -Momus was about to congratulate Prometheus on the good effects of -civilisation, and the happiness that seemed to be inseparable from -human life. He wished also to remind him that no animal except man -voluntarily killed itself, or was impelled by feelings of despair to -take the life of its own offspring. But Prometheus anticipated him, and -paid the bet at once, without visiting the two remaining parts of the -world. - - -[Footnote 1: See Robertson's _Hist. of America_, Book VI.] - -[Footnote 2: A fact.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN_ - - -_Natural Philosopher_. Eureka! Eureka! - -_Metaphysician_. What is it? What have you found? - -_Nat. Phil._ The art of long life.[1] - -_Met_. And the book that you carry? - -_Nat. Phil_. Explains my theory. This invention of mine will give me -eternal life. Others may live long, but I shall live for ever. I mean -that I shall acquire immortal fame. - -_Met_. Follow my advice. Get a leaden casket; enclose therein your -book; bury it; and leave in your will directions where it may be found, -with instructions to your heirs not to exhume the book until they shall -have discovered the art of living a happy life. - -_Nat. Phil_. And meanwhile? - -_Met_. Meanwhile your invention will be good for nothing. It were far -better if it taught the art of living briefly. - -_Nat. Phil_. That has already been known a long time. The discovery -was not a difficult one. _Met_. At any rate I prefer it to yours. _Nat -Phil_. Why? - -_Met_. Because if life be not happy, as hitherto it has not been, it -were better to endure a short term of it than a long one. - -_Nat. Phil_. No, no. I differ from you. Life is a good in itself, and -is naturally desired and loved by every one. - -_Met_. So men think. But they are deceived. Similarly people deceive -themselves in thinking that colours are attributes of the objects -coloured; whereas really they are not qualities of objects, but -of light. I assert that man loves and desires nothing but his own -happiness. He therefore loves his life only inasmuch as he esteems it -the instrument or subject of his happiness. Hence it is happiness that -he always loves, and not life; although he very often attributes to the -one the affection he has for the other. It is true that this illusion -and that relating to colours are both natural. But as a proof that the -love of life in men is unnatural, or rather unnecessary, think of the -many people that in olden times preferred to die rather than live. -In our own time too many people often wish for death, and some kill -themselves. Now such things could not occur if man naturally loved life -itself. The love of happiness, on the contrary, is innate in every -living being; indeed the world would perish before they ceased loving -and seeking it in every possible form. And as for your assertion that -life in itself is a good thing, I challenge you to prove your words by -any arguments you please, whether of physics or metaphysics. Personally -I am of opinion that a happy life is undoubtedly a good thing. But this -is because of the happiness, not the life. An unhappy life is therefore -an evil. And since it is ordained that human life should be inseparable -from unhappiness, I leave you to draw your own conclusions. - -_Nat. Phil_. Let us drop the subject, if you please; it is too -melancholy. Answer me one question candidly, and without such -subtleties. If man had the power to live for ever, I mean in this -life and not after death, do you think he would be happy? - -_Met_. Allow me to answer you by a fable. Moreover, as I have never -tasted immortality, I cannot reply to you from experience. Besides, I -have never by any chance met an immortal, the very existence of whom -is a mere matter of legend. If Cagliostro were alive, he could perhaps -enlighten you, since he was said to have lived for several centuries. -But he is now dead, like his contemporaries. - -To return to the fable. The wise Chiro, who was a god, in time became -so wearied of his life, that he asked permission from Jove to die. -This was granted to him; so he died.[2] If immortality wrought such -an effect on the gods, how would it be with men? The Hyperboreans, an -unknown but famous people, whose country is inaccessible by sea or -land, were, it is said, rich in all manner of things, and possessed -a race of asses of peculiar beauty, which they used to offer as -sacrifices. They had the power, unless I am mistaken, of living for -ever, and knew nothing of fatigues, cares, wars, discords, or crimes. -Yet we learn that after several thousand years of life, they all killed -themselves by jumping from a certain rock into the sea, where they were -drowned.[3] Here is another legend. The brothers Biton and Cleobus, -at a festival, when the mules were not ready, attached themselves to -the chariot of their mother, who was a priestess of Juno, and drew her -to the temple. Touched by their devotion, the priestess asked Juno to -reward her sons for their piety by the greatest gift possible for men -to receive. The goddess caused them both to die peacefully within an -hour, instead of giving them immortality, as they had expected. - -The same happened to Agamede and Trophonius. When these two men had -finished the temple of Delphi, they begged Apollo to reward them. The -god asked them to wait seven days, at the end of which time he would -do so. On the seventh night he sent them a sweet sleep from which they -have never awakened. They are so satisfied with their recompense that -they have asked nothing more. - -On the subject of legends, here is one which introduces a question I -would have you answer. I know that by you and your colleagues human -life is generally considered to be, as a rule, of an uniformly average -duration: this in all countries and under all climates. But Pliny -relates that the men of some parts of India and Ethiopia do not exceed -the age of forty years. They who die at this age are considered very -old. Their children marry at seven years of age: and this statement -is verified by the custom in Guinea, the Deccan, and elsewhere in the -torrid zone. Now, regarding it as true that these people do not live -more than forty years (and this as a natural limit, and not due to -artificial circumstances), I ask you whether you imagine their lot -ought to be considered more or less happy than that of others? - -_Nat. Phil_. Undoubtedly, more miserable, since they die so soon. - -_Met_. I am of the contrary opinion for the very same reason. But that -does not matter. Give me your attention for a moment. I deny that -life itself, _i.e._, the mere sensation of existence, has anything -pleasurable or desirable in its nature. But we all wish for the other -thing, also called life; I mean strength, and numerous sensations. -Thus, all activity, and every strong and lively passion, provided it -be neither disagreeable nor painful, pleases us simply because it is -strong and lively, although it possess no other pleasurable attributes. - -Now these men, whose life normally lasts only forty years, that is, -half the time granted by nature to other men, would experience every -moment an intensity of life, twice as strong as ours, because their -growth, maturity, and decline are accomplished twice as rapidly as with -us. Their energy of life therefore ought to be twice as intense as ours -at every moment of their existence. And to this greater intensity there -must correspond a more lively activity of the will, more vivacity and -animation. Thus they experience in less time the same quantity of life -as we have. And the fewer years that these favoured people spend on -the earth are so well filled that there is no sensible vacuum; whereas -this same quantity of life is insufficient to vivify a term twice as -long. Their actions and sensations, diffused over so limited a space, -can duly occupy all their existence; but our longer life is constantly -divided by protracted intervals devoid of all activity and lively -passion. And since existence itself is in no sense desirable, but -only in so far as it is happy; and since good or evil fortune is not -measurable by the number of our days; I conclude that the life of these -people, though shorter than ours, is much the richer in pleasures, or -what are so called. Their life must then be preferable to ours, or -even to that of the earliest kings of Assyria, Egypt, China, India, -and other countries, who are said to have lived thousands of years. So -that, far from being desirous of immortality, I am content to leave it -to fishes, which are by Leeuwenhoek believed to be immortal, provided -they are neither eaten by us nor their fellows. Instead of delaying the -development of the body, in order to lengthen life, as Maupertuis[4] -proposed, I would rather accelerate it until the duration of our life -was as short as that of the insects called ephemerals; which insects, -although the most aged does not live beyond a single day, nevertheless -preside over three generations before they die. If it were so, then -there would at least be no time for ennui. - -What do you think of my reasoning? - -_Nat. Phil_. It does not persuade me. I know that you love metaphysics, -whereas I for my part hold to physics. To your subtleties, I oppose -simple common sense, which is sufficient for me. Thus, I venture to -assert, without appealing to the microscope, that life is better than -death. Judging between the two, I would give the apple to the former, -without troubling them to strip for the contest. - -_Met_. And I would do the same. But when I call to mind the custom of -those barbarians, who, for every unhappy day of their lives, used to -throw a black stone into a quiver, and for every happy day a white one, -I cannot help thinking how few white stones compared to the black ones -would be found therein on the death of the proprietor of the quiver. -Personally, I should like to have now all the stones representing the -days of life yet remaining to me, and permission to separate them, -throwing away all-the black ones and retaining only those that were -white; even though the number of the latter was exceedingly small, and -their colour a doubtful white. - -_Nat. Phil_. Many people, on the contrary, would be glad to increase -the number of their black stones, even though they were blacker than -they naturally would be; because they always, in their minds, dread the -last as the blackest of all. And such people, of whom I am one, will -really be able to add many stones to their normal quantity, if they -follow out the instructions contained in my book. - -_Met_. Every one thinks and works in his own way. Death also will not -fail to do the same. But if you wish, in prolonging man's life; really -to be of service to him, discover an art to increase the number and -strength of sensations, and their effects. This would be a genuine -augmentation of human life, for it would fill up those long intervals -of time, during which we vegetate rather than live. You could then -boast of having truly prolonged human life; and without having sought -after the impossible, or used violence to natural laws; rather, by -having strengthened them. For does it not seem as though the ancients -were more full of life than we are, in spite of the many and great -dangers by which they were surrounded, and which generally shortened -their existence? - -You will thus render a real service to man, whose life is, I will not -say more happy, but certainly less unhappy, when it is better occupied -and more violently agitated, without pain or discomfort. When, on the -other hand, existence is so full of idleness and ennui as to be justly -termed empty, the saying of Pyrrhus, "there is no difference between -life and death," is literally realised. Were this saying true, I should -be in no slight terror of death. - -But finally, unless life be active and vigorous, it is not true life, -and death is far preferable to it. - - -[Footnote 1: See _Instruction in the Art of Long Life_, by Hufeland.] - -[Footnote 2: See Lucian, Dial. Menip. and Chiro.] - -[Footnote 3: See Pindar, Strabo, and Pliny.] - -[Footnote 4: See _Lettres Philosophiques_: let. 11.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT_[1] - - -_Spirit_. Ah, Torquato. How are you? - -_Tasso_. As well as it is possible to be, when in prison, and up to the -neck in misfortunes. - -_Spirit_. Courage! After supper is not the time to be sorrowful. Cheer -up, and let us laugh at your griefs. - -_Tasso_. I am little inclined for that. But somehow your presence and -conversation always do me good. Come and sit down by me. - -_Spirit_. How can I sit? Such a thing is not easy for a spirit. But -what does it matter? Consider that I am seated. - -_Tasso_. Oh, that I could see my Leonora again! Whenever I think of -her, I feel a thrill of joy that reaches from the crown of my head to -the extremity of my feet, and all my nerves and veins are pervaded with -it. My mind, too, becomes inflamed with certain imaginings and longings -that seem for the time to transform me. I cannot think that I am the -Torquato who has experienced so much misfortune, and I often mourn -for myself as though I were dead. Truly, it would seem that worldly -friction and suffering are wont to overwhelm and lethargise our first -nature within each of us. This from time to time awakens for a brief -space, but less frequently as we grow older, when it always withdraws, -and falls into an increasingly sound sleep. Finally, it dies, although -our life still continues. In short, I marvel how the thought of a woman -should have sufficient power to rejuvenate the mind, and make it forget -so many troubles. Had I not lost all hope of seeing Leonora again, I -could almost believe I might still succeed in being happy. - -_Spirit_. Which do you consider the more delightful, to see the dear -woman, or to think of her? - -_Tasso_. I do not know. It is true when near me she seemed only a -woman; at a distance, however, she was like a goddess. - -_Spirit_. These goddesses are so amiable that when one approaches you, -she instantaneously puts off her divinity, and pockets her halo of -greatness for fear of dazzling the mortal to whom she appears. - -_Tasso_. There is only too much truth in what you say. But do you not -think it is a great failing in women that they prove really to be so -very different from what we imagine? - -_Spirit_. I scarcely think it is their fault that they are, like us, -made of flesh and blood, instead of ambrosia and nectar. What in the -world has a thousandth part of the perfection with which your fancy -endows women? It surprises me that you are not astonished to find that -men are men, that is, creatures of little merit and amiability, since -you cannot understand why women are not really angels. - -_Tasso_. In spite of all this, I am dying to see her again. - -_Spirit_. Compose yourself. This very night you shall dream of her. I -will lead her to you, beautiful as youth, and so kindly disposed that -you will be encouraged to speak to her much more freely and readily -than in former times. You will be induced at length to take her by the -hand, and she, looking intently at you, will surfeit your soul with -sweetness. And to-morrow, whenever you think of the dream, your heart -will overflow with affection. - -_Tasso_. What a consolation! A dream instead of the truth. - -_Spirit_. What is truth? - -_Tasso_. I am as ignorant on the subject as Pilate was. - -_Spirit_. Well, I will tell you. Between truth or reality, and a dream -there is this difference--the latter is much the finer thing of the two. - -_Tasso_. What! The pleasure of a dream worth more than a real pleasure? - -_Spirit_. It is. As an instance, I know a man who studiously avoids -meeting his sweetheart the following day after she has appeared to -him in a dream. He knows full well that he would not find in her all -the charms with which she was endowed in the dream, and that reality, -dispelling the illusion, would deprive him of the pleasure he felt. -The ancients too, who were much more diligent and skilful in their -search after all the enjoyments possible for man to have, did wisely -in endeavouring by various means to realise the sweetness and pleasure -of dreams. Pythagoras also was right when he forbad the eating of -beans for supper; these vegetables producing a dreamless or troubled -sleep.[2] I could also find excuse for those superstitious people who -were wont, before going to bed, to invoke the aid of Mercury, the -president of dreams. They offered sacrifice to him that he might grant -them happy dreams, and used to keep an image of the god at the foot -of their bed. Thus it was that being unable to procure any happiness -during the day, people sought it in the night-time. I am of opinion -that they were in a measure successful, and that Mercury paid more -attention to their prayers than was the custom of the other gods. - -_Tasso_. But, since men live for nothing but pleasure, whether of mind -or body, if this pleasure can only be found when we dream, it follows -that we live for no other purpose but to dream. Now I really cannot -admit that. - -_Spirit_. You already admit it, inasmuch as you live, and are willing -to live. But what is pleasure? - -_Tasso_. My acquaintance with it is too slight to enable me to answer -you. - -_Spirit_. No one has any real acquaintance with it, because pleasure -is not a reality, but a conception. It is a desire, not a fact. A -sentiment, imagined not experienced; or, better, it is a conception, -and not a sentiment at all. Do you not perceive that even in the very -moment of enjoyment, however ardently it may have been longed for or -painfully acquired, your mind, not deriving complete satisfaction from -the happiness, anticipates at some future time a greater and more -complete enjoyment? It is expectation that constitutes pleasure. Thus, -you never weary of placing reliance on some pleasure of the future, -which melts away just when you expect to enjoy it. The truth is, you -possess nothing but the hope of a more complete enjoyment at some -other time; and the satisfaction of imagining that you have had some -enjoyment, and of talking about it to others, less because you are -vain than to persuade yourself that the illusion is a reality. Hence, -everyone that consents to live makes this fugitive dream his aim in -life. He believes in the reality of past and future enjoyment, both of -which beliefs are false and fanciful. - -_Tasso_. Then is it impossible for a man to believe that he is actually -happy? - -_Spirit_. If such a belief were possible, his happiness would be -genuine. But tell me: do you ever remember having been able at any -moment in your life to say sincerely, "I am happy"? Doubtless you have -daily been able to say, and have said in all sincerity, "I shall be -happy;" and often too, though less sincerely, "I have been happy." -Thus, pleasure is always either a thing of the past, or the future, -never the present. - -_Tasso_. You may as well say it is non-existent. - -_Spirit_. So it seems. - -_Tasso_. Even in dreams? - -_Spirit_. Even in dreams, considering pleasure in its true sense. - -_Tasso_. And yet pleasure is the sole object and aim of life! By the -term pleasure I mean the happiness which ought to be a consequence of -pleasure. - -_Spirit_. Assuredly. - -_Tasso_. Then our life, being deprived of its real aim, must always be -imperfect, and existence itself unnatural. - -_Spirit_. Perhaps. - -_Tasso_. There is no perhaps in the matter. But why is it that we live? -I mean, why do we consent to live? - -_Spirit_. How should I know? You yourselves ought to know better than I. - -_Tasso_. I assure you I do not know. - -_Spirit_. Ask some one wiser than yourself. Perhaps he may be able to -satisfy you. - -_Tasso_. I will do so. But certainly, the life that I lead is an -unnatural state, because apart from my sufferings, ennui alone murders -me. - -_Spirit_. What is ennui? - -_Tasso_. As to this, I can answer from experience. Ennui seems to me of -the nature of atmosphere, which fills up the spaces between material -bodies, and also the voids in the bodies themselves. Whenever a body -disappears, and is not replaced by another, air fills up the gap -immediately. So too, in human life, the intervals between pleasures -and pains are occupied by ennui. And since in the material world, -according to the Peripatetics, there can be no vacuum, so also in our -life there is none, save when for some cause or other the mind loses -its power of thought. At all other times the mind, considered as a -separate identity from the body, is occupied with some sentiment. If -void of pleasure or pain, it is full of ennui; for this last is also a -sentiment like pleasure and pain. - -_Spirit_. And, since all your pleasures are like cobwebs, exceedingly -fragile, thin and transparent, ennui penetrates their tissue, and -saturates them, just as air penetrates the webs. I believe ennui is -really nothing but the desire of happiness, without the illusion of -pleasure and the suffering of pain. This desire, we have said, is never -completely satisfied, since true pleasure does not exist. So that human -life may be said to be interwoven with pain and ennui, and one of these -sentiments disappears only to give place to the other. This is the fate -of all men, and not of yourself alone. - -_Tasso_. What remedy is there for ennui? - -_Spirit_. Sleep, opium, and pain. The last is the best of the three, -because he who suffers never experiences ennui. - -_Tasso_. I would rather submit to ennui for the rest of my life, than -take such medicine. But its force and strength may be diminished by -action, work, and even other sentiments; though these do not entirely -free us from ennui, since they are unable to give us real pleasure. -Here in prison however, deprived of human society, without even the -means of writing, reduced for an amusement to counting the ticks of the -clock, looking at the beams, cracks, and nails of the ceiling, thinking -about the pavement stones, and watching the gnats and flies which flit -across my cell, I have nothing to relieve for a moment my burden of -ennui. - -_Spirit_. How long have you been reduced to this kind of life? - -_Tasso_. For many weeks, as you know. - -_Spirit_. Have you felt no variation in the ennui which oppresses you, -from the first day until now? - -_Tasso_. Yes. I felt it more at first. Gradually my mind is becoming -accustomed to its own society; I derive more and more pleasure from -my solitude, and by practice I am acquiring so great a readiness in -conversation, or rather chattering to myself, that I seem to have in my -head a company of talkative people, and the most trifling object is now -sufficient to give rise to endless discourse. - -_Spirit_. This habit will grow on you daily to such an extent, that -when you are free, you will feel more idle in society than in solitude. -Custom has made you bear patiently your kind of life, and the same -influence works not only in people who meditate like you, but in -everyone. Besides, the very fact that you are separated from men, and -even, it may be said, from life itself, will be of some advantage to -you. Disgusted and wearied with human affairs, as you are from your sad -experience, you will in time begin to look on them, from a distance, -with an appreciative eye. In your solitude they will appear to you more -beautiful, and worthy of affection. You will forget their vanity and -misery, and will take upon yourself to re-create the world as you would -have it. Consequently, you will value, desire, and love life. And, -provided there be the possibility or certainty of your return to human -society some day, your new aspect of life will fill and gladden your -mind with a joy like that of childhood. - -Solitude does indeed sometimes act like a second youth. It rejuvenates -the soul, revives the imagination, and renews in an experienced man -those impressions of early innocence that you so ardently desire. -But your eyes seem heavy with sleep: I will now therefore leave you -to prepare the fine dream I promised you. Thus between dreams and -fancies, your life shall pass without other gain than the fact of its -passing, which is the sole benefit of life. To hasten it should be the -one aim of your existence. You are often obliged to cling to life, as -it were with your teeth; happy will be the day when death releases -you from the struggle. But after all, time passes as tediously with -your persecutor in his palace and gardens, as with you in your prison -chamber. Adieu. - -_Tasso_. Adieu, yet stay a moment. Your conversation always enlivens -me. It does not draw me from my sadness, but my mind, which is -generally comparable to a dark night, moonless and starless, changes -when you are near to a condition like that of a grey dawn, pleasurable -rather than otherwise. Now tell me how I can find you in case I want -you at some future time. - -_Spirit_. Do you not yet know?--In any generous liquor. - - - -[Footnote 1: Tasso, during his mental hallucinations, used to fancy, -like Socrates, that he was visited by a friendly spirit, with which he -would hold long conversations. Manso, in his life of Tasso, mentions -this, and states that he was once present during such a colloquy or -soliloquy between Tasso and his imagined companion.] - -[Footnote 2: Apollonius, _Hist. Comment_., cap. 46, &c.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER._ - - -An Icelander who had travelled over most of the earth, and had lived -in very many different lands, found himself one day in the heart of -Africa. As he crossed the equator in a place never before penetrated -by man, he had an adventure like that which happened to Vasco di Gama, -who, when passing the Cape of Good Hope, was opposed by two giants, the -guardians of the southern seas, that tried to prevent his entrance into -the new waters.[1] The Icelander saw in the distance a huge bust, in -appearance like the colossal Hermes he had formerly seen in the Isle -of Pasqua. At first he thought it was made of stone, but as he drew -near to it he saw that the head belonged to an enormous woman, who was -seated on the ground, resting her back against a mountain. The figure -was alive, and had a countenance both magnificent and terrible, and -eyes and hair of a jet black colour. She looked fixedly at him for a -long time in silence. At length she said: - -_Nature_. Who art thou? What doest thou here, where thy race is unknown? - -_Icelander_. I am a poor Icelander, fleeing from Nature. I have fled -from her ever since I was a child, through a hundred different parts of -the world, and I am fleeing from her now. - -_Nature_. So flees the squirrel from the rattlesnake, and runs in its -haste deliberately into the mouth of its tormentor. I am that from -which thou fleest. - -_Icelander_. Nature? - -_Nature_. Even so. - -_Icelander_. I am smitten with anguish, for I consider no worse -misfortune could befall me. - -_Nature_. Thou mightest well have imagined that I was to be found in -countries where my power is supremest. But why dost thou shun me? - -_Icelander_. You must know that from my earliest youth, experience -convinced me of the vanity of life, and the folly of men. I saw these -latter ceaselessly struggling for pleasures that please not, and -possessions that do not satisfy. I saw them inflict on themselves, and -voluntarily suffer, infinite pains, which, unlike the pleasures, were -only too genuine. In short, the more ardently they sought happiness, -the further they seemed removed from it. These things made me determine -to abandon every design, to live a life of peace and obscurity, harming -no one, striving in nought to better my condition, and contesting -nothing with anyone. I despaired of happiness, which I regarded as a -thing withheld from our race, and my only aim was to shield myself -from suffering. Not that I had the least intention of abstaining from -work, or bodily labour; for there is as great a difference between mere -fatigue and pain,[2] as between a peaceful and an idle life. - -But when I began to carry out my project, I learnt from experience how -fallacious it is to think that one can live inoffensively amongst men -without offending them. Though I always gave them precedence, and took -the smallest part of everything, I found neither rest nor happiness -among them. However, this I soon remedied. By avoiding men I freed -myself from their persecutions. I took refuge in solitude--easily -obtainable in my native island. Having done this, I lived without a -shadow of enjoyment; yet I found I had not escaped all suffering. -The intense cold of the long winter, and the extreme heat of summer, -characteristic of the country, allowed me no cessation from pain. And -when, to warm myself, I passed much time by the fire, I was scorched by -the flames, and blinded by the smoke. I suffered continuously, whether -in the open air, or in the shelter of my cabin. In short, I failed to -obtain that life of peace which was my one desire. Terrible storms, -Hecla's menaces and rumblings, and the constant fires which occur among -the wooden houses of my country, combined to keep me in a state of -perpetual disquietude. Such annoyances as these, trivial though they be -when the mind is distracted by the thoughts and actions of social and -civil life, are intensified by solitude. I endured them all, together -with the hopeless monotony of my existence, solely in order to obtain -the tranquillity I desired. I perceived that the more I isolated myself -from men, and confined me to my own little sphere, the less I succeeded -in protecting myself from the discomforts and sufferings of the outer -world. - -Then I determined to try other climates and countries, to see if -anywhere I could live in peace, harming no one, and exist without -suffering, if also without pleasure. I was urged to this by the thought -that perhaps you had destined for the human race a certain part of the -earth (as you have for many animals and plants), where alone they could -live in comfort. In which case it was our own fault if we suffered -inconvenience from having exceeded our natural boundaries. I have -therefore been over the whole earth, testing every country, and always -fulfilling my intention of troubling others in the least possible -degree, and seeking nothing for myself but a life of tranquillity. -But in vain. The tropical sun burnt me; the Arctic cold froze me; in -temperate regions the changeability of the weather troubled me; and -everywhere I have experienced the fury of the elements. I have been in -places where not a day passes without a storm, and where you, O Nature, -are incessantly at war with simple people who have never done you any -harm. In other places cloudless skies are compensated for by frequent -earthquakes, active volcanoes, and subterranean commotions. Elsewhere -hurricanes and whirlwinds take the place of other scourges. Sometimes -I have heard the roof over my head groan with the burden of snow that -it supported; at other times the earth, saturated with rain, has broken -away beneath my feet. Rivers have burst their banks, and pursued me, -fleeing at full speed, as though I were an enemy. Wild beasts tried -to devour me, without the least provocation on my part. Serpents have -sought to poison or crush me; and I have been nearly killed by insects. -I make no mention of the daily hazards by which man is surrounded. -These last are so numerous that an ancient philosopher[3] laid down a -rule, that to resist the constant influence of fear, it were well to -fear everything. - -Again, sickness has not failed to torment me, though invariably -temperate, and even abstemious, in all bodily pleasures. In truth, our -natural constitution is an admirably arranged affair! You inspire us -with a strong and incessant yearning for pleasure, deprived of which -our life is imperfect; and on the other hand you ordain that nothing -should be more opposed to physical health and strength, more calamitous -in its effects, and more incompatible with the duration of life itself, -than this same pleasure. But although I indulged in no pleasures, -numerous diseases attacked me, some of which endangered my life, and -others the use of my limbs, thus threatening me with even an access of -misery. All, during many days or months, caused me to experience a -thousand bodily and mental pangs. And, whereas in sickness we endure -new and extraordinary sufferings, as though our ordinary life were -not sufficiently unhappy; you do not compensate for this by giving us -equally exceptional periods of health and strength, and consequent -enjoyment. In regions where the snow never melts, I lost my sight; this -is an ordinary occurrence among the Laplanders in their cold country. -The sun and air, things necessary for life, and therefore unavoidable, -trouble us continually; the latter by its dampness or severity, the -former by its heat, and even its light; and to neither of them can -man remain exposed without suffering more or less inconvenience or -harm. In short, I cannot recollect a single day during which I have -not suffered in some way; whereas, on the other hand, the days that -have gone by without a shadow of enjoyment are countless. I conclude -therefore that we are destined to suffer much in proportion as we enjoy -little, and that it is as impossible to live peacefully as happily. I -also naturally come to the conclusion that you are the avowed enemy of -men, and all other creatures of your creation. Sometimes alluring, at -other times menacing; now attacking, now striking, now pursuing, now -destroying; you are always engaged in tormenting us. Either by habit or -necessity you are the enemy of your own family, and the executioner of -your own flesh and blood. As for me, I have lost all hope. Experience -has proved to me that though it be possible to escape from men and -their persecutions, it is impossible to evade you, who will never -cease tormenting us until you have trodden us under foot. Old age, -with all its bitterness, and sorrows, and accumulation of troubles, is -already near to me. This worst of evils you have destined for us and -all created beings, from the time of infancy. From the fifth lustre of -life, decline makes itself manifest; its progress we are powerless to -stay. Scarce a third of life is spent in the bloom of youth; but few -moments are claimed by maturity; all the rest is one gradual decay, -with its attendant evils. - -_Nature_. Thinkest thou then that the world was made for thee? It is -time thou knewest that in my designs, operations, and decrees, I never -gave a thought to the happiness or unhappiness of man. If I cause you -to suffer, I am unaware of the fact; nor do I perceive that I can in -any way give you pleasure. What I do is in no sense done for your -enjoyment or benefit, as you seem to think. Finally, if I by chance -exterminated your species, I should not know it. - -_Icelander_. Suppose a stranger invited me to his house in a most -pressing manner, and I, to oblige him, accepted his invitation. On my -arrival he took me to a damp and unhealthy place, and lodged me in a -chamber open to the air, and so ruinous that it threatened momentarily -to collapse and crush me. Far from endeavouring to amuse me, and make -me comfortable, he neglected to provide me with even the necessaries -of life. And more than this. Suppose my host caused me to be insulted, -ridiculed, threatened, and beaten by his sons and household. And on my -complaining to him of such ill-treatment, he replied: "Dost thou think -I made this house for thee? Do I keep these my children and servants -for thy service? I assure thee I have other things to occupy me, than -that I should amuse thee, or give thee welcome." To which I answered: -"Well, my friend, though you may not have built your house especially -for me, at least you might have forborne to ask me hither. And, since I -owe it to you that I am here, ought I not to rely on you to assure me, -if possible, a life free from trouble and danger?" - -Thus I reply to you. I am well aware you did not make the world for the -service of men. It were easier to believe that you made it expressly -as a place of torment for them. But tell me: why am I here at all? Did -I ask to come into the world? Or am I here unnaturally, contrary to -your will? If however, you yourself have placed me here, without giving -me the power of acceptance or refusal of this gift of life, ought you -not as far as possible to try and make me happy, or at least preserve -me from the evils and dangers, which render my sojourn a painful one? -And what I say of myself, I say of the whole human race, and of every -living creature. - -_Nature_. Thou forgettest that the life of the world is a perpetual -cycle of production and destruction, so combined that the one works -for the good of the other. By their joint operation the universe is -preserved. If either ceased, the world would dissolve. Therefore, if -suffering were removed from the earth, its own existence would be -endangered. - -_Icelander_. So say all the philosophers. But since that which is -destroyed suffers, and that which is born from its destruction also -suffers in due course, and finally is in its turn destroyed, would you -enlighten me on one point, about which hitherto no philosopher has -satisfied me? For whose pleasure and service is this wretched life of -the world maintained, by the suffering and death of all the beings -which compose it? - -Whilst they discussed these and similar questions, two lions are said -to have suddenly appeared. The beasts were so enfeebled and emaciated -with hunger that they were scarcely able to devour the Icelander. They -accomplished the feat however, and thus gained sufficient strength to -live to the end of the day. - -But certain people dispute this fact. They affirm that a violent wind -having arisen, the unfortunate Icelander was blown to the ground, -and soon overwhelmed beneath a magnificent mausoleum of sand. Here -his corpse was remarkably preserved, and in process of time he was -transformed into a fine mummy. Subsequently, some travellers discovered -the body, and carried it off as a specimen, ultimately depositing it in -one of the museums of Europe. - - -[Footnote 1: Camoens' _Lusiad_, canto 5.] - -[Footnote 2: Cicero says: "Labour and pain are not identical. Labour is -a toil-some function of body or mind--pain an unpleasant disturbance in -the body. When they cut Marius' veins, it was pain; when he marched at -the head of the troops in a great heat, it was labour."--_Tusc. Qust._] - -[Footnote 3: Seneca, _Natural. Question_: lib. 6, cap. 2.] - - - - -_PARINI ON GLORY._ - - - -GIUSEPPE PARINI[1] was in our opinion one of the very few Italians who -to literary excellence joined depth of thought, and acquaintance with -contemporary philosophy. These latter attributes are now so essential -to the cultivation of the _belles lettres_, that their absence would -be inconceivable, did we not find an infinite number of Italian -_littrateurs_ of the present day, in whom they are wanting. - -He was remarkable for his simplicity, his compassion for the -unfortunate and his own country, his fidelity, high-mindedness, and the -courage with which he bore the adversities of nature and fortune, which -tormented him during the whole course of his miserable and lowly life. -Death however drew him from obscurity. - -He had several disciples, whom he taught, first of all, to gain -experience of men and things, and then to amuse themselves with -eloquence and poetry. Among his followers was a youth, lately come to -him, of wonderful genius and industry, and of very great promise. To -him one day Parini spoke as follows: - -"You seek, my son, the only avenue to glory which is open to people who -lead a private life, such glory as is sometimes the reward of wisdom, -and literary and other studies. Now you are not unaware that this -glory, though far from being despised, was by our greatest ancestors -held in less esteem than that derivable from other things. Cicero, -for instance, though a most ardent and successful follower of glory, -frequently and emphatically makes apology for the time and labour he -had spent in its pursuit. On one occasion he states that his literary -and philosophical studies were secondary to his public life; on -another, that being constrained by the wickedness of the age to abandon -more important business, he hoped to spend his leisure profitably amid -these studies. He invariably rated the glory of his writings at a lower -value than that acquired from his consulship and his labours on behalf -of the republic. - -"Indeed, if human life be the principal subject of literature, and to -rule our actions the first lesson of philosophy; there can be no doubt -that action itself is as much more important and noble than thoughts -and writing, as the end is nobler than the means, or as things and -subjects in comparison with words and reasoning. For no man, however -clever he be, is naturally created for study, nor born to write. Action -alone is natural to him. And we see the majority of fine writers, and -especially illustrious poets in the present age (Vittorio Alfieri, -for instance), impelled to action in an extraordinary degree. Then, -if by chance the deeds of these men prove unacceptable, either from -the nature of the times or their own ill-fortune, they take up the -pen and write grand things. Nor can people write who have neither the -disposition nor power to act. From this you will easily understand why -so few Italians gain immortal fame by their writings; it is that they -are by nature unfit for noble actions. Antiquity, especially that of -the early Greeks or Romans, is, I think, comparable to the design of -the statue of Telesilla, who was a poetess, a warrior, and the saviour -of her country. She is represented holding her helmet, at which she -looks intently and longingly, as though she desired to place it on her -head; at her feet lie some books almost disregarded, as forming but an -insignificant part of her glory.[2] - -"But men of modern times are differently situated to the ancients. -Glory is less open to them. They who make studies their vocation in -life show the greatest possible magnanimity; nor need they, like -Cicero, apologise to their country for the profession they have chosen. -I therefore applaud the nobility of your decision. But since a life of -letters, being unnatural, cannot be lived without injury to the body, -nor without increasing in many ways the natural infelicity of your -mind, I regard it as my duty to explain to you the various difficulties -attendant on the pursuit of that glory towards which you aspire, and -the results that will follow success should you attain it. You will -then be able to estimate, on the one hand, the importance and value -of the goal, and your chance of reaching it; and, on the other, the -sufferings, exertions, and discomforts inseparable from the pursuit. -Thus, you may be better able to decide whether it be expedient to -continue as you have begun, or to seek glory by some other road." - - -[Footnote 1: Parini lived 1729-1799. As a philosopher and satirist he -seems to have exercised no slight influence over the mind of Leopardi.] - -[Footnote 2: Pausanias, lib. 2, cap. 20.] - - - -CHAPTER II. - -"I might first of all say a great deal about the rivalries, envy, -bitter censures, libels, injustices, schemes and plots against your -character, both in public and private, and the many other difficulties -which the wickedness of men will induce them to oppose to you in the -path you have chosen. These obstacles, always very hard to overcome -and often insuperable, exercise a further influence. It is owing to -them that more than one author, not only in life, but even when dead, -is robbed of the honour that is due to him. Such an one, not having -been famous when alive, because of the hatred or envy with which he -was regarded by others, when dead remains in obscurity, because he is -forgotten; for it rarely happens that a man obtains glory after he has -ceased writing, when there is no one to excite an interest in him. - -"I do not intend to refer to the hindrances which arise from matters -personal to the writer, and other more trivial things. Yet it is often -owing to these latter that writings worthy of the highest praise, and -the fruit of infinite exertions, are for ever excluded from fame, or -having been before the world for a short time, fall into oblivion, and -disappear entirely from the memory of men. For the same causes other -writings, either inferior to or no better than these, become highly -honoured. I will merely expose to you the difficulties and troubles -which, apart from the malice of men, will stubbornly contest the -prize of glory. These embarrassments are of ordinary, not exceptional -occurrence, and have been experienced by most great writers. - -"You are aware that no one can be called a great writer, nor obtains -true and lasting glory, except by means of excellent and perfect works, -or such as approach perfection. The following very true utterance of -Castiglione is worthy of being engraved on your mind:--It is very -seldom that a person unaccustomed to write, however learned he be, can -adequately recognise the skill and industry of writers; or appreciate -the delicacy and excellence of styles, and those subtle and hidden -significations which abound in the writings of the ancients.' - -"In the first place, consider how very few people practise or learn -the art of composition; and think from how small a number of men, -whether in the present or the future, you can in any case look for the -magnificent estimation which you hope will be the reward of your life. -Consider, too, how much influence style has in securing appreciation -for writings. On this, and their degree of perfection, depends the -subsequent fate of all works that come under the heading of 'light -literature,' So great is the influence of style, that a book presumably -celebrated for its matter often proves valueless when deprived of its -manner. Now, language is so interwoven with style that the one can -hardly be considered apart from the other. Men frequently confuse the -two together, and are often unable to express the distinction between -them, if even they are aware of it in the first place. And as for the -thousand merits and defects of language and style, with difficulty, -if at all, can they be discerned and assigned to their respective -properties. But it is certain, to quote the words of Castiglione, that -no foreigner is 'accustomed to write' with elegance in your language. -It follows therefore that style, which is so great and important a -necessity in composition, and a thing of such unaccountable difficulty -and labour, both in acquirement and usage, can only properly be judged -and appreciated by the persons who in one single nation are accustomed -to write. For all other people the boundless exertions attached to the -formation of style will be almost useless, and as if entirely wasted. I -will not refer to the infinite diversities of opinion, and the various -tendencies of readers; owing to which the number of persons adapted to -perceive the good qualities of this or that book is still more reduced. - -"You must regard it as an undoubted fact that, in order to distinctly -recognise the value of a perfect or nearly perfect work, deserving of -immortality, it is not enough merely to be accustomed to write. You -yourself must be able to accomplish the work in question almost as -perfectly as the writer himself. And as experience gradually teaches -you what qualities constitute a perfect writer, and what an infinity of -difficulties must be surmounted before these can be obtained, you will -learn how to overcome the latter, and acquire the former; so that in -time knowledge and power will prove to be one and the same thing. Hence -a man cannot discern nor fully appreciate the excellence of perfect -writers until he is able to give expression to it in his own writings; -because such perfection can only be appreciated by what may be termed -a transference of it into oneself. Until this be done, a man cannot -really understand what constitutes perfection in writing, and will -therefore be unable to duly admire the best writers. - -"Now most literary men, because they write easily, think they write -well; they therefore regard good writing as a facile accomplishment, -even though they assert the contrary. Think, then, how the number will -be reduced of those who might appreciate and laud you when, after -inconceivable exertions and care, you succeed in producing a noble and -perfect work. In the present day there are scarcely two or three men in -Italy who have acquired the art of perfect writing; and although this -number may appear to you excessively small, at no time nor place has it -ever been much greater. - -"I often wonder to myself how Virgil, as a supreme example of literary -perfection, ever acquired the high reputation in which he is now -held. For I am certain that most of his readers and eulogisers do not -discover in his poems more than one beauty for every ten or twenty -revealed to me by continuous study and meditation. Not that I imagine I -have succeeded in estimating him at his proper value, nor have derived -every possible enjoyment from his writings. In truth, the esteem and -admiration professed for the greatest writers is ordinarily the result -of a blind predisposition in their favour, rather than the outcome of -an impartial judgment, or the consequence of a due appreciation of -their merits. - -"When I was young I remember first reading Virgil, being on the one -hand unbiassed in my judgment, and careless of the opinion of others -(a very rare thing, by the by); and, on the other hand, as ignorant as -most boys of my age, though perhaps not more so than is the unchanging -condition of many readers. I refused to admit that Virgil's reputation -was merited, since I failed to discover in him much more than is to be -found in very ordinary poets. Indeed, it surprises me that Virgil's -fame should excel that of Lucan. For we see the mass of readers, at -all times, equally when the literature of the day is of a debasing or -an elevating tendency, much prefer gross and unmistakable beauties to -those that are delicate and half-concealed. They also prefer fervour -to modesty; often indeed even the apparent to the real; and usually -mediocrity to perfection. - -"In reading the letters of a certain prince, exceptionally intelligent, -whose writing was remarkable for its wit, pleasantry, smoothness, and -acuteness, I clearly discerned that in his heart he preferred the -Henriad to the neid; although the fear of shocking men's sensibilities -might deter him from confessing such a preference. - -"I am astonished that the judgment of a few, correct though it be, -should have succeeded in controlling that of numbers, and should have -established the custom of an esteem no less blind than just. This, -however, does not always occur, and I imagine that the fame gained by -the best writers is rather a matter of chance than merit. My opinion -may be confirmed by what I say as we proceed." - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -"We have seen how very few people will be able to appreciate you when -you succeed in becoming a perfect writer. Now, I wish to indicate -some of the hindrances that will prevent even these few from rightly -estimating your worth, although they see the signs of it. - -"In the first place, there can be no doubt that all writings of -eloquence or poetry are judged, not so much on their merits, as by -the effect they produce in the mind of the reader. So that the reader -may be said to consider them rather in himself than in themselves. -Consequently men who are naturally devoid of imagination and -enthusiasm, though gifted with much intelligence, discernment, and -no little learning, are almost quite incapable of forming a correct -judgment of fanciful writings. They cannot in the least immerse their -minds in the mind of the writer, and usually have within themselves a -feeling of contempt for his compositions, because unable to discover -in what their so great fame consists. Such reading awakens no emotion -within them, nor does it arouse their imagination, or create in them -any especial sensation of pleasure. And even people who are naturally -disposed and inclined to receive the impression of whatever image or -fancy a writer has properly signified, very often experience a feeling -of coldness, indifference, languor, or dulness; so that for the time -they resemble the persons just mentioned. This change is due to divers -causes, internal and external, physical and mental, and is either -temporary or lasting. At such times no one, even though himself an -excellent writer, is a good judge of writings intended to excite the -affections or the imagination. Again, there is the danger of satiety -due to previous reading of similar writings. Certain passions too, of -more or less strength, from time to time invest the mind, leaving no -room for the emotions which ought to be excited by the reading. And it -often happens that places; spectacles, natural or artificial, music; -and a hundred such things, which would ordinarily excite us, are now -incapable of arousing or delighting us in the least, although no less -attractive than formerly. - -"But, though a man, for one or other of these reasons, may be ill -disposed to appreciate the effects of eloquence or poetry, he does -not for that reason defer judgment of books on both these subjects -which he then happens to read for the first time. I myself sometimes -take up Homer, Cicero, or Petrarch, and read without feeling the least -emotion. Yet, as I am quite aware of the merits of these writers, -both because of their reputation, and my own frequent appreciation of -their charms, I do not for a moment think them undeservedly praised -simply because I am at present too dull to do them justice. But it is -different with books read for the first time, which are too new to have -acquired a reputation. There is nothing in such cases to prevent the -reader forming a low opinion of the author and the merits of his book, -if his mind be indisposed to do justice to the sentiments and imagery -contained in the work. Nor would it be easy to induce him to alter his -judgment by subsequent study of the same book under better auspices; -for probably the disgust inspired by his first reading will deter him -from a second; and in any case the strength of first impressions will -be almost invincible. - -"On the other hand, the mind is sometimes, for one reason or another, -in such a state of sensibility, vivacity, vigour, and fervour, that -it follows even the least suggestion of the reading; it feels keenly -the slightest touch, and as it reads is able to create within itself -a thousand emotions and fancies, sometimes losing itself in a sort -of sweet delirium, when it is almost transported out of itself. As a -natural result of this, the mind, reviewing the pleasures enjoyed in -the reading, and not distinguishing between its own predisposition -and the actual merits of the book, experiences a feeling of so great -admiration, and forms so high a conception of it, as even to rank the -book above others of much greater merit, read under less felicitous -circumstances. See therefore to what uncertainty is subject even the -truth and justice of opinions from the same persons, as to the writings -and genius of others, quite apart from any sentiment of malice or -favour. So great is this uncertainty that a man varies considerably -in his estimation of works of equal value, and even the same work, at -different times of life, under different circumstances, and even at -different hours of the day." - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -"Perhaps you may think that these difficulties, due to mental -indisposition on the part of readers, are of rare occurrence. Consider, -then, how frequently a man, as he grows old, becomes incapable of -appreciating the charms of eloquence and poetry, no less than those -of the other imitative arts, and everything beautiful in the world. -This intellectual decay is a necessity of our nature. In the present -day it is so much greater than formerly, begins so much earlier, and -progresses so much more rapidly, especially in the studious, as our -experience is enlarged in more or less degree by the knowledge begotten -of the speculations of so many past centuries. For which reason, and -owing to the present condition of civilised life, the phantoms of -childhood soon vanish from the imagination of men; with them go the -hopes of the mind, and with the hopes most of the desires, passions, -and energy of life and its faculties. Whence I often wonder that men -of mature age, especially the learned and those inclined to meditate -about human affairs, should yet be subject to the influence of poetry -and eloquence, which are, however, unable to produce any real effect on -them. - -"It may be regarded as a fact that, in order to be greatly moved by -imagination of the grand and beautiful, one must believe that there is -something really grand and beautiful in human life, and that poetry is -not mere fable. The young always believe such things, even when they -know their fallacy, until personal experience forces them to accept -the truth. But it is difficult to put faith in them after the sad -discipline of practical life; especially when experience is combined -with habits of study and speculation. - -"From this it would seem that the young are generally better judges -of writings intended to arouse the affections and the imagination, -than men of mature and advanced age. But, on the other hand, the -young are novices in literature. They exact from books a superhuman, -boundless, and impossible pleasure, and where they fail to experience -this they despise the writer. Illiterate people have the same idea of -the functions of literature. And youths addicted to reading prefer, -both in their own writings and those of others, extravagance to -moderation, magnificence or attractiveness of style and ornamentation, -to the simple and natural, and sham beauties to real ones. This is -partly due to their limited experience, and partly to the impetuosity -of their time of life. Consequently, although the young are doubtless -more inclined than their elders to applaud what seems good to them, -since they are more truthful and candid, they are seldom capable of -appreciating the excellences of literary works. As we grow older, -the influence exercised over us by art increases, as that of nature -diminishes. Nevertheless both nature and art are necessary to produce -effect. - -"Dwellers in large towns are compelled to sacrifice the beautiful -to the useful. Even though of warm and sensitive natures and lively -imagination, they cannot experience as an effect of the charms -either of nature or literature any tender or noble sentiment, any -sublime or delightful fancy; unless indeed, like you, they spend -most of their time in solitude. For few things are so opposed to -the state of mind necessary to appreciate such delights, as the -conversation of these men, the riot of these places, and the sight of -the tinselled splendour, the falseness, the miserable troubles, and -still more miserable idleness which abound there. I also think that -the _littrateurs_ of large towns are, as a rule, less qualified to -judge books than those of small towns; because, like everything else, -the literature of large towns is ordinarily false and pretentious, or -superficial. - -"And whereas the ancients used to regard literature and the sciences -as a pleasing change from more serious business, in the present day -the majority of men who in large towns profess to be students regard -literature and writing as merely an agreeable variation of their other -amusements. - -"I think that works of art, whether painting, sculpture, or -architecture, would be much more appreciated if they were disseminated -throughout a country in different-sized towns, instead of being, as -at present, accumulated in the chief cities. For in the latter places -men are so full of thoughts, so occupied with pleasurable pursuits and -vain and frivolous excitements, that they are very rarely capable of -the profound pleasures of the intellect. Besides, a multitude of fine -things gathered together have a distracting influence; the mind bestows -but little attention on individual things, and is sensible of no -especial gratification; or else it becomes satiated, and regards them -all as indifferently as though they were objects of the commonest kind. - -"I say the same of music, which is nowhere so elaborate, or brought to -such perfection, as in large towns, where men have less appreciation -for the wonderful emotions of the art, and are indeed less musical than -elsewhere. - -"Nevertheless, large towns are a useful home for the fostering and -perfecting of the arts; although their inhabitants are less under the -influence of their charms than the people of other places. It may be -said that artists, who work in solitude and silence, strive laboriously -and industriously to please men, who, because accustomed to the bustle -and noise of cities, are almost totally incapable of appreciating the -fruit of their exertions. - -"The fate of writers may in a measure be compared to that of artists." - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -"We will now return to the consideration of authors. - -"It is a characteristic of writings approaching perfection that they -usually please more when read a second time, than they pleased at -first. The contrary effect is produced by many books written carefully -and skilfully, but which really possess few merits. These when read a -second time are less esteemed than at first. But both kinds of books, -when read only once, often deceive even the learned and experienced, so -that indifferent books are preferred to excellent ones. In the present -day, however, even students by profession can rarely be induced to read -new books a second time, especially such as come under the heading of -light literature. This was not so in olden times, because then but few -books were in existence. Now, it is very different. We possess the -literary bequests of all past times. Every nation has its literature, -and produces its host of books daily. There are writings in all -languages, ancient and modern, relating to every branch of science and -learning, and so closely connected and allied that the student must -study them all as far as possible. You may therefore easily imagine -that a book does not obtain full consideration on a first reading, and -that a second reading is out of the question. Yet the first opinion -that we form of a new book is seldom changed. - -"For the same reasons, even in the first reading of books, especially -those of light literature, very rarely sufficient attention and study -is given to discover the laborious perfection, the subtle art, and -the hidden and unpretentious virtues of the writings. Thus, in the -present day the condition of excellent books is really worse than that -of indifferent ones. For the charms and qualifications of most of the -latter, whether true or false, are so exposed to the eye, that, however -trivial they may be, they are easily discernible at first sight. We -may therefore say with truth, that the exertion necessary to produce -perfect writing is almost useless for fame. But, on the other hand, -books composed, like most modern ones, rapidly and without any great -degree of excellence, though perhaps celebrated for a time, cannot fail -to be soon forgotten. And many works of recognised value are also lost -in the immense stream of new books which pours forth daily, before -they have had time to establish their celebrity. They perish for no -intrinsic fault of their own, and give place to other books, good and -bad, which each in turn live their short spell of life. So that whereas -the ancients could acquire glory in a thousand ways, we can only attain -it by one single avenue, after much more exertion than formerly. - -"The books of the ancients alone survive this universal shipwreck of -all later writings. Their fame is established and confirmed; they are -diligently and repeatedly read, and are made the subject of careful -study. And it is noteworthy that a modern book, if intrinsically equal -to any of the ancient writings, would rarely, if ever, give its readers -as much pleasure as the ancient work. This for two reasons. In the -first place, it would not be read with the care and attention that we -bestow on celebrated writings; very few people would read it twice; -and no one would study it (for none but scientific books are studied -until made venerable by age). In the second place, the world-wide and -permanent reputation of writings, whether or not due to their internal -excellence, adds to their value, and proportionately increases the -pleasure they give; often, indeed, most of the charm of such literature -is simply due to its celebrity. - -"This reminds me of some remarkable words of Montesquieu about the -origin of human pleasures. He says: 'The mind often creates within -itself many sources of pleasure, which are intimately dependent on each -other. Thus, a thing that has once pleased us, pleases us again simply -because it did so before; we couple together imagination of the present -and remembrance of the past. For example, an actress who pleased us -on the stage, will probably please us in private life: her voice; her -manner; the recollection of the applause she excited; perhaps, too, -her _rle_ of princess joined to her real character,--all combine and -form a mixture of influences producing a general feeling of pleasure. -Our minds are always full of ideas subordinate to one or more primary -ideas. A woman famous for one cause or another, and possessed of some -slight inherent defect, is often able to attract by means of this -very defect. And women are ordinarily loved less because they inspire -affection than because they are well born, rich, or highly esteemed by -others.'[1].... - -"Often indeed a woman's reputation for beauty and grace, whether well -or ill founded, or even the mere fact that others have been under the -influence of her charms, suffices to inspire a man with affection -for her. And who does not know that most pleasures are due to the -imagination rather than to the inherent qualities of the things that -please us? - -"These remarks refer to writings no less than to all other things. -Indeed I will venture to say that were a poem to be published equal -or superior to the Iliad, and carefully read by an excellent judge of -poetry, it would give less satisfaction and appear less charming than -the Greek masterpiece, much less would its fame be comparable with that -of the Iliad; for its real merits would not be aided by twenty-seven -centuries of admiration, nor the thousand reminiscences and other -associations that connect themselves with Homer's poem. Similarly I -affirm that if any one were to read carefully either the 'Jerusalem' or -the 'Furioso,' without knowing anything of their celebrity, he would be -much less pleased than others who were aware of their fame. - -"In short, it may be accepted as a general rule that the first readers -of every remarkable work which in after ages becomes famous, and the -contemporaries of the writer, derive less enjoyment from such reading -than all other people. - -"This fact cannot but be very disadvantageous to the interest of -writers." - - -[Footnote 1: Ex: Fragment _Sur le got_, &c.] - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -"Such are a few of the obstacles that may prevent you from acquiring -glory from the studious, or even from those who excel in knowledge and -the art of writing. - -"Now there are many people who, though educated sufficiently for the -purposes of daily life, are neither writers nor students to any very -great extent. They read simply for amusement, and, as you know, are -only capable of appreciating certain qualities in literature. The chief -reason of this has been already partly explained. There is, however, -another cause. It is that they only seek momentary pleasure in what -they read. But the present in itself is trivial and joyless to all men. -Even the sweetest things, as says Homer, - - 'Love, sleep, song, and the dance,' - -soon weary us, if to the present there be not joined the hope of -some pleasure or future satisfaction, dependent on them. For it is -contrary to human nature to be greatly pleased with that of which hope -does not form a constituent part. And so great is the power of hope -that it enlivens and sweetens many exertions, painful and laborious -in themselves; whereas, on the other hand, things innately charming, -when unaccompanied by hope, are scarce sufficiently attractive to be -welcomed. "We see studious people never tired of reading, often even -of the driest kind; and they experience a constant delight in their -studies, carried on perhaps throughout the greater part of the day. The -reason of this is that they have the future ever before their eyes; -they hope in some way, and at some time, to reap the benefit of their -labours. Such people always have their interests at heart. They do not -take up a book, either to pass time or for amusement, without also -distilling from it more or less definite instruction. Others, on the -contrary, who seek to learn nothing from books, are satisfied when they -have read their first few pages, or those that have the most attractive -appearance. They wander wearily from book to book, and marvel to -themselves how any one can find prolonged pleasure in prolonged reading. - -"It is clear that any skill or industry displayed by the writer is -almost entirely wasted on such people, who nevertheless compose the -mass of readers. And even men of studious inclinations, having later in -life changed the nature of their studies, almost feel a repugnance for -books which would formerly have given them intense delight; and though -still able to discern their value, are wearied rather than pleased by -their merits, because instruction is not at all what they desire." - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -"Hitherto we have considered writings in general, and certain things -relating to light literature in particular, towards which I see you are -more especially attracted. Let us now turn to philosophy, though it -must not be supposed that this science is separable from the study of -letters. - -"Perhaps you will think that because philosophy is derived from -reason, which among civilised people is usually a stronger power -than the imagination or the affections, the value of philosophical -works ought to be more universally recognised than that of poems, -and other writings which treat of the pleasurable and the beautiful. -It is, however, my opinion that poetry is better understood and -appreciated than philosophy. In the first place, it is certain that a -subtle intelligence and great power of reasoning are not sufficient -to ensure much progress in philosophy. Considerable imaginative -power is also requisite. Indeed, judged from the nature of their -intellects, Descartes, Galileo, Leibnitz, Newton, and Vico would -have made excellent poets; and, on the other hand, Homer, Dante, and -Shakespeare might have been great philosophers. This subject would -require much elaboration; I will therefore merely affirm that none but -philosophers can perfectly appreciate the value and realise the charm -of philosophical books. Of course, I refer to their substance, and -not to whatever superficial merit they may have, whether of language, -style, or anything else. And, just as men are by nature unpoetical, -and consequently rarely catch the spirit of a poem or discern its -imagery, although they may follow the meaning of its words; similarly, -people unaccustomed to meditate and philosophise within themselves, -or who are incapable of deep sustained thought, cannot comprehend the -truths that a philosopher expounds, however clear and logical his -deductions, arguments, and conclusions may be, although they understand -the words that he uses and their signification. Because, being unable -or unused to analyse the essence of things by means of thought, or to -separate their own ideas into divisions, or to join and bind together -a number of these ideas, or simultaneously to grasp with the mind many -particulars so as to deduce a single general rule from them, or to -follow unweariedly with the mind's eye a long series of truths mutually -connected, or to discover the subtle and hidden connection between -each truth and a hundred others; they can with difficulty, if at all, -grasp and follow his working, or experience the impressions proved by -the philosopher. Therefore, they can neither understand nor estimate -rightly all the influences that led him to this or that opinion, and -made him affirm or deny this or that thing, and doubt such and such -another. Possibly they may understand his ideas, but they neither -recognise their truth nor probability; because they are unable to test -either the one or the other. They are like those cold and passionless -men who are incapable of appreciating the fancies and imagery of the -poets. And you know it is common to the poet and the philosopher to -penetrate into the depths of the minds of men, and thence to bring into -light all their hidden emotions, profundities, and secret working, with -their respective causes and effects; thus, men who are incapable of -sympathy with the poet and his thoughts, are also incapable of entering -into the thoughts of the philosopher. - -"This is why we see daily many meritorious works, clear and -intelligible to all, interpreted by some people as containing a -thousand undoubted truths, and, by others, a thousand patent errors. -They are attacked in public and private, not only from motives of -malice, interest, and other similar causes, but also because of the -incapacity of the readers, and their inability to comprehend the -certainty of the principles, the correctness of the deductions and -conclusions, and the general fitness, sufficiency, and truth of the -reasoning put forward. It often happens that philosophical writings -of the most sublime nature are accused of obscurity, not necessarily -because they are obscure, but either because their vein of thought -is of too profound or novel a nature to be easily intelligible, or -because the reader himself is too dense to be a competent judge of -such works. Think, then, how difficult it must be to gain praise for -philosophical writings, however meritorious they may be. For there can -be no doubt that the number of really profound philosophers, who alone -can appreciate one another, is in the present day very small, although -philosophy is more cultivated than in past times. - -"I will not refer to the various sects into which those who profess -philosophy are divided. Each sect ordinarily refuses to allow -that there is aught estimable in the others; this is not only from -unwillingness, but also because it occupies itself with different -principles of philosophy." - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -"If, as the result of your learning and meditation, you chanced to -discover some important truth, not only formerly unknown, but quite -unlooked for, and even antagonistic to the opinions of the day, you -must not anticipate in your lifetime any peculiar commendation for this -discovery. You will gain no esteem, even from the wise (except perhaps -from a very few), until by frequent and varied reiteration of these -truths the ears of men have become accustomed to their sound; then -only, after a long time, the intellect begins to receive them. - -"For no truth contrary to current opinion, even though demonstrable -with almost geometrical certitude, can ever, unless capable of material -proof, be suddenly established. Time, custom, and example alone are -able to give it a solid foundation. Men accustom themselves to belief, -as to everything else; indeed they generally believe from habit, and -not from any sentiment of conviction within their minds. At length -it happens that the once-questioned truth is taught to children, and -is universally accepted. People are then astonished that it was ever -unknown to them, and they ridicule their ancestors and contemporaries -for the ignorance and obstinacy they manifested in opposing it. The -greater and more important the new truths, so much the greater will -be the difficulty of procuring acceptance for them; since they will -overthrow a proportionately large number of opinions hitherto rooted -in the minds of men. For even acute and practised intellects do not -easily enter into the spirit of reasonings which demonstrate new truths -that exceed the limits of their own knowledge; especially when these -are opposed to beliefs long established within them. Descartes, in -his geometrical discoveries, was understood by but very few of his -contemporaries. It was the same with Newton. Indeed, the condition of -men pre-eminent in knowledge is somewhat similar to that of literary -men, and 'savants' who live in places innocent of learning. The latter -are not deservedly esteemed by their neighbours; the former fail to be -duly appreciated by their contemporaries. Both are often despised for -their difference in manner of life and opinions from other men, who -neither do justice to their ability nor to the writings they put forth -in proof of it. - -"There is no doubt that the human race makes continual progress in -knowledge. As a body, its march is slow and measured; but it includes -certain great and remarkable minds which, having devoted themselves -to speculation about the sensible or intelligible phenomena of the -universe, and the pursuit of truths, travel, nay sometimes flash, to -their conclusions in an immeasurably short space of time. And the rapid -progress of these intellects stimulates other men, who hasten their -foot-steps so as to reach, later on, the place where these superior -beings rested. But not until the lapse of a century or more do they -attain to the knowledge possessed by an extraordinary intellect of this -kind. - -"It is ordinarily believed that human knowledge owes most of its -progress to these supreme intellects, which arise from time to time, -like miracles of nature.[1] I, on the contrary, think that it owes -more to men of common powers than to those who are exceptionally -endowed. Suppose a case, in which one of the latter, having rivalled -his contemporaries in knowledge, advances independently, and takes a -lead of, say ten paces. Most other men, far from feeling disposed -to follow him, regard his progress in silence, or else ridicule it. -Meanwhile, a number of moderately clever men, partly aided perhaps by -the ideas and discoveries of the genius, but principally through their -own endeavours, conjointly advance one step. The masses unhesitatingly -follow them, being attracted by the not inordinate novelty, and also by -the number of those who are its authors. In process of time, thanks to -the exertions of these men, the tenth step is accomplished; and thus -the opinions of the genius are universally received throughout the -civilised world. But their originator, dead long ago, only acquires a -late and unseasonable reputation. This is due partly to the fact that -he is forgotten, or to the low esteem in which he was held when living; -added to which men are conscious that they do not owe their knowledge -to him, and that they are already his equals in erudition, and will -soon surpass him, if they have not done so already. They are also his -superiors, in that time has enabled them to demonstrate and affirm -truths that he only imagined, to prove his conjectures, and give better -form and order to his inventions, almost, as it were, maturing them. -Perchance, after a time, some student engaged in historical research -may justly appraise the influence of this genius, and may announce him -to his countrymen with great _clat_; but the fame that may ensue from -this will soon give way to renewed oblivion. - -"The progress of human knowledge, like a falling weight, increases -momentarily in its speed; none the less very rarely men of a generation -change their beliefs or recognise their errors, so as to believe at one -time the opposite of what they previously believed. Each generation -prepares the way for its successor to know and believe many things -contrary to its own knowledge and belief. But most men are as little -conscious of the increasing development of their knowledge, and the -inevitable mutation of their beliefs, as they are sensible of the -perpetual motion of the earth. And a man never alters his opinions so -as to be conscious of the alteration. But were he suddenly to embrace -an opinion totally discordant with his old beliefs, he could not fail -to perceive the change. It may therefore be said, that ordinarily no -truths, except such as are determinable by the senses, will be believed -by the contemporaries of their discoverer." - - -[Footnote 1: It is in the order of Providence that the inventive, -generative, constitutive mind should come first; and then that the -patient and collective mind should follow, and elaborate the pregnant -queries and illumining guesses of the former,--S. T. Coleridge, _Table -Talk_, Oct. 8, 1830.] - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -"Now let us suppose that every difficulty be overcome, and that -aided by fortune you have actually in your lifetime acquired not -only celebrity, but glory. What will be the fruit of this? In the -first place, men will wish to see you, and make your acquaintance; -they will indicate you as a distinguished man, and will honour you -in every possible way. Such are the best results of literary glory. -It would seem more natural to look for such demonstrations in small -than in large towns; for these latter are subject to the distracting -influence of wealth and power, and all the arts which serve to amuse -and enliven the inactive hours of men's lives. But because small towns -are ordinarily wanting in things necessary to stimulate literary -excellence, they are rarely the abode of men devoted to literature -and study. The people of such places esteem learning and wisdom, and -even the fame men seek by these means, at a very low value; neither -the one nor the other are objects of envy to them. And if a man who -is a distinguished scholar take up his residence in a small town, his -notability is of no advantage to him. Rather the contrary. For though -his fame would secure him high honour in towns not far distant, he is -there regarded as the most forlorn and obscure individual in the place. -Just as a man who possessed nothing but an abundance of silver and gold -would be even poorer than other men in a place where these metals were -valueless; similarly a wise and studious man who makes his abode in a -place where learning and genius are unknown, far from being considered -superior to other men, will be despised and scornfully treated unless -he happen to have some more material possessions. Yet such a man is -often given credit for possessing much greater knowledge than he really -has, though this reputation does not procure him any especial honour -from these people. - -"When I was a young man, I used occasionally to return to Bosisio, -my native place. Every one there knew that I spent my time in study -and writing. The peasants gave me credit for being poet, philosopher, -doctor, mathematician, lawyer, theologian, and sufficiently a linguist -to know all the languages in the world. They used to question me -indiscriminately on any subject, or about any trifle that chanced to -enter their minds. Yet they did not hold me in much esteem, and thought -me less instructed than the learned people of all other places. But -whenever I gave them reason to think my learning was not as extensive -as they supposed, I fell vastly in their estimation, and in the end -they used to persuade themselves that after all my knowledge was no -greater than theirs. - -"We have already noticed the difficulties to be overcome in large towns -before glory can be acquired, or the fruit of it enjoyed. I will now -add that although no fame is more difficult to merit than that of being -an excellent poet, writer, or philosopher, nothing is less lucrative -to the possessor. You know that the misery and poverty of the greatest -poets, both in ancient and modern times, is proverbial. Homer, like his -poetry, is involved in mystery; his country, life, and history are an -impenetrable secret to men. But, amid this uncertainty and ignorance, -there is an unshaken tradition that Homer was poor and unhappy. It is -as if time wished to bear witness that the fate of other noble poets -was shared by the prince of poetry. - -"But, passing over the other benefits of glory, we will simply consider -what is called honour. No part of fame is usually less honourable -and more useless than this. It may be that so many people obtain it -undeservedly, or even because of the extreme difficulty of meriting -it at all; certain it is that such reputation is scarce esteemed, if -regarded as trustworthy. Or perhaps it is due to the fact that most -clever half-cultured men imagine they either are, or could easily -become, as proficient in literature and philosophy as those who are -successful in these studies, and whom they accordingly treat as on an -intellectual equality. Possibly both causes combine in their influence. -It is certain, however, that the man who is an ordinary mathematician, -natural philosopher, philologist, antiquary, artist, sculptor, -musician, or who has only a moderate acquaintance with a single ancient -or foreign language, is usually more respected, even in large towns, -than a really remarkable philosopher, poet, or writer. Consequently, -poetry and philosophy, the noblest, grandest, and most arduous of -things pertaining to humanity, and the supreme efforts of art and -science, are in the present day the most neglected faculties in the -world, even in their professed followers. Manual arts rank higher than -these noble things; for no one would pretend to a knowledge of them -unless he really possessed it, nor could this knowledge be acquired -without study and exertion. In short, the poet and the philosopher -derive no benefit in life from their genius and studies, except perhaps -the glory rendered to them by a very few people. Poetry and philosophy -resemble each other in that they are both as unproductive and barren of -esteem and honour, as of all other advantages." - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -"From men you will scarcely derive any advantage whatever from your -glory. You will therefore look within you for consolation, and in -your solitude will nerve yourself for fresh exertions, and lay the -foundation of new hopes. For like all other human benefits, literary -glory is more pleasing in anticipation than in reality, if indeed it -can ever be said to be realised. You will therefore at length console -yourself with the thought of that last hope and refuge of noble minds, -posterity. Even Cicero, richly renowned as he was in life, turned his -mind yearningly towards the future, in saying: 'Thinkest thou I should -have undertaken so many labours, during day and night, in peace and -war, had I imagined my glory was limited to this life? Far better were -a life of idleness and peace, devoid of cares and fatigue. No. My soul, -in some inexplicable way, used ever to fix its hopes on posterity, and -looked for the dawn of its true life from the hour of death.'[1] Cicero -here refers to the idea of immortality innate in the minds of men. -But the true explanation lies in the fact that all earthly benefits -are no sooner acquired than their insignificance becomes apparent; -they are unworthy of the fatigues they have cost. Glory is, above all, -an example of this; it is a dear purchase, and of little use to the -purchaser. But, as Simonides says, I Sweet hope cheers us with its -phantom beauties, and with its vain prospect stimulates us to work. -Some men await the friendly dawn, others the advance of age, and others -more auspicious seasons. Every mortal cherishes within him hopes of -coming good from Pluto and the other gods,' Thus, as we experience the -vanity of glory, hope, driven and hunted from place to place, finding -at length no spot in the whole of life whereon to rest, passes beyond -the grave and alights on posterity. For man ever turns instinctively -from the present to the future, about which he hopes much in proportion -as he knows little. Hence, they who are desirous of glory in life, -chiefly nourish themselves on that which they hope to gain after -death. For the lack of enjoyment in the present, man consoles himself -with hopes of future happiness, as vain as that of the present." - - -[Footnote 1: De Senectute.] - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -"But what, after all, is this appeal that we make to posterity? The -human imagination is such that it forms a more exalted conception of -posterity than of the men of past or present times, simply because we -are totally ignorant of the people who are yet to be. But, reasonably, -and not imaginatively, do we really think our successors will be better -than ourselves? I am of a contrary opinion, and for my part put faith -in the proverb that says 'the world grows worse as it ages,' It were -better for men of genius if they could appeal to their wise ancestors, -who, according to Cicero, were not inferior in point of numbers, and -far superior in excellence to their successors. But, though such appeal -would be sure of a truer judgment, it is certain that the greatest men -of our day would be held in little esteem by the ancients. - -"It may be allowed that the men of the future, being free from -any spirit of rivalry, envy, love, or hatred, not indeed amongst -themselves, but towards us, ought to be better qualified than ourselves -to pass impartial judgment on our writings. For other reasons, too, -they may be better judges. Posterity will perhaps have fewer excellent -writers, noble poets, and subtle philosophers. In which case the few -followers of these sublime influences will honour us the more. It is -also probable that their control over the minds of the people will -be still less than that exercised by us. Again, will the affections, -imagination, and intellect of men be, as a rule, more powerful than -they are at present? If not, we shall gain by the comparison. - -"Literature is peculiarly exposed to the influence of custom. In times -of debased literature, we see how firmly this or that barbarism is -retained and upheld, as though it alone were reasonable and natural. At -such times the best and greatest writers are forgotten or ridiculed. -Where, then, is the certainty that posterity will always esteem the -kind of writing that we praise? Besides, it is a question whether or -not we ourselves esteem what is really praiseworthy. For men have -different opinions about what constitutes good writing, and these vary -according to the times, the nature of places and people, customs, -usages, and individuals. Yet it is to this variety and variability of -influences that the glory of writers is subjected. - -"Philosophy is even more diverse and changeable than other sciences.[1] -At first sight the contrary of this would seem to be true; for whereas -the 'belles lettres' are concerned with the study of the beautiful, -which is chiefly a matter of custom and opinion, sciences seek the -truth, which is fixed and unchangeable. But this truth is hid from -mortals, though, as centuries go by, some little of it is revealed. -Consequently, on the one hand, in their endeavours to discover it, -and their conjectures as to its nature, men are led to embrace this -or that resemblance of truth; thereupon opinions and sects multiply. -And, on the other hand, it is due to the ever-increasing number of -fresh discoveries, and new aspects of truth obtained daily, that even -these divisions become subdivided; and opinions which at one time were -regarded almost as certainties change shape and substance momentarily. -It is owing to the changeability of sciences and philosophy that they -are so unproductive of glory, either at the hands of contemporaries -or posterity. For when new discoveries, or new ideas and conjectures, -greatly alter the condition of this or that science from its present -state, how will the writings and thoughts of men now celebrated in -these sciences be regarded? Who, for instance, now reads Galileo's -works? Yet in his time they were most wonderful; nor could better and -nobler books, full of greater discoveries and grander conceptions, -be then written on such subjects. But now every tyro in physics or -mathematics surpasses Galileo in his knowledge. Again, how many people -in the present day read the writings of Francis Bacon? Who troubles -himself about Malebranche? And how much time will soon be bestowed on -the works of Locke, if the science almost founded by him progresses in -future as rapidly as it gives promise of doing? - -"Truly the very intellectual force, industry, and labour, which -philosophers and scientists expend in the pursuit of their glory, are -in time the cause of its extinction or obscurment. For by their own -great exertions they open out a path for the still further advancement -of the science, which in time progresses so rapidly that their writings -and names fall gradually into oblivion. And it is certainly difficult -for most men to esteem others for a knowledge greatly inferior to their -own. Who can doubt that the twentieth century will discover error in -what the wisest of us regard as unquestionable truths, and will surpass -us greatly in their knowledge of the truth?" - - -[Footnote 1: Compare the following from H. Rogers' _Essay on Leibnitz_: -"The condition of great philosophers is far less enviable than that of -great poets. The former can never possess so large a circle of readers -under any circumstances; but that number is still further abridged by -the fact that even the truths the philosopher has taught or discovered -form but stepping-stones in the progress of science, and are afterwards -digested, systematised, and better expounded in other works composed by -inferior men."] - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -"Finally, you would perhaps like to know my opinion, and decided advice -to you, about your intended profession. The question is one as to -the advisability of your pursuing or abandoning this path to glory, -a thing so poor in usefulness, and so hard and uncertain both to -secure and retain, that it may be compared to a shadow which you can -neither feel when you hold, nor yet keep from fleeing away. I will tell -you then briefly my true opinion. I consider your wonderful genius, -noble disposition, and prolific imagination to be the most fatal and -lamentable qualities distributed by Fortune to humanity. But since -you possess them, you will scarcely be able to avoid their harmful -influence. In the present day there is but one possible benefit to be -gained from such endowments as yours; viz., the glory that sometimes -rewards industry in literature and study. You know those miserable men, -who having accidentally lost or injured a limb, try to make as much -profit as possible from their misfortune, which they ostentatiously -display to excite the pity and consequent liberality of passers-by. -In the same way I advise you to endeavour to procure by means of your -endowments the only possible advantage, trifling and uncertain though -it be. Such qualities as yours are usually regarded as great natural -gifts, and are often envied by those who do not possess them. But this -feeling is opposed to common sense; as well may the sound man envy -those wretched fellows their bodily calamities, or wish to mutilate -himself in the same way, for the sake of the miserable profit he might -gain. Most men work as long as they can, and enjoy themselves as much -as their nature will permit. But great writers are naturally, and by -their manner of life, incapable of many human pleasures: voluntarily -deprived of many others; often despised by their fellow-men, save -perhaps a very few who pursue the same studies; they are destined to -lead a life like unto death, and to live only beyond the grave, if even -that be granted them. - -"But Destiny must be obeyed; duty commands us to follow it courageously -and nobly whithersoever it may lead us. Such resignation is especially -necessary for you, and those who resemble you." - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN FREDERIC RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES._ - - -_Chorus of the dead in Ruysch's laboratory._ - - - O Death, thou one eternal thing, - That takest all within thine arms, - In thee our coarser nature rests - In peace, set free from life's alarms: - Joyless and painless is our state. - Our spirits now no more are torn - By racking thought, or earthly fears; - Hope and desire are now unknown, - Nor know we aught of sorrow's tears. - Time flows in one unbroken stream, - As void of ennui as a dream. - The troubles we on earth endured - Have vanished; yet we sometimes see - Their phantom shapes, as in a mist - Of mingled thought and memory: - They now can vex our souls no more. - What is that life we lived on earth? - A mystery now it seems to be, - Profound as is the thought of death, - To wearers of mortality. - And as from death the living flee, - So from the vital flame flee we. - Our portion now is peaceful rest, - Joyless, painless. We are not blest - With happiness; that is forbid - Both to the living and the dead. - -_Ruysch (outside his laboratory, looking through the keyhole)._ -Diamine! Who has been teaching these dead folks music, that they thus -sing like cocks, at midnight? Verily I am in a cold sweat, and nearly -as dead as themselves. I little thought when I preserved them from -decay, that they would come to life again. So it is however, and with -all my philosophy I tremble from head to foot. It was an evil spirit -that induced me to take these gentry in. I do not know what to do. If I -leave them shut in here, they may break open the door, or pass through -the keyhole, and come to me in bed. Yet I do not like to show that I am -afraid of the dead by calling for help. I will be brave. Let us see if -I cannot make them afraid in their turn. - -(_Entering_.)--Children, children, what game are you playing at? Do -you not remember that you are dead? What does all this uproar mean? -Are you so puffed up because of the Czar's visit,[1] that you imagine -yourselves no longer subject to the laws of Nature? I am presuming this -commotion is simply a piece of pleasantry on your part, and that there -is nothing serious about it. If, however, you are truly resuscitated, -I congratulate you, although I must tell you that I cannot afford to -keep you living as well as dead, and in that case you must leave my -house at once. Or if what they say about vampires be true, and you are -some of them, be good enough to seek other blood to drink, for I am -not disposed to let you suck mine, with which I have already liberally -filled your veins. In short, if you will continue to be quiet and -silent as before, we shall get on very well together, and you shall -want for nothing in my house. Otherwise, I warn you that I will take -hold of this iron bar, and kill you, one and all. - -_A Mummy_. Do not put yourself about. I promise you we will all be dead -again without your killing us. - -_Ruysch_. Then what is the meaning of this singing freak? - -_Mummy_. A moment ago, precisely at midnight, was completed for the -first time that great mathematical epoch referred to so often by the -ancients. To-night also the dead have spoken for the first time. And -all the dead in every cemetery and sepulchre, in the depths of the sea, -beneath the snow and the sand, under the open sky, and wherever they -are to be found, have like us chanted the song you have just heard. - -_Ruysch_. And how long will your singing or speaking last?' - -_Mummy_. The song is already finished. We are allowed to speak for a -quarter of an hour. Then we are silent again until the completion of -the second great year. - -_Ruysch_. If this be true, I do not think you will disturb my sleep -a second time. So talk away to your hearts' content, and I will -stand here on one side, and, from curiosity, gladly listen without -interrupting you. - -_Mummy_. We can only speak in response to some living person. The dead -that are not interrogated by the living, when they have finished their -song, are quiet again. - -_Ruysch_. I am greatly disappointed, for I was curious to know what you -would talk about if you could converse with each other. - -_Mummy_. Even if we could do so, you would hear nothing, because we -should have nothing to say to one another. - -_Ruysch_. A thousand questions to ask you come into my mind. But the -time is short, so tell me briefly what feelings you experienced in body -and soul when at the point of death. - -_Mummy_. I do not remember the exact moment of death. - -_The other Mummies_. Nor do we. - -_Ruysch_. Why not? - -_Mummy_. For the same reason that you cannot perceive the moment when -you fall asleep, however much you try to do so. - -_Ruysch_. But sleep is a natural thing. - -_Mummy_. And does not death seem natural to you? Show me a man, beast, -or plant that shall not die. - -_Ruysch_. I am no longer surprised that you sing and talk, if you do -not remember your death. - -"A fatal blow deprived him of his breath; -Still fought he on, unconscious of his death "-- - -as says an Italian poet. I thought that on the subject of death you -fellows would at least know something more than the living. Now tell -me, did you feel any pain at the point of death? - -_Mummy_. How can there be pain at a time of unconsciousness? - -_Ruysch_. At any rate, every one believes the moment of departure from -this life to be a very painful one. - -_Mummy_. As if death were a sensation, and not rather the contrary. - -_Ruysch_. Most people who hold the views of the Epicureans as to the -nature of the soul, as well as those who cling to the popular opinion, -agree in supposing that death is essentially a pain of the most acute -kind. - -_Mummy_. Well, you shall put the question to either of them from us. -If man be unaware of the exact point of time when his vital functions -are suspended in more or less degree by sleep, lethargy, syncope, or -any other cause, why should he perceive the moment-when these same -functions cease entirely; and not merely for a time, but for ever? -Besides, how could there be an acute sensation at the time of death? -Is death itself a sensation? When the faculty of sense is not only -weakened and restricted, but so minimised that it may be termed -non-existent, how could any one experience a lively sensation? Perhaps -you think this very extinction of sensibility ought also to be an acute -sensation? But it is not so. For you may notice that even sick people -who die of very painful diseases compose themselves shortly before -death, and rest in tranquillity; they are too enfeebled to suffer, and -lose all sense of pain before they die. - -You may say this from us to whoever imagines it will be a painful -effort to breathe his last. - -_Ruysch_. Such reasoning would perhaps satisfy the Epicureans, but not -those people who regard the soul as essentially different from the -body. I have hitherto been one of the latter, and now that I have heard -the dead speak and sing I am more than ever disinclined to change my -opinions. We consider death to be a separation of the soul and body, -and to us it is incomprehensible how these two substances, so joined -and agglutinated as to form one being, can be divided without great -force and an inconceivable pang. - -_Mummy_. Tell me: is the spirit joined to the body by some nerve, -muscle, or membrane which must be broken to enable it to escape? Or -is it a member which has to be severed or violently wrenched away? Do -you not see that the soul necessarily leaves the body when the latter -becomes uninhabitable, and not because of any internal violence? Tell -me also: were you sensible of the moment when the soul entered you, -and was joined, or as you say agglutinated, to your body? If not, why -should you expect to feel any violent sensation at its departure? Take -my word for it, the departure of the soul is as quiet and imperceptible -as its entrance. - -_Ruysch_. Then what is death, if it be not pain? - -_Mummy_. It is rather pleasure than anything else. You must know that -death, like sleep, is not accomplished in a moment, but gradually. It -is true the transition is more or less rapid according to the disease -or manner of death. But ultimately death comes like sleep, without -either sense of pain or pleasure. Just before death pain is impossible, -for it is too acute a thing to be experienced by the enfeebled senses -of a dying person. It were more rational to regard it as a pleasure; -because most human joys, far from being of a lively nature, are made up -of a sort of languor, in which pain has no part. Consequently, man's -senses, even when approaching extinction, are capable of pleasure; -since languor is often pleasurable, especially when it succeeds a -state of suffering. Hence the languor of death ought to be pleasing in -proportion to the intensity of pain from which it frees the sufferer. -As for myself, if I cannot recall the circumstances of my death, it -may be because the doctors forbade me to exert my brain. I remember, -however, that the sensation I experienced differed little from the -feeling of satisfaction that steals over a man, as the languor of sleep -pervades him. - -_The other Mummies_. We felt the same sensation. - -_Ruysch_. It may be as you say, although every one with whom I have -conversed on this subject is of a very different opinion. It is true, -however, they have not spoken from experience. Now tell me, did you -at the time of death, whilst experiencing this sensation of pleasure, -realise that you were dying, and that this feeling was a prelude to -death, or what did you think? - -_Mummy_. Until I was dead I believed I should recover, and as long as I -had the faculty of thought I hoped I should still live an hour or two. -I imagine most people think the same. - -_The other Mummies_. It was the same with us. - -_Ruysch_. Cicero says[2] that, however old and broken-down a man may -be, he always anticipates at least another year of life. - -But how did you perceive at length that your soul had left the body? -Say, how did you know you were dead?... You do not answer. Children, -do you not hear?... Ah, the quarter of an hour has expired. Let me -examine them a little. Yes, they are quite dead again. There is no fear -that they will give me such another shock. I will go to bed. - - - -NOTE.--Frederic Ruysch (1638-1731) was one of the cleverest anatomists -Holland has ever produced. For sixty years he held a professorship of -anatomy at Amsterdam, during which time he devoted himself to his art. -He obtained from Swammerdam his secret of preserving corpses by means -of an injection of coloured wax. Ruysch, it is said, also made use of -his own blood for this purpose. His subjects, when prepared, looked -like living beings, and showed no signs of corruption. Czar Peter -visited Holland in 1698, and was amazed at what he saw in Ruysch's -studio. In 1717 the Czar again visited Holland, and succeeded in -inducing Ruysch to dispose of his collection of animals, mummies, &c. -These were all transported to St. Petersburg. Ruysch formed a second -collection as valuable as the first, which after his death was publicly -sold. - - -[Footnote 1: See note.] - -[Footnote 2: De Senectute.] - - - - -_REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI._[1] - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Philip Ottonieri, a few of whose remarkable sayings I am about to -recount, partly heard from his own mouth and partly related to me by -others, was born at Nubiana in the province of Valdivento. There he -lived most of his life, and died a short time ago, leaving behind him -the reputation of having never injured any one either by word or deed. -He was detested by the majority of his fellow-citizens, because he took -so little interest in the many things that gave them pleasure; although -he did nothing to show that he despised those who differed from himself -in this respect. He is believed to have been, not only in theory, but -also in practice, what so many of his contemporaries professed to be, -that is, a philosopher. For this reason other men thought him peculiar, -though really he never affected singularity in anything. Indeed, he -once said that a man who nowadays practised the greatest possible -singularity in dress, manners, or actions, would be far less singular -than were those ancients who obtained a reputation for singularity; and -that the difference between such a person and his contemporaries would -by the ancients have been regarded as scarcely worthy of notice. And, -comparing J. J. Rousseau's singularity, which seemed very striking to -the people of his generation, with that of Democritus and the first -Cynic philosophers, he said that whoever nowadays lived as differently -from his contemporaries as these Greeks lived from theirs, would not -merely be regarded as singular, but would be treated as outside the -pale of human society. He thought, too, that the degree of civilisation -reached by any country might be estimated from observation of the -degree of singularity possible in the inhabitants of that country. - -Though very temperate in his habits of life, he professed Epicureanism, -perhaps lightly rather than from conviction. But he condemned Epicurus, -affirming that in his time and nation there was much more pleasure to -be obtained from the pursuit of glory and virtue, than from idleness, -indifference, and sensuality, which things were considered by that -philosopher to represent the greatest good of life. He said also -that the Epicureanism of modern times has nothing in common with the -Epicureanism of the ancients. - -In philosophy, he liked to call himself Socratic. Like Socrates, too, -he often spent great part of the day reasoning philosophically with any -chance acquaintance, and especially with certain of his friends, on any -impromptu subject. But unlike Socrates, he did not frequent the shops -of the shoemakers, carpenters, and blacksmiths; for he was of opinion -that, though the artisans of Athens may have had time to spend in -philosophising, those of Nubiana would starve were they to follow such -an example. Nor did he, like Socrates, explain his conclusions by means -of endless interrogation and argument; for, he said, although men in -the present day may have more patience than their ancestors, they would -never consent to reply to a thousand consecutive questions, still less -to hear their answers answered. In fact, he only resembled Socrates in -his manner of speaking, sometimes ironical, sometimes equivocal. He -analysed the famous Socratic irony in the following way:-- - -"Socrates was naturally very tender-hearted, and of a most lovable -disposition. But he was physically so unattractive that it is -probable he despaired from his youth of ever inspiring others with a -warmer feeling than that of friendship, far insufficient to satisfy -his sensitive and ardent nature, which often felt towards others a -much more lively affection. He was courageous in all matters of the -intellect, but seems to have been wanting in natural courage, and -those other qualities that would have enabled him to hold his own in -public life, amid the tumult of wars, the sedition, and the license -of all kinds, then characteristic of Athenian affairs. In addition to -this, his ridiculous and insignificant figure must have been no slight -prejudice to him among people who made little distinction between the -good and the beautiful, and who were also much addicted to banter. Thus -it happened that in a free city, full of wealth and the bustle and -amusements of life, Socrates, poor, rejected by love, incapable of a -public career, yet gifted with very great intelligence which doubtless -intensified the consciousness of his defects, resigned himself to a -life of philosophising on the actions, manners, and thoughts of his -fellow-citizens. The irony he used was natural to a man who found -himself as it were excluded from participation in the existence of -others. But it was due to his inherent nobility and affableness, and -perhaps also to the celebrity he gained by his reasonings, and which -flattered his self-esteem, that this irony, instead of being bitter and -contemptuous, was pleasing, and expressed in a friendly manner. - -"Then it was that Philosophy, as Cicero has well said, made her first -descent from heaven, and was led by Socrates into the towns and houses -of men. Hitherto occupied with speculations as to the nature of hidden -things, she now studied the manners and lives of men, and discussed -virtues and vices, things good and useful, and the contrary. But -Socrates did not primarily think of introducing this novel feature into -philosophy, nor did he propose to teach anything, nor even aspire to -the name of philosopher, which then only belonged to those who made -physics or metaphysics the study of their lives. He openly proclaimed -his ignorance of all things, and in his conversation with others simply -discussed the affairs of his neighbours, and the topics of the day. -He preferred this amusement to the real study of philosophy, or any -other science or art; and being naturally more inclined to act than -speculate, he only adopted this manner of life, because shut out from a -more congenial employment. He was always more willing to converse with -young and handsome persons than with others; in this way he hoped to -gain at least esteem, where he would far rather have had love." - -And since all the schools of Greek philosophy are traceable directly -or indirectly to the Socratic school, Ottonieri asserted that the flat -nose and satyr-like visage of a highly intellectual and warm-hearted -man were the origin of all Greek philosophy, and, consequently, the -philosophy of modern times. He also said that in the writings of -his followers, the individuality of Socrates is comparable to those -theatrical masks of the ancients, which always retained their name, -character, and identity, but the _rle_ of which varied in each -distinct performance. - -He left behind him no philosophical or other writings for public -benefit. Being asked one day why he did not give written as well as -verbal expression to his philosophical views, he replied: "Reading -is a conversation held with the writer. Now, as in ftes and public -entertainments, they who take no active part in the spectacle or -performance soon become tired, similarly in conversation men prefer to -speak rather than listen. And books necessarily resemble those people -who take all the speaking to themselves, and never listen to others. -Consequently, to atone for their monopoly of talking, they ought to say -many fine and excellent things, expressing them in a remarkable manner. -Every book that does not do this inspires the same feeling of aversion -as an insatiable chatterer." - - -[Footnote 1: A fictitious personage.] - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -Ottonieri made no distinction between business and pleasure. However -serious his occupation, he called it pastime. Only once, having been -idle temporarily, he confessed he had then experienced no amusement. - -He said that our truest pleasures are due to the imagination. Thus, -children construct a world out of nothing, whereas men find nothing in -the world. He compared those pleasures termed real to an artichoke, all -the leaves of which must be masticated in order to reach the pith. He -added that such artichokes as these are very rare; and that many others -resemble them in exterior, but within are void of kernel. He for his -part, finding the leaves unpalatable, determined to abstain from both -leaves and kernel. - -Being asked what was the worst moment of life, he said: "Except those -of pain or fear, the worst moments are, in my opinion, those spent in -pleasure. For the anticipation and recollection of these last, which -fill up the remainder of life, are better and more delightful than the -pleasures themselves." He also made a comparison between pleasures -and odours. The latter he considered usually leave behind a desire to -experience them again, proportioned to their agreeableness; and he -regarded the sense of smell as the most difficult to satisfy of all our -senses. Again, he compared odours to anticipations of good things; and -said that odoriferous foods are generally more pleasing to the nose -than the palate, for their scent originates savoury expectations which -are seldom sufficiently realised. He explained why sometimes he was so -impatient about the delay of a pleasure sure to occur sooner or later, -by saying that he feared the enjoyment he should derive from it would -be of diminished force, on account of the exaggerated anticipation -conceived by his mind. For this reason he endeavoured in the meantime -to forget the coming good, as though it were an impending misfortune. - -He said that each of us in entering the world resembles a man on a -hard and uncomfortable bed. As soon as the man lies down, he feels -restless and begins to toss from side to side and change his position -momentarily, in the hope of inducing sleep to close his eyes. Thus he -spends the whole night, and though sometimes he believes himself on the -point of falling asleep, he never actually succeeds in doing so. At -length dawn comes, and he rises unrefreshed. - -Watching some bees at work one day in company with certain -acquaintances, he remarked: "Blessed are ye, if ye know not your -unhappiness." - -He considered the miseries of mortals to be incalculable, and that no -single one of them could be adequately deplored. - -In answer to Horace's question, "Why is no one content with his lot?" -he said: "Because no one's lot is happy. Subjects equally with princes, -the weak and the strong, were they happy, would be contented, and would -envy no one. For men are no more incapable of being satisfied than -other animals. But since happiness alone can satisfy them, they are -necessarily dissatisfied, because essentially unhappy." - -"If a man could be found," he said, "who had attained to the summit of -human happiness, that man would be the most miserable of mortals. For -even the oldest of us have hopes and schemes for the improvement of our -condition." He recalled a passage in Zenophon, where a purchaser of -land is advised to buy badly cultivated fields, because such as do not -in the future bring forth more abundantly than at the time of purchase, -give less satisfaction than if they were to increase in productiveness. -Similarly, all things in which we can observe improvement please us -more than others in which improvement is impossible. - -On the other hand, he observed that no condition is so bad that it -cannot be worse; and that however unhappy a man may be, he cannot -console or boast himself that his misfortunes are incapable of -increase. Though hope is unbounded, the good things of life are -limited. Thus, were we to consider a single day in the life of a rich -or poor man, master or servant, bearing in mind all the circumstances -and needs of their respective positions, we should generally find -an equality of good throughout. But nature has not limited our -misfortunes; nor can the mind scarcely conceive a cause of suffering -which is non-existent, or which at some time was not to be found among -humanity. Thus, whereas most men vainly hope for an increase of the -good things they possess, they never want for genuine objects of fear; -and if Fortune sometimes obstinately refuses to benefit us in the least -degree, she never fails to afflict us with new torments of such a -nature as to crush within us even the courage of despair. - -He often used to laugh at those philosophers who think that a man is -able to free himself from the tyranny of Fortune, by having a contempt -for good and evil things which are entirely beyond his control; as if -happiness and the contrary were absolutely in his own power to accept -or refuse. On the same subject he also said, amongst other things, -that however much a man may act as a philosopher in his relations with -others, he is never a philosopher to himself. Again, he said that it is -as impossible to take more interest in the affairs of others than in -our own, as to regard their affairs as though they were our own. But, -supposing this philosophical disposition of mind were possible, winch -it is not, and possessed by one of us, how would it stand the test -of a thousand trials? Would it not be evident that the happiness or -unhappiness of such a person is nevertheless a matter of fortune? Would -not the very disposition they boast of be dependent on circumstances? -Is not man's reason daily governed by accidents of all kinds? Do not -the numberless bodily disturbances due to stupidity, excitement, -madness, rage, dullness, and a hundred other species of folly, -temporary or continuous, trouble, weaken, distract, and even extinguish -it? Does not memory, wisdom's ally, lose strength as we advance in age? -How many of us fall into a second childhood! And we almost all decrease -in mental vigour as we grow old; or when our mind remains unimpaired, -time, by means of some bodily disease, enfeebles our courage and -firmness, and not infrequently deprives us of both attributes -altogether. In short, it is utter folly to confess that physically we -are subject to many things over which we have no control, and at the -same time to assert that the mind, which is so greatly dependent on the -body, is not similarly controlled by external influences. He summed up -by saying that man as a whole is absolutely in the power of Fortune. -Being asked for what purpose he thought men were born, he laughingly -replied: "To realise how much better it were not to be born." - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -On the occasion of a certain misfortune, Ottonieri said: "It is less -hard to lose a much-loved person suddenly, or after a short illness, -than to see him waste away gradually, so that before his death he is -transformed in body and mind into quite another being from what he -formerly was. This latter is a cruel thing; for the beloved one, -instead of leaving to us the tender recollections of his real identity, -remains with us a changed being, in whose presence our old affection -slowly but surely fades away. At length he dies; but the remembrance -of him as he was at the last destroys the sweeter and earlier image -within us. Thus he is lost entirely, and our imagination, instead of -comforting, saddens us. Such misfortunes as these are inconsolable." - -One day he heard a man lamenting and saying, "If only I were freed from -this trouble, all my other troubles would be easy to bear." He replied: -"Not so; for then those that are now light would be heavy." - -Another person said to him: "Had this pain continued, I could not have -borne it." Ottonieri answered: "On the contrary, habit would have made -it more bearable." - -Touching many things as to human nature, he held opinions not in -accordance with those of the multitude, and often different from -those of learned men. For instance, he thought it unwise to address -a petition to any one when the person addressed is in a state of -extraordinary hilarity. "And," he said, "when the petition is such that -it cannot be granted at once, I consider occasions of joy and sorrow as -equally inopportune to its success. For both sentiments make a man too -selfish to trouble himself with the affairs of others. In sorrow our -misfortune, in joy our good fortune, monopolises our mind, and erects, -as it were, a barrier between us and matters external to ourselves. -Both are also peculiarly unsuitable for exciting compassion: when -sorrowful, we reserve all pity for ourselves; when joyful, we colour -all things with our joy, and are inclined to regard the troubles and -misfortunes of others as entirely imaginative, or else we refuse to -think of them, as too discordant with the mind's present condition. The -best time to ask a favour, or some beneficial promise for others, is -when the person petitioned is in a state of quiet, happy good humour, -unaccompanied by any excessive joyfulness; or better still, when under -the influence of that keen but indefinite pleasure which results from a -reverie of thought, and consists of a peaceful agitation of the spirit. -At such times men are most open to pity and entreaty, and are often -glad to please others, and give expression to the vague gratifying -activity of their thoughts by some good action." - -He also denied that an afflicted person ordinarily receives more pity -from fellow-sufferers than from other people. For a man's companions in -misfortune are always inclined to give their own troubles precedence -over his, as being more serious and compassionable. And often, when a -man in recounting his sufferings thinks he has excited the sympathy of -his auditors, he is interrupted by one of them who expatiates in turn -on his misfortunes, and ends by trying to show that he is the more -afflicted of the two. He said that in such cases it generally happens -as occurred to Achilles when Priam prostrated himself at his feet, with -entreaties and lamentations. The tears of Priam excited the tears of -Achilles, who began to groan and weep like the Trojan king. This he -did, not from sympathy, but because of his own misfortunes, and the -thoughts of his dead father and friend. "We compassionate others," he -said, "when they suffer from evils we have experienced; but not so when -we and they suffer simultaneously." - -He said that from carelessness and thoughtlessness we do many cruel -or wicked things, which very often have the appearance of genuine -cruelty and maliciousness. For example, he mentioned the case of a man -who spending his time away from home left his servants in a dwelling -scarcely weather proof, not designedly, but simply from thoughtlessness -or disregard of their comfort. He considered malice, inhumanity, and -the like to be far less common among men than mere thoughtlessness, to -which he attributed very many things called by harder names. - -He once said that it were better to be completely ungrateful towards a -benefactor than to make some trifling return for his great kindness. -For in the latter case the benefactor must consider the obligation -as cancelled, whatever may have been the motive that inspired the -donor, and however small the return. He is thus despoiled of the bare -satisfaction of gratitude, on which he probably reckoned; and yet he -cannot regard himself as treated ungratefully, though he is so in -reality. - -I have heard the following saying attributed to him:--"We are -inclined and accustomed to give our acquaintances credit for being -able to discern our true merits, or what we imagine them to be, and to -recognise the virtue of our words and actions. We also suppose that -they ponder over these virtues and merits of ours, and never let them -escape their memory. But, on the other hand, we do not discern similar -qualities in them, or else are unwilling to acknowledge the fact." - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Ottonieri observed that irresolute men sometimes persevere in their -undertakings in the face of the greatest opposition. This is even a -consequence of their irresolution; for were they to abandon their -design, it would be evidence that they had for once fulfilled a -determination. Sometimes they skilfully and speedily carry out a -resolution. To this they are urged by fear lest they should be -compelled to cease their task, when they would return to the state -of perplexity and uncertainty in which they were formerly. Thus they -strenuously hasten the execution of their design, stimulated rather by -anxiety and uncertainty as to whether they will conquer themselves, -than by the goal or the difficulties to be overcome before it can be -reached. - -At another time he said, with a smile, that people accustomed to give -expression to their every thought and feeling in conversation with -others, cry out when alone if a fly bite them, or if they chance to -upset a glass of water; and, on the other hand, they who live solitary -lives become so reserved that even the presentiment of apoplexy would -not induce them to speak in the presence of others. - -He was of opinion that most men reputed great in ancient and modern -times have obtained their reputation through a preponderance of one -quality over the rest in their character. And a man possessed of the -most brilliant but evenly proportioned endowments, would fail to -acquire celebrity either with his contemporaries or posterity. - -He divided the men of civilised nations into three classes. The first -class are they whose individual nature, and partly also their natural -human constitution, become transformed under the influence of the arts -and customs of urban life. Among these he included all men who are -skilful in business, whether private or public, who appreciate society, -and make themselves universally agreeable to their fellows. Generally -speaking, such men alone inspire esteem and respect. The second class -are they who preserve their primitive nature in a greater degree, -either from lack of culture or because they are naturally incapable -of being influenced by the arts, manners, and customs of others. This -is the most numerous of the three classes, and is held in general -contempt. It embraces those who are known as the common people, or who -deserve to be included with them, be their station in life what it may. -The third class, incomparably the smallest in numbers, and often even -more despised than the second, consists of those men in whom nature -is strong enough to resist and often repulse the civilising influence -of the times. They are seldom apt in business, or self-governed in -society; nor do they shine in conversation, nor succeed in making -themselves agreeable to their fellow-men. This class is subdivided -into two varieties. The one includes those strong and courageous -natures that despise the contempt they excite, and often indeed esteem -it more than honour. They differ from other men, not only by nature, -but also by choice and preference. Having nothing in common with the -hopes and pleasures of society, solitary in a crowd, they avoid other -men as much as they themselves are avoided. Specimens of this class are -rarely met with. The other variety consists of persons whose nature is -a compound of strength, weakness, and timidity, and who are therefore -in a constant state of agitation. They are as a rule desirous of -associating with their fellows, and wishing to emulate the men of the -cultivated class, they feel acutely the contempt in which they are held -by their inferiors. These men are never successful in life; they fail -in ever becoming practical, and in society are neither tolerable to -themselves nor others. Not a few of our most gifted men of modern times -have belonged to this division in more or less degree. J. J. Rousseau -is a famous example, and with him may be bracketed one of the ancients, -Virgil. Of the latter it is said, on the authority of Melissus, that -he was very slow of speech, and apparently a most ordinary endowed -man. And this, together with the probability that owing to his great -talents Virgil was little at ease in society, seems likely enough, both -from the laboured subtlety of his style, and the nature of his poetry; -it is also confirmed by what we read towards the end of the Second -Book of the Georgics. There the poet expresses a wish for a quiet and -solitary life, as though he regarded it as a remedy and refuge more -than an advantage in itself. Now, seeing that with rare exceptions men -of these two species are never esteemed until they are dead, and are -of little power in the world; he asserted as a general rule, that the -only way to gain esteem during life is to live unnaturally. And since -the first class, which is the mean of the two extremes, represents -the civilisation of our times; he concluded from this and other -circumstances that the conduct of human affairs is entirely in the -hands of mediocrity. - -He distinguished also three conditions of old age, compared with the -other ages of man. When nature and manners were first instituted, men -were just and virtuous at all ages. Experience and knowledge of the -world did not make men less honest and upright. Old age was then the -most venerable time of life; for besides having all the good qualities -common to other men, the aged were naturally possessed of greater -prudence and judgment than their juniors. But in process of time, the -conduct of men changed; their manners became debased and corrupt. Then -were the aged the vilest of the vile; for they had served a longer -apprenticeship to vice, had been longer under the influence of the -wickedness of their neighbours, and were besides possessed of the -spirit of cold indifference natural to their time of life. Under such -conditions they were powerless to act, save by calumny, fraud, perfidy, -cunning, dissimulation, and other such despicable means. The corruption -of men at length exceeded all bounds. They despised virtue and -well-doing before they knew anything of the world, and its sad truth. -In their youth they drained the cup of evil and dissipation. Old age -was then not indeed venerable, for few things thence-forward could be -so called, but the most bearable time of life. For whereas the mental -ardour and bodily strength which formerly stimulated the imagination -and the conception of noble thoughts, had often given rise to virtuous -habits, sentiments, and actions; the same causes latterly increased -man's wickedness by enlarging his capacity for evil, to which it lent -an additional attractiveness. But this ardour diminished with age, -bodily decrepitude, and the coldness incident to age, things ordinarily -more dangerous to virtue than vice. In addition to this, excessive -knowledge of the world became so dissatisfactory and wearisome a -thing, that instead of conducting men from good to evil, as formerly, -it gave them strength to resist wickedness, and sometimes even to hate -it. So that, comparing old age with the other periods of life, it may -be said to have been as better to good in the earliest times; as worse -to bad in the corrupt times; and subsequently as bad to worse. - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Ottonieri often talked of the quality of self-love, nowadays called -egotism. I will narrate some of his remarks on this subject. - -He said that "if you hear a person speak well or ill of another with -whom he has had dealings, and term him honest or the contrary; value -his opinion not a whit. He speaks well or ill of the man simply as -his relationship with him has proved satisfactory or the reverse." He -said that no one can love without a rival. Being asked to explain, -he replied: "Because the person beloved is a very close rival of the -lover." - -"Suppose a case," he said, "in which you asked a favour from a friend, -who could not grant it without incurring the hatred of a third person. -Suppose, too, that the three interested people are in the same -condition of life. I affirm that your request would have little chance -of success, even though your gratitude to the granter might exceed the -hatred he would incur from the other person. The reason of this is as -follows: we fear men's anger and hatred more than we value their love -and gratitude. And rightly so. For do we not oftener see the former -productive of results than the latter? Besides, hatred or vengeance is -a personal satisfaction; whereas gratitude is merely a service pleasing -to the recipient." - -He said that respect and services rendered to others in expectation of -some profitable return, are rarely successful; because men, especially -nowadays when they are more knowing than formerly, are less inclined to -give than receive. Nevertheless, such services as the young render to -the old who are rich or powerful, attain their end more often than not. - -The following remarks about modern customs I remember hearing from his -own mouth:-- - -"Nothing makes a man of the world so ashamed as the feeling that he is -ashamed, if by chance he ever realises it. - -"Marvellous is the power of fashion! For we see nations and men, so -conservative in everything else, and so careful of tradition, act -blindly in this respect, often indeed unreasonably, and against their -own interests. Fashion is despotic. She constrains men to lay aside, -change, or assume manners, customs, and ideas, just when she pleases; -even though the things changed be rational, useful, or beautiful, and -the substitutes the contrary.[1] - -"There are an infinite number of things in public and private life -which, though truly ridiculous, seldom excite laughter. If by chance a -man does laugh in such a case, he laughs alone, and is soon silent. On -the other hand, we laugh daily at a thousand very serious and natural -things; and such laughter is quickly contagious. Thus, most things -which excite laughter are in reality anything but ridiculous; and we -often laugh simply because there is nothing to laugh at, or nothing -worthy of laughter. - -"We frequently hear and say such things as, 'The good ancients,' 'our -good ancestors,' &c. Again, 'A man worthy of the ancients,' by which -we mean a trustworthy and honest man. Every generation believes, on -the one hand, that its ancestors were better than its contemporaries; -and on the other hand, that the human race progresses as it leaves the -primitive state, to return to which would be a movement for the worse, -further and further behind. Wonderful contradiction! - -"The true is not necessarily the beautiful. Yet, though beauty be -preferable to truth, where the former is wanting, the latter is the -next best thing. Now in large towns the beautiful is not to be found, -because it no longer has a place in the excitement of human life. -The true is equally non-existent; for all things there are false or -frivolous. Consequently, in large towns one sees, feels, hears, and -breathes nothing but falsity, which in time, custom renders even -pleasurable. To sensitive minds, what misery can exceed this? - -"People who need not work for their bread, and who accordingly leave -the care of it to others, have usually great difficulty in providing -themselves with one of the chief necessities of life, occupation. This -may indeed be called the greatest necessity of life, for it includes -all others. It is greater even than the necessity of living; for life -itself, apart from happiness, is not a good thing. And possessing life, -as we do, our one endeavour should be to endure as little unhappiness -as possible. Now, on the one hand, an idle and empty life is very -unhappy; and on the other hand, the best way to pass our time is to -spend it in providing for our wants." - -He said that the custom of buying and selling human beings has proved -useful to the race. In confirmation of this, he mentioned the practice -of inoculating for small-pox, which originated in Circassia; from -Constantinople it passed to England, and thence became disseminated -throughout Europe. Its office was to mitigate the destructiveness -wrought by true small-pox, which besides endangering the life and -comeliness of the Circassian children and youths, was especially -disastrous in its effects on the sale of their maidens. - -He narrated of himself that on leaving school to enter the world of -life, he mentally resolved, inexperienced, and devoted to truth as he -was, to praise no person or thing that did not seem really deserving -of praise. He kept his determination for a whole year, during which -time he did not utter a single word of praise. Then he broke his -vow, fearing lest, from want of practice, he should forget all the -eulogistic phraseology he had learnt shortly before, at the School of -Rhetoric. From that time he absolutely renounced his intention. - - -[Footnote 1: See "Dialogue between Fashion and Death," p. 19.] - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Ottonieri was accustomed to read out passages from books taken at -hazard, especially those of ancient writers. He would often interrupt -himself by uttering some remark or comment on this or that passage. - -One day he read from Laertius' "Lives of the Philosophers," the passage -where Chilo, being asked how the learned differed from the ignorant, is -said to have replied, that the former possess 'hopes,' Ottonieri said: -"Now all is changed. The ignorant hope, but the learned do not." - -Again, as he read in the same book how Socrates affirmed that the world -contains but one benefit, knowledge, and but one evil, ignorance, -he said: "I know nothing about the knowledge and ignorance of the -ancients; but in the present day I should reverse this saying." - -Commenting on this maxim of Hegesias, also from the book of Laertius, -"The wise man attends to his own interests in everything," he said: "If -all men who carry out this principle be philosophers, Plato may come -and establish his republic throughout the civilised world." - -He greatly praised the following saying of Bion Borysthenes, mentioned -by Laertius: "They who seek the greatest happiness, suffer most." -To this he added: "And they on the other hand are happiest who are -contented with least, and who are accustomed to enjoy their happiness -over again in memory." - -From Plutarch he read how Stratocles excited the anger of the Athenians -by inducing them on a certain occasion to sacrifice as though they -were victors; and how he then replied by demanding why they blamed him -that he had made them happy and joyful for the space of three days. -Ottonieri added: "Nature might make the same response to those who -complain that she endeavours to conceal the truth beneath a multitude -of vain but beautiful and pleasing appearances. How have I injured you, -in making you happy for three or four days?" - -On another occasion he remarked that Tasso's saying about a child -induced to take his medicine under a false belief, "he is nourished on -deception," is equally applicable to all our race, in relation to the -errors in which man puts faith. - -Beading the following from Cicero's "Paradoxes"--"Do pleasures make -a person better or more estimable? Is there any one who boasts of the -pleasures he enjoys?" he said: "Beloved Cicero, I cannot say that -pleasures make men in the present day either more estimable or better; -but undoubtedly they cause them to be more esteemed. For in the present -day most young men seek esteem by no other way than pleasure. And not -only do they boast of these pleasures when they obtain them, but they -din the intelligence of their enjoyment into the ears of friends and -strangers, willing or unwilling. There are also many pleasures which -are eagerly desired and sought after, not as pleasures, but for the -sake of the renown, reputation, and self-satisfaction that they bring; -and very often these latter things are appropriated when the pleasures -have neither been obtained, nor sought, or else have been entirely -imaginary." - -He noted from Arrian's History of the Wars of Alexander the Great, that -at the battle of Issus, Darius placed his Greek mercenaries in the van -of his army, and Alexander his Greeks at the wings. He thought that -this fact alone was sufficient to determine the result of the battle. - -He never blamed authors for writing much about themselves. On the -contrary, he applauded them for so doing, and said that on such -occasions they are nearly always eloquent, and their style, though -perhaps unusual and even singular, is ordinarily good and fluent. -And this is not surprising; for writers treating of themselves have -their heart and soul in the work. They are at no loss what to say; -their subject and the interest they take in it are jointly productive -of original thought. They confine themselves to themselves, and do -not drink at strange fountains; nor need they be commonplace and -trite. There is nothing to induce them to garnish their writing with -artificial ornamentation, or to affect an unnatural style. And it -is an egregious error to suppose that readers are ordinarily little -interested in a writer's confessions. For in the first place, whenever -a man relates his own experiences and thoughts simply and pleasingly, -he succeeds in commanding attention. Secondly, because in no way -can we discuss and represent the affairs of others more truthfully -and effectively than by treating of our own affairs; seeing that -all men have something in common, either naturally or by force of -circumstances, and that we are better able to illustrate human nature -in ourselves than in others. In confirmation of these opinions, he -instanced Demosthenes' Oration for the Crown, in which the speaker, -continually referring to himself, is surpassingly eloquent. And Cicero, -when he touches on his own affairs, is equally successful; peculiarly -so in his Oration for Milo, admirable throughout, but above all praise -towards the end, where he himself is introduced. Bossuet also is -supremely excellent in his panegyric of the Prince de Cond, where he -mentions his own extreme age and approaching death. Again, the Emperor -Julian, whose writings are all else trifling, and often unbearable, is -at his best in the "Misopogony" (speech against the beard), in which -he replies to the ridicule and malice of the people of Antioch. He -is here scarcely inferior to Lucian in wit, vigour, and acuteness; -whereas his work on the Csars, professedly an imitation of Lucian, -is pointless, dull, feeble, and almost stupid. In Italian literature, -which is almost devoid of eloquent writings, the apology of Lorenzo -de Medici is a specimen of eloquence, grand and perfect in every way. -Tasso also is often eloquent where he speaks much of himself, and is -nearly always excessively so in his letters, which are almost occupied -with his own affairs. - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Many other famous sayings of Ottonieri are recorded. Amongst them is a -reply he gave to a clever, well-read young man, who knew little of the -world. This youth said that he learned daily one hundred pages of the -art of self-government in society. "But," remarked Ottonieri, "the book -has five million pages." - -Another youth, whose thoughtless and impetuous behaviour constantly -got him into trouble, used to excuse himself by saying that life is a -comedy. "May be," replied Ottonieri, "but even then it is better for -the actor to gain applause than rebuke; often, too, the ill-trained or -clumsy comedian ends by dying of starvation." - -One day he saw a murderer, who was lame, and could not therefore -escape, being carried off by the police. "See, friends," he said, -"Justice, lame though she be, can bring the doer of evil to account, if -he also be lame." - -During a journey through Italy he met a courtier, who, desirous of -acting the critic to Ottonieri, began: "I will speak candidly, if you -will allow me." "I will listen attentively," said the other, "for, as a -traveller, I appreciate uncommon things." - -Being in need of money, he once asked a loan from a certain man, who, -excusing himself on the plea of poverty, added that were he rich, the -necessities of his friends would be his first thought. "I should be -truly sorry were you to bestow on us such a valuable moment," replied -Ottonieri: "God grant you may never become rich!" - -When young, he wrote some verses, using certain obsolete expressions. -At the request of an old lady he recited them to her. She professed -ignorance of their meaning, and said that in her day such words were -not in use. Ottonieri replied: "I thought they might have been, simply -because they are very ancient." - -Of a certain very rich miser who had been robbed of a little money, he -said: "This man behaved in a miserly manner even to thieves." - -He said of a man who had a mania for calculating on every possible -occasion: "Other men make things; this fellow counts them." - -Being asked his opinion about a certain old terra-cotta figure of Jove, -over which some antiquaries were disputing, he said: "Do you not see -that it is a Cretan Jove?" - -Of a foolish fellow, who imagined himself to be an admirable reasoner, -yet was illogical whenever he spoke two words, he said: "This person -exemplifies the Greek definition of man, as a 'logical animal.'" - -When on his deathbed, he composed this epitaph, which was subsequently -engraved on his tomb: - - - HERE LIE - THE BONES OF - PHILIP OTTONIERI. - BORN FOR VIRTUE AND GLORY, - HE LIVED IDLE AND USELESS, - AND DIED IN OBSCURITY; - NOT WITHOUT A KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE - AND HIS OWN DESTINY. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND PIETRO GUTIERREZ._ - - - -_Columbus_. A fine night, friend. - -_Gutierrez_. Fine indeed; but a sight of land would be much finer. - -_Col_. Decidedly. So even you are tired of a life at sea. - -_Gut_. Not so. But I am rather weary of this voyage, which turns out to -be so much longer than I expected. Do not, however, think that I blame -you, like the others. Rather, consider that I will, as hitherto, do all -I can to help you in anything relating to the voyage. But just for the -sake of some talk I wish you would tell me candidly and explicitly, -whether you are as confident as at first about finding land in this -part of the world; or if, after spending so much time to no purpose, -you begin at all to doubt. - -_Col_. Speaking frankly as to a friend who will not betray me, I -confess I am a little dubious; especially because certain evidences -during the voyage, which filled me with hope, have turned out -deceitful; for instance, the birds which dew over us from the west, -soon after we left Gomera, and which I considered a sure sign of land -not far distant. Similarly, more than one conjecture and anticipation, -made before setting out, regarding different things that were to have -taken place during the voyage, have failed of realisation. So that at -length I cannot but say to myself, "Since these predictions in which I -put the utmost faith have not been verified, why may not also my chief -conjecture, that of finding land beyond the ocean, be also unfounded?" -It is true this belief of mine is so logical, that if it be false, on -the one hand it would seem as if no human judgment could be reliable, -except such as concern things actually seen, and touched; and on the -other hand, I remember how seldom reality agrees with expectation. I -ask myself, "What ground have you for believing that both hemispheres -resemble each other, so that the western, like the eastern, is part -land and part water? Why may it not be one immense sea? Or instead -of land and water, may it not contain some other element? And, -supposing it to have land and water like the other, why may it not be -uninhabited? or even uninhabitable? If it be peopled as numerously as -our hemisphere, what proof have you that rational beings are to be -found there, as in ours? And if so, why not some other intelligent -animals instead of men? Supposing they be men, why not of a kind very -different from those you are acquainted with; for instance, with much -larger bodies, stronger, more skilful, naturally gifted with much more -genius and intelligence, more civilised, and richer in sciences and -arts?" - -These thoughts occur to me. And in truth, we see nature endowed with -such power, so diverse and manifold in her effects, that we not only -are unable to form a certain opinion about her works in distant and -unknown parts of the world, but we may even doubt whether we do not -deceive ourselves in drawing conclusions from the known world, and -applying them to the unknown. Nor would it be contrary to probability -to imagine that the things of the unknown world, in whole or part, -were strange and extraordinary to us. For do we not see with our own -eyes that the needle in these seas falls away from the Pole Star not a -little towards the west? Such a thing is perfectly novel, and hitherto -unheard of by all navigators; and even after much thought I can arrive -at no satisfactory explanation of it. I do not infer that the fables -of the ancients regarding the wonders of the undiscovered world and -this ocean are at all credible. Annonus, for instance, said of these -parts, that the nights were illumined by flames, and the glow of fiery -torrents, which emptied themselves into the sea. We observe also, how -foolish hitherto have been all the fears of miraculous and terrible -novelties felt by our fellow-sailors during the voyage; as when, on -coming to that stretch of seaweed, which made as it were a meadow in -the sea, and impeded us so greatly, they imagined we had reached the -verge of navigable waters. - -I say this simply because I wish you to see that although this idea -of mine about undiscovered land may be founded on very reasonable -suppositions, in which many excellent geographers, astronomers, and -navigators, with whom I conversed on the subject in Spain, Italy, and -Portugal, agree with me, it might yet be fallacious. In short, we often -see many admirably drawn conclusions prove erroneous, especially in -matters about which we have very little knowledge. - -_Gut_. So that in fact you have risked your own life, and the lives of -your companions, on behalf of a mere possibility. - -_Col_. I cannot deny it. But, apart from the fact that men daily -endanger their lives for much frailer reasons, and far more trifling -things, or even without thinking at all, pray consider a moment. - -If you, and I, and all of us were not now here in this ship, in the -middle of this ocean, in this strange solitude, uncertain and hazardous -though it be, what should we be doing? How should we be occupied? How -should we be spending our time? More joyfully perhaps? More probably, -in greater trouble and difficulty; or worse, in a state of ennui? - -For what is implied in a state of life free from uncertainty and -danger? If contentment and happiness, it is preferable to all others; -if weariness and misery, I know nothing so undesirable. - -I do not wish to mention the glory and useful intelligence that we -shall take back with us, if our enterprise succeed, as we hope. If the -voyage be of no other use to us, it is very advantageous, inasmuch as -it for a time frees us from ennui, endears life to us, and enhances the -value of many things that we should not otherwise esteem. - -You remember perhaps what the ancients say about unfortunate lovers. -These used to throw themselves from the rock of St. Maur (then called -Leucadia) into the sea; being rescued therefrom, they found themselves, -thanks to Apollo, delivered from their love passion. Whether or not -this be credible, I am quite sure that the lovers, having escaped their -danger, for a short time even without Apollo's assistance, loved the -life they previously hated; or loved and valued it increasedly. Every -voyage is, in my opinion, comparable to the leap from the Leucadian -rock, producing the same useful results, though these are of a more -durable kind. - -It is ordinarily believed that sailors and soldiers, because -incessantly in danger of their lives, value existence more lightly than -other people. For the same reason, I come to a contrary conclusion, -and imagine few persons hold life in such high estimation as soldiers -and sailors. Just as we care nothing for many benefits as soon as we -possess them; so sailors cherish and value, very greatly, numerous -things that are far from being good, simply because they are deprived -of them. Who would think of including a little earth in the catalogue -of human benefits? None but navigators; and especially such as -ourselves, who, owing to the uncertain nature of our voyage, desire -nothing so much as the sight of a tiny piece of land. This is our first -thought on awaking, and our last before we fall asleep. And if at some -future time we chance to see in the distance the peak of a mountain, -the tops of a forest, or some such evidence of land, we shall scarcely -be able to contain ourselves for joy. Once on _terra firma_, the mere -consciousness of being free to go where we please will suffice to make -us happy for several days. - -_Gut_. That is all very true; and if your conjecture only prove to be -as reasonable as your justification of it, we shall not fail to enjoy -this happiness sooner or later. - -_Col_. Personally, I think we shall soon do so; though I dare not -actually promise such a thing. You know we have for several days been -able to fathom; and the quality of the matter brought up by the lead -seems to me auspicious. The clouds about the sun towards evening are -of a different form and colour to what they were a few days ago. The -atmosphere, as you can feel, is warmer and softer than it was. The wind -no longer blows with the same force, nor in so straightforward and -unwavering a manner; it is inclined to be hesitating and changeable, as -though broken by some impediment. To these signs add that of the piece -of cane we discovered floating in the sea, which bore marks of having -been recently severed; and the little branch of a tree with fresh -red berries on it; besides, the swarms of birds that pass over us, -though they have deceived me before, are now so frequent and immense, -that I think there must be some special reason for their appearance, -particularly because we see amongst them some which do not resemble -sea birds. In short, all these omens together make me very hopeful and -expectant, however diffident I may pretend to be. - -_Gut_. God grant your surmises may be true. - - - - -_PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS._ - - -Amelio, a lonely philosopher, was seated, reading, one spring morning -in the shade of his country house. Being distracted by the songs of the -birds in the fields, he gradually resigned himself to listening and -thinking. At length he threw his book aside, and taking up a pen wrote -as follows:-- - -Birds are naturally the most joyful creatures in the world. I do not -say this because of the cheerful influence they always exercise over -us; I mean that they themselves are more light-hearted and joyful than -any other animal. For we see other animals ordinarily stolid and grave, -and many even seem melancholy. They rarely give signs of joy, and when -they do, these are but slight and of brief duration. In most of their -enjoyments and pleasures they do not express any gratification. The -green fields, extensive and charming landscapes, noble planets, pure -and sweet atmosphere, if even a cause of pleasure to them, do not -excite in them any joyful demonstrations; save that on the authority -of Zenophon, hares are said to skip and frolic with delight when the -moon's radiance is at its brightest. - -Birds, on the other hand, show extreme joy, both in motion and -appearance; and it is the sight of this evident disposition for -enjoyment on their part that gladdens us as we watch them. And this -appearance must not be regarded as unreal and deceptive. They sing to -express the happiness they feel, and the happier they are, the more -vigorously do they sing. And if, as it is said, they sing louder and -more sweetly when in love than at other times, it is equally certain -that other pleasures besides love incite them to sing. For we may -notice they warble more on a quiet and peaceful day, than when the day -is dark and uncertain. And in stormy weather, or when frightened, they -are silent; but the storm passed, they reappear, singing and frolicking -with one another. Again, they sing in the morning when they awake; -being partly incited to this by a feeling of joy for the new day, and -partly by the pleasure generally felt by every animal when refreshed -and restored by sleep. They also delight in gay foliage, rich valleys, -pure and sparkling water, and beautiful country.... - -It is said that birds' voices are softer and sweeter, and their songs -more refined, with us than among wild and uncivilised people. This -being so, it would seem that birds are subject to the influence of the -civilisation with which they associate. Whether or not this be true, it -is a remarkable instance of the providence of nature that they should -have capacity for flight, as well as the gift of song, so that their -voices might from a lofty situation reach a greater number of auditors. -It is also providential that the air, which is the natural element of -sound, should be inhabited by vocal and musical creatures. - -Truly the singing of birds is a great solace and pleasure to us, and -all other animals. This fact is not, I believe, so much due to the -sweetness of the sounds, nor to their variety and harmony, as to -the joyful signification of songs generally, and those of birds in -particular. Birds laugh, as it were, to show their contentment and -happiness. It may therefore be said that they partake in a degree of -man's privilege of laughter, unpossessed by other animals. Now some -people think that man may as well be termed a laughing animal, as an -animal possessed of mind and reason; for laughter seems to them quite -as much peculiar to man as reason. And it is certainly wonderful that -man, the most wretched and miserable of all creatures, should have the -faculty of laughter, which is wanting in other animals. Marvellous also -is the use we make of this faculty! We see people suffering from some -terrible calamity or mental distress, others who have lost all love of -life, and regard every human thing as full of vanity, who are almost -incapable of joy, and deprived of hope, laugh nevertheless. Indeed, the -more such men realise the vanity of hope, and the misery of life, the -fewer their expectations and pleasures, so much the more do they feel -inclined to laugh. Now it is scarcely possible to explain or analyse -the nature of laughter in general, and its connection with the human -mind. Perhaps it may aptly be termed a species of momentary folly or -delirium. For men can have no reasonable and just cause for laughter, -because nothing really satisfies nor truly pleases them. It would be -curious to discover and trace out the history of this faculty. There -is no doubt that in man's primitive and wild state, it was expressed -by a peculiar gravity of countenance, as in other animals, who show -it even to the extent of melancholy. For this reason I imagine that -laughter not only came into the world after tears, which cannot be -questioned, but that a long time passed before it appeared. During that -time, neither the mother greeted her child with a smile, nor did the -child smilingly recognise her, as Virgil says. And the reason why, in -the present day, among civilised people, children smile as soon as they -are born, is explainable by virtue of example: they see others smile, -therefore they also smile. It is probable that laughter originated in -drunkenness,[1] another peculiarity of the human race. This vice is -far from being confined to civilised nations, for we know that scarcely -any people can be found that do not possess an intoxicating liquor of -some kind, which they indulge in to excess. And this cannot be wondered -at, when we remember that men, the most unhappy of all animals, are -above all pleased with anything that easily alienates their minds, -such as self-forgetfulness, or a suspension of their usual life; from -which interruption and temporary diminution of the sense and knowledge -of their peculiar evils they receive no slight benefit. And whereas -savages have ordinarily a sad and grave countenance, yet, when in -a state of drunkenness, they laugh immoderately, and talk and sing -incessantly, contrary to their custom. But I will discuss this matter -more in detail in a history of laughter which I think of composing. -Having discovered its origin, I will trace its history and fortune to -the present day, when it is more valued than at any previous time. It -occupies among civilised nations a place, and fills an office somewhat -similar to the parts formerly played by virtue, justice, honour, and -the like, often indeed frightening and deterring men from the committal -of evil. - -But to return to the birds. From the effect their singing produces in -me, I conclude that the sight and recognition of joy in others, of -which we are not envious, gratifies and rejoices us. We may therefore -be grateful to Nature for having ordained that the songs of birds, -which are a demonstration of joy and a species of laughter, should -be in public, differing from the private nature of the singing and -laughter of men, who represent the rest of the world. And it is wisely -decreed that the earth and air should be enlivened by creatures that -seem to applaud universal life with the joyful harmony of their sweet -voices, and thus incite other living beings to joy, by their continual, -though false, testimony to the happiness of things. - -It is reasonable that birds should be, and show themselves, more joyful -than other creatures. Tor, as I have said, they are naturally better -adapted for joy and happiness. In the first place, apparently, they are -not subject to ennui. They change their position momentarily, and pass -from country to country, however distant, and from the lowest regions -of the air to the highest, quickly and with wonderful ease. Life to -them is made up of an infinite variety of sights and experiences. Their -bodies are in a continuous state of activity, and they themselves are -full of vital power. All other animals, their wants being satisfied, -love quietude and laziness; none, except fishes and certain flying -insects, keep long in motion simply for amusement. The savage, for -instance, except to supply his daily wants, which demand little and -brief exertion, or when unable to hunt, scarcely stirs a step. He loves -idleness and tranquillity above everything, and passes nearly the whole -day sitting in silence and indolence within his rude cabin, or at its -opening, or in some rocky cave or place of shelter. Birds, on the -contrary, very rarely stay long in one place. They fly backwards and -forwards without any necessity, simply as a pastime, and often having -gone several hundred miles away from the country they usually frequent, -they return thither the same evening. And even for the short time they -are in one place, their bodies are never still. Ever turning here and -there, they are always either flocking together, pecking, or shaking -themselves, or hopping about in their extraordinarily vivacious and -active maimer. In short, from the time a bird bursts its shell until -it dies, save intervals of sleep, it is never still for a moment. From -these considerations it may reasonably be affirmed that whereas the -normal state of animals, including even man, is quietude, that of birds -is motion. - -We find also that birds are so endowed that their natural qualities -harmonise with the exterior qualities and conditions of their life; -this again makes them better adapted for happiness than other animals. -They have remarkably acute powers of hearing, and a faculty of vision -almost inconceivably perfect. Owing to this last they can discern -simultaneously a vast extent of country, and are daily charmed by -spectacles the most immense and varied. From these things it may be -inferred that birds ought to possess an imagination, vivid and powerful -in the highest degree,. Not the ardent and stormy imagination of -Dante or Tasso; for this is a disastrous endowment, and the cause of -endless anxieties and sufferings. But a fertile, light, and childish -fancy, such as is productive of joyful thoughts, sweet unrealities, -and manifold pleasures. This is the noblest gift of Nature to living -creatures. And birds have this faculty in a great; measure for their -own delight and benefit, without experiencing any of its hurtful and -painful consequences. For their prolific imagination, as with children, -combines, with their bodily vigour, to render them happy and contented, -instead of being injurious, and productive of misery, as with most -men. Thus, birds may be said to resemble children equally in' their -vivacity and restlessness, and the other attributes of their nature. If -the advantages of childhood were common to other ages, and its evils -not exceeded later in life, man might perhaps be better able to bear -patiently the burden of existence. - -To me it seems that the nature of birds, considered aright, is -manifestly more perfect than that of other animals. For, in the first -place, birds are superior to other animals in sight and hearing, which -are the principal senses of life. In the second place, birds naturally -prefer motion to rest, whereas other creatures have the contrary -preference. And since activity is a more living thing than repose, -birds may be said to have more life than other animals. It follows -therefore that birds are physically, and in the exercise of their -faculties, superior to other creatures. - -Now, if life be better than its contrary, the fuller and more perfect -the life, as with birds, the greater is the superiority of creatures -possessing it, over less endowed animals. - -We must not forget also that birds are adapted to bear great -atmospheric changes. Often they rise instantaneously from the ground -far up into the air, where the cold is extreme; and others in their -travels fly through many different climates. - -In short, just as Anacreon wished to be changed into a mirror that he -might be continually regarded by the mistress of his heart, or into a -robe that he might cover her, or balm to anoint her, or water to wash -her, or bands that she might draw him to her bosom, or a pearl to be -worn on her neck, or shoes that she might at least press him with her -feet; so I should like temporarily to be transformed into a bird, in -order to experience their contentment and joyfulness of life. - - -[Footnote 1: Compare Shakespeare's Henry IV., Part 2, Act 4, sc. 3. -_Falstaff:_ " ... nor a man cannot make him laugh;--but that's no -marvel, he drinks no wine."] - - - - -_THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK._ - - -Certain Hebrew _savants_ and writers affirm, that between heaven and -earth, or rather, partly in one and partly on the other, lives a wild -cock which stands with its feet resting on the earth, and touching the -sky with its crest and beak. This gigantic cock, besides possessing -other peculiarities mentioned by these writers, has the use of reason; -or else, like a parrot, it has been taught, I know not by whom, to -express itself in human fashion. In proof of this, an old parchment -manuscript has been discovered, containing a canticle written in -Hebrew characters, and in a language compounded of Chaldean, Targumic, -Rabbinical, Cabalistic and Talmudic, entitled "Morning Song of the -Wild Cock." (Scir detarnegl bara letzafra.) This, not without great -exertion, and the interrogation of more than one Rabbi, Cabalist, -theologian, jurist, and Hebrew philosopher, has been interpreted and -translated as follows. I have not yet been able to ascertain whether -this song is still uttered by the cock on certain occasions, or every -morning, or whether it was sung but once, or who is said to have heard -it, or if this language be the proper tongue of the cock, or whether -the canticle was translated from some other language. In the following -translation I have used prose rather than verse, although it is a poem, -in order to ensure as literal a rendering as possible. The broken -style and occasional bombast must not be imputed to me, for it is -a reproduction of the original; and in this respect the composition -partakes of the characteristics of Oriental languages, and especially -of Oriental poems. - -"Mortals, awake! The day breaks; truth returns to the earth and vain -fancies flee away. Arise; take up again the burden of life; forsake the -false world for the true. - -"Now is the time when each one takes again to his mind all the thoughts -of his real life. He recalls to memory his intentions, aims, and -labours; and thinks of the pleasures and cares that must occur during -the new day. And every one at this time eagerly seeks to discover in -his mind joyful hopes and sweet thoughts. Few, however, are satisfied -in this desire; for all men it is a misfortune to awake. The miserable -man is no sooner aroused than he falls again into the clutches of -his unhappiness. Very sweet a thing is that sleep induced by joy or -hope. These preserve themselves in their entirety until the following -morning, when they either vanish or decrease in force. - -"If the sleep of mortals were continuous and identical with life; if -under the star of day all living beings languished on the earth in -utter rest, and no work was wrought; if the oxen ceased bellowing in -the meadows, the beasts roaring in the forests, the birds singing -in the air, the bees buzzing, and the butterflies skimming over the -fields; if no voice nor motion except-that of the waters, winds, and -tempests anywhere existed, the universe would indeed be useless; but -would there be less happiness or more misery than there is to-day? - -"I ask of thee, O Sun, author of day, and guardian of eve; in the -course of the centuries measured out and consummated by thee, thus -rising and setting, hast thou ever at any time seen one living being -possessed of happiness? Of the numberless works of mortals which -hitherto thou hast seen, thinkest thou that a single one was successful -in its aim of procuring satisfaction, durable or temporary, for its -originator? And seest thou, or hast thou ever seen, happiness within -the boundaries of the world? Where does it dwell? In what country, -forest, mountain, or valley; in what land, inhabited or uninhabited; -in which planet of the many that thy flames illumine and cherish? Does -it perchance hide from thee in the bowels of the earth, or the depths -of the sea? What living being, what plant, or other thing animated by -thee, what vegetable or animal participates in it? And thou thyself, -like an indefatigable giant, traversing swiftly, day and night, -sleepless and restless, the vast course prescribed to thee; art thou -content or happy? - -"Mortals, arouse yourselves! Not yet are you free from life. The time -will come when no eternal force, no internal agitation, shall awaken -you from the repose of sleep, in which you shall ever and insatiably -rest. For the present, death is not granted to you; only from time to -time you are permitted to taste briefly its resemblance, because life -would fail were it not often suspended. Too long abstention from this -short and fleeting sleep is a fatal evil, and causes eternal sleep. -Such thing is life, that to secure its continuance it must from time to -time be laid aside; man then in sleep refreshes himself with a taste, -and, as it were, a fragment of death. - -"It seems as though death were the essential aim of all things. That -which has no existence cannot die; yet all that exists has proceeded -from nothing. The final cause of existence is not happiness, for -nothing is happy. It is true, living creatures seek this end in all -their works, but none obtain it; and during all their life, ever -deceiving, tormenting, and exerting themselves, they suffer indeed for -no other purpose than to die. - -"The earliest part of the day is ordinarily the most bearable for -living beings. Few, when they awake, find again in their minds -delightful and joyful thoughts, but almost all people give birth to -them for the time being. For then the minds of men, being free from -any special concentration, are predisposed to joy fulness, and inclined -to bear evils more patiently than at other times. Thus a man who falls -asleep in the anguish of despair is filled anew with hope when he -awakes, though it can profit him nothing, Many misfortunes and peculiar -hardships, many causes of fear and distress, then seem less formidable -than they appeared the previous evening. Often, also, the pangs of -yesterday are remembered with contempt, and are ridiculed as follies -and vain fancies. - -"The evening is comparable to old age; and on the other hand, the dawn -of the morning resembles youth; the one full of comfort and hope, and -then sad evening with its discouragement and tendencies to look on the -dark side of things. But, just as the time of youth in life is very -short and fleeting, so is the infancy of each new day, which quickly -ages towards its evening. - -"Youth, if indeed it be the best of life, is a very wretched thing. -Yet even this poor benefit is so soon over, that when by many signs -man is led to perceive the decline of his existence, he has scarcely -experienced its perfection, or fully realised its peculiar strength, -which, once diminished, the best part of life is gone with every race -of mortals. Thus, in all her works, Nature turns and points towards -death: for old age reigns universally. Every part of the world hastens -untiringly; with diligence and wonderful celerity, towards death. The -world itself alone seems exempt from decay; for although in autumn and -winter it appears as it were sick and aged, nevertheless in the spring -it ever rejuvenates. But just as mortals in the first part of each day -regain some portion of their youth, yet grow old as the day progresses, -and are at length extinguished in sleep; so although in the beginning -of the year the world becomes young again, none the less it perpetually -ages. The time will come when this world, and Nature herself, shall -die. And as at the present day there remains no trace nor record of -many very great kingdoms and empires, so in the whole world there shall -not he left a vestige of the infinite changes and catastrophes of -created things. A naked silence and an utter calm shall fill the vast -space. Thus, this wonderful and fearful mystery of universal existence -shall be unloosed, and shall melt away before it be made manifest or be -comprehended."[1] - - -[Footnote 1: This is a poetical not philosophical conclusion. Speaking -philosophically, existence, which has had no beginning, will have no -ending.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO._ - - -_Timandro_. I am very anxious to have some conversation with you. It is -about the matter and tendency of your writings and words, which seem to -me most blamable. - -_Meandro_. So long as you find no fault with my actions, I confess I do -not much care; because words and writings are of little consequence. - -_Tim_. There is nothing in your actions, as far as I can see, for which -I need blame you. I am aware that you benefit no one because you cannot -do so, and I observe that you injure no one because you are unwilling -to do so. But I consider your speech and writings very reprehensible, -and I do not agree with you that they are of little importance. Our -life may almost be said to consist of nothing else. For the present -we will disregard the words, and simply consider the writings. In the -first place, the incessant vituperation and continuous satire that you -bestow on the human race are out of fashion. - -_Mean_. My brain also is out of fashion. It is quite natural for a -child to resemble its father. - -_Tim_. Then you must not be surprised if your books, like everything -contrary to the custom of the day, are ill received. - -_Mean_. That is a small misfortune. They were not written for the -purpose of begging a little bread at the doors of the rich. - -_? Tim_. Forty or fifty years ago, philosophers used to say hard things -about the human race, but now they do just the contrary. - -_Mean_. Do you believe that forty or fifty years ago the philosophers -were right or wrong in their statements? - -_Tim_. More often right than wrong. - -_Mean_. Do you think that in these forty or fifty years the human race -has changed to the opposite of what it then was? - -_Tim_. Not at all. But that has nothing to do with the question. - -_Elean_. Why not? Has humanity progressed in strength and perfection, -that the writers of to-day should be constrained to flatter, and -compelled to reverence it? - -_Tim_. What have such pleasantries to do with so grave a matter? - -_Elean_. Then seriously. I am not unaware that the people of this -century, although continuing to ill-treat their fellow-men as their -ancestors did, have yet a very high opinion of themselves, such as men -of the past century did not possess. But I, who ill-treat no one, do -not see that I am obliged to speak well of others against my conscience. - -_Tim_. You must, however, like all men, endeavour to serve your race. - -_Elean_. If my race, on the contrary, does its best to injure me, I do -not see that this obligation holds, as you say. But supposing you are -right, what ought I to do, if I cannot be useful to my race? - -_Tim_. By actions, perhaps, you may be unable to be of much use. Such -power is in the hands of but few people. But by your writings you can, -and indeed ought to serve it. And the race is not benefited by books -which snarl incessantly at men in general. Such behaviour is, on the -contrary, extremely injurious. - -_Elean_. I admit that it does no good, but I also imagine it does no -harm. Do you, however, think books are able to help the human race? - -_Tim_. Not I only, but all the world think so. - -_Elean_. What kind of books? - -_Tim_. Many kinds; but especially books treating of morals. - -_Elean_. All the world does not think so, because I, amongst others, -do not, as a woman once said to Socrates. If books of morals could be -useful to men, I should place poetry above all others. I use the word -poetry in its widest sense, as including all writings, the aim of which -is to excite the imagination, whether in prose or verse. Now I hold -in little esteem that sort of poetry which, when read and meditated -over, does not leave in the mind of the reader a sufficiently elevating -sentiment to deter him for half an hour from giving way to a single -base thought or unworthy action. If, however, the reader commits, for -example, a breach of faith towards his best friend an hour after such -reading, I do not condemn the poetry for that, because then the finest, -most stirring, and noblest poetry the world possesses would come under -condemnation. Exceptions to this influence are readers who live in -great cities. These people, however great their concentration, cannot -forget themselves for even half an hour, nor are they much pleased, or -moved, by any sort of poetry. - -_Tim_. You speak, as usual, maliciously, and so as to leave an -impression that you are habitually ill-treated by others. This, in most -instances, is the true cause of the ill-humour and contempt exhibited -by certain people towards their race. - -_Elean_. Indeed, I cannot say that men have treated, or do treat me -very well. If I could say so, I imagine I should be unique in my -experience. But neither have they done me any serious harm, because in -demanding nothing from men, and having nothing in common with them, I -scarcely give them a chance of offending me. I must confess, however, -that recognising clearly, as I do, how ignorant I am of the simplest -means of making myself agreeable to others, both in conversation and -the daily intercourse of life, whether from a natural defect or fault -of my own, I should esteem men less if they treated me better. - -_Tim_. Then you are so much the more to blame. For, had you even a -mistaken ground of complaint, your hatred and desire for revenge -against men would be in a measure justifiable. But your hatred, from -what you say, is based on nothing in particular, except perhaps an -extraordinary and wretched ambition of becoming famous as a misanthrope -like Timon--a desire abominable in itself, and especially out of place -in a century like the present, so peculiarly devoted to philanthropy. - -_Elean_. I need not reply to your remark about ambition, because I have -already said that I want nothing from men. Does that seem incredible to -you? You will at least grant that it is not ambition which urges me to -write books, such as on your own showing are more likely to bring me -reproaches than glory. Besides, I am so far from hating the human race, -that I neither can nor wish to hate even those who particularly offend -me. Indeed, the fact that hatred is so completely foreign to me, goes -far to explain my inability to do as other men do. But I cannot change -this, because I always think that whenever a man displeases or injures -another, he does so in the hope of procuring some pleasure or advantage -for himself. His aim is not to injure others (which can never be the -motive of any action, nor the object of any thought), but to benefit -himself,--a natural desire, and undeserving of odium. Again, whenever I -notice a particular vice or fault in my neighbour, I carefully examine -myself, and as far as circumstances will allow, I put myself in his -place. Thereupon I invariably find that I should have done the same as -he, and been guilty of the same faults. Consequently my mind loses -what irritation it previously felt. I reserve my wrath for occasions -when I might see some wickedness of which my nature is incapable; but -so far I have never met with such a case. Finally, the thought of the -vanity of human things is so constantly in my mind that I am unable to -excite myself about any one of them. Hatred and anger seem to me great -and strong passions, out of harmony with the insignificance of life. -Thus you see there is a great difference between Timon and myself. -Timon hated and shunned all men except Alcibiades, for whom he reserved -all his affection, because he saw in him the initiator of innumerable -evils for their common country. I, on the other hand, without hating -Alcibiades, would have especially avoided him. I would have warned my -fellow-citizens of their danger, exhorting them at the same time to -take the requisite steps to preserve themselves from it. Some say that -Timon did not hate men, but beasts in the likeness of men. As for me, I -neither hate men nor beasts. - -_Tim_. Nor do you love any one. - -_Mean_. Listen, my friend. I am born to love. I have loved; and perhaps -with as deep a passion as is possible for human soul to feel. To-day, -although, as you see, I am not sufficiently old to be naturally devoid -of passion, nor even of a lukewarm age, I am not ashamed to say that -I love no one except myself, by the necessity of nature, and that as -little as possible. Nevertheless, I would always rather bear suffering -myself than be the cause of it to others. I believe you can bear -witness to the truth of this, little as you know about my habits. - -_Tim_. I do not deny it. - -_Mean_. I try to procure for men, even at my own expense, that greatest -possible good, which alone I seek for myself, viz., a state of freedom -from suffering. - -_Tim_. But do you distinctly confess that you do not love the human -race in general? - -_Elean_. Yes, absolutely. But in such a way that if it depended on me, -I would punish those who deserved punishment, without hating them, as -also I would benefit my race to the utmost, although I do not love it. - -_Tim_. Well, it may be so. But then, if you are not incited by injuries -received, nor by hatred, nor ambition, why do you write in such a -manner? - -_Mean_. For many reasons. First, because I cannot tolerate deceit -and dissimulation. I may sometimes have to give way to these in -conversation, but never in my writings; because I am often obliged to -speak unwillingly, but I never write unless I please. I should derive -no satisfaction from puzzling my brains, and expressing the result on -paper, unless I could write what I really think. All sensible people -laugh at those who now-a-days write Latin, because no one speaks, and -few understand, the language. I think it is equally absurd to take for -granted, whether in conversation or writing, the reality of certain -human qualities no longer extant, and the existence of certain rational -beings, formerly considered as divinities, but now really regarded as -non-existent equally by those who mention them, and those who hear them -mentioned. I could understand men using masks and disguises in order to -deceive other men, or to avoid being recognised. But it seems childish -for them all to conceal themselves behind the same kind of mask, and -use the same disguise, whereby they deceive no one, but recognise each -other perfectly, in spite of it. Let them lay aside their masks, and -retain merely their clothes. The effect will be precisely the same, and -they will be more at ease. Besides, this perpetual simulation, though -useless, and this eternal acting of a part between which and oneself -there is nothing in common, cannot be carried on without fatigue and -weariness. If men had passed suddenly, instead of gradually, from the -savage condition to their present state of civilisation, would the -names of the things just mentioned be found in general usage, with the -custom of deducing from them a thousand philosophical conclusions? In -truth, this custom seems to me like one of those ceremonies and ancient -practices so incompatible with our present habits, which nevertheless -continue to exist by force of usage. I for my part cannot submit to -these ceremonies; and I write in the language of modern times, not -that of the Trojan era. In the second place, I do not so much, in my -writings, find fault with the human race, as grieve over its destiny. -There is nothing I think more clear and palpable than the necessary -unhappiness of all living beings. If this unhappiness be not a fact, -then all my arguments are wrong, and we may abandon the discussion. -If it be true, why may I not lament openly and freely, and say that -I suffer? Doubtless, if I did nothing but weep incessantly (this -is the third cause which moves me), I should become a nuisance to -others as well as myself, without profiting any one. But in laughing -at our misfortunes, we do much to remedy them. I endeavour therefore -to persuade others to profit in this way, as I have done. Whether I -succeed or not, I feel assured that such laughter is the only solace -and remedy that can be found. The poets say that despair has always a -smile on its lips. - -But you must not think that I am devoid of compassion for the -unhappiness of humanity. Its condition is incurable by art, industry, -or anything else, therefore I consider it far more manly and consistent -with a magnanimous despair to laugh at our common woes, than to -sigh, weep, and moan with others, thereby encouraging them in their -lamentations. - -Lastly, permit me to say that I desire as much as you, or any one else, -the welfare of my race in general, but I am hopeless of its attainment; -nor can I, like so many philosophers of this century, nourish and -soothe my mind with anticipations of good. My despair is absolute, -unchangeable, and so based on firm judgment and conviction, that I -cannot imagine such a thing as a joyous future, nor can I undertake -anything with the hope of bringing it to completion. And you are well -aware that man is never inclined to attempt what he knows or thinks -cannot succeed; or if he does, he acts feebly and without confidence. -Similarly a writer, who expresses himself contrary to his real opinion, -though this be erroneous, utters nothing worthy of consideration. - -_Tim_. But when his judgment is, like yours, a false one, he should -rectify it. - -_Elean_. My judgment is of myself alone, and I am quite sure I do -not err in announcing my unhappiness. If other men are happy, I -congratulate them with all my heart. I know also that death alone can -deliver me from my misfortune. If others are more hopeful, I rejoice -once again. - -_Tim_. We are all unhappy, and have always been so. I scarcely think -you can take credit for the novelty of your idea. But man's present -condition, superior as it is to his past, will be greatly improved in -the future. You forget, or seem to disregard the fact, that man is -perfectible. - -_Elean_. Perfectible he may be. But that he is capable of perfection, -which is of more importance, I know not who can convince me. - -_Tim_. He has not yet had time to reach perfection. Ultimately he will -no doubt attain to it. - -_Elean_. I do not doubt it. The few years that have passed since the -world began are, I agree with you, quite insufficient to complete -our education. We cannot judge from what seem to us the nature and -capabilities of man. Besides, humanity hitherto has been too occupied -with other business to give itself up to the task of attaining -perfection. But in future all its endeavours will be towards this one -aim. - -_Tim_. Yes, the whole civilised world is working zealously towards -this end. And, taking into consideration the number and sufficiency -of the means employed, which have indeed recently increased in an -astounding manner, we have every reason to think that the goal will be -reached, sooner or later. This conviction itself is by no means one -of the least stimulants to progress, because it gives birth to a host -of undertakings and labours useful for the common welfare. If, then, -at any time it was fatal and blmable to manifest despair like yours, -and to teach men such doctrines as the absolute necessity of their -wretchedness, the vanity of life, the insignificance of their race, and -the evil of their nature, much more is it so in the present day. Such -conduct can only result in depriving us of courage, and that feeling of -self-esteem which is the foundation of an honest, useful, and glorious -life; it will also divert us from the path of our own welfare. - -_Elean_. Kindly say distinctly, whether or not you regard as true what -I have said about the unhappiness of mankind. - -_Tim_. You return to your old argument. Well, supposing I admit the -truth of what you say, how does that alter the matter? I would remind -you that it is not always well to preach truth simply because it is -truth. - -_Elean_. Answer me another question. Are these truths, which I merely -express, without any pretence of preaching, of primary or secondary -importance in philosophy? - -_Tim_. In my opinion they are the very essence of all philosophy. - -_Elean_. In that case, they greatly deceive themselves who affirm that -man's perfection consists in complete knowledge of the truth; that his -misfortunes are the consequence of his ignorance and prejudices; and -that the human race will be happy when men have discovered the truth, -and conform their lives to its teaching. Yet such doctrines are taught -by most philosophers, ancient and modern. But you are of opinion that -these truths, though confessedly the substance of all philosophy, -ought to be concealed from the majority of men. You would rather that -they were unknown or disregarded by all men, because of the baneful -influence they exercise over the mind. And this is equivalent to an -admission that philosophy ought to be banished from the earth. I grant -you, however, that the final conclusion to be drawn from true and -perfect philosophy is that it were better to dispense with philosophy. -It would therefore seem that, first of all, philosophy is superfluous, -since its conclusions are attainable without its assistance; secondly, -it is extremely injurious, because its conclusion is a very painful -one to be accepted, and when accepted is useless: nor is it in man's -power to disregard truths once recognised. Besides, the habit of -philosophising is one of the most difficult habits to throw off. Thus, -philosophy which at first inspires hope as a possible remedy for the -ills of humanity, ends by seeking in vain a cure for itself. And now -I would ask you why you imagine we are nearer perfection than our -ancestors were? Is it that we are better acquainted with the truth? -This cannot be, since we have seen that such knowledge is extremely -prejudicial to man's happiness. Perhaps, however, it is because some -few men in the present day have learnt that the truest philosopher -is he who abstains from philosophy? But in what then are we superior -to the men of primitive times, who were perfectly unacquainted -with philosophy? And even in the present day savages abstain from -philosophy, without feeling the least inconvenience. - -In what, therefore, are we more advanced than our ancestors; and what -means of attaining perfection do we possess, which they had not? - -_Tim_. We have many of great importance. To explain them would be a -work of considerable time. - -_Elean_. Put them aside for the moment, and reconsider my theory. I -say that if, on the one hand, I express in my writings certain hard -and bitter truths, whether to relieve my mind, or console myself -in laughing at them, I do not fail at the same time to deplore and -disadvise the search after that cold and miserable truth, acquaintance -with which reduces us to a state of either indifference and hypocrisy, -or baseness of soul, moral corruption, and depravity. And, on the other -hand, I praise and exalt those noble, if false ideas, which give birth -to high-minded and vigorous actions and thoughts, such as further the -welfare of mankind, or individuals; those glorious illusions, vain -though they be, which give value to life, and which are natural to -the soul; in short, the superstitions of antiquity, distinct from the -errors of barbarism. These latter should be rooted out, but the former -respected. Civilisation and philosophy having exceeded their natural -bounds, as is usual with all things pertaining to humanity, have drawn -us from one state of barbarism only to precipitate us into another, no -better than the first. This new barbarism, born of reason and science -instead of ignorance, manifests itself more in the mind than the body. -Yet I imagine, that though these superstitions become daily more -necessary for the well-being of civilised nations, the possibility of -their re-introduction diminishes daily. - -And as for man's perfection, I assure you if I had perceived any signs -of it, I would have written a volume in praise of the human race. But -since I have not yet seen it, and as it is improbable I ever shall -see it, I think of leaving in my will a certain sum of money for the -purpose of procuring an annual panegyric of the human race, to be -publicly recited from the time of its perfection, and to pay for the -erection of a temple, statue, or monument, as may be judged best, to -commemorate the event. - - - - -_COPERNICUS:_ - - -_A DIALOGUE IN FOUR SCENES._ - - -_Scene_ I.--_The First Hour and the Sun._ - - -_First Hour_. Good day, Excellency. - -_Sun_. Thanks; good-night as well. - -_First Hour_. The horses are waiting, your Excellency. - -_Sun_. Very well. - -_First Hour_. And the Morning Star has been up some time. - -_Sun_. All right. Let it rise and set, just as it pleases. - -_First Hour_. What do I hear your Excellency say? - -_Sun_. I wish you would leave me alone. - -_First Hour_. But, Excellency, the night has already lasted so long, -that it can last no longer; and if we delay, imagine, Excellency, the -confusion that will ensue. - -_Sun_. I don't mean to stir, whatever happens. - -_First Hour_.0 Excellency! what is this? Does your Excellency feel ill? - -_Sun_. No, no; I feel nothing, except that I don't wish to move. So you -can go and attend to your own affairs. - -_First Hour_. How can I go unless your Excellency comes? I am the first -Hour of the day, and how can the day exist, if your Excellency does not -deign to go forth as usual? - -_Sun_. If you will not be of the day, you shall be of the night; or -better, the hours of the night shall do double duty, and you and your -companions shall be idle. For you must know I am tired of this eternal -going round to give light to a race of little animals that live far -away in a ball of clay, so small that I, who have good sight, cannot -see it. During the night I have decided not to trouble myself any more -in this fashion. If men want light, let them make their own fires for -the purpose, or provide it in some other way. - -_First Hour_. But, Excellency, how can the little fellows manage that? -It will be a very great expense for them to keep lanterns or candles -burning all day long. If only they could now discover a certain -atmosphere to warm and illumine their streets, rooms, shops, taverns, -and everything else at little expense, then they would not be so badly -off. But men will have to wait some three hundred years, more or less, -before they discover this; and meanwhile, all the oil, wax, pitch, and -tallow of the earth will be exhausted, and they will have nothing more -to burn. - -_Sun_. Let them hunt the will-o-the-wisp, and catch those shining -things called glow-worms. - -_First Hour_. And how will they protect themselves against the cold? -For without the assistance of your Excellency, all the forests together -will not make a fire large enough to warm them. Besides, they will also -die of hunger, since the earth will no longer bring forth its fruits. -And so, after a few years, the seed of the poor little folk will be -lost. They will go groping about the earth, seeking food and warmth, -until having consumed every possible thing, and used up the last -flicker of fire, they will all die in the darkness, frozen like pieces -of rock-crystal. - -_Sun_. What is this to do with me? Am I the nurse of the human race; or -the cook, that I should look after the preparation of their food? And -why need I care if a few invisible little creatures, millions of miles -away from me, are unable to see, or bear the cold, when deprived of -my light and warmth? Besides, even supposing, as you say, that I ought -to act the part of stove or fireplace to this human family, surely it -is more reasonable, if men want to warm themselves, that they should -come to the stove, than that the stove should go whirling round them. -Therefore, if the Earth requires me, let it come hither to satisfy its -needs. I want nothing from the Earth, that I should thus trouble myself -to rotate round it. - -_First Hour_. Your Excellency means, if I understand rightly, that -henceforth the Earth must do for itself that which hitherto you have -done on its behalf. - -_Sun_. Yes: now and for the future. - -_First Hour_. Well, your Excellency knows best what is right, and can -do as it pleases you. But nevertheless, will your Excellency deign to -think what a number of beautiful and useful things will be destroyed -by this new decree. The day will be deprived of its handsome gilded -chariot, and beautiful horses, which bathe themselves in the sea. -Amongst other changes, we poor Hours must suffer; we shall no longer -have a place in heaven, but shall have to descend from our position -as celestial children to that of terrestrials, unless, as is more -probable, we dissolve into thin air instead. But be that as it may, the -difficulty will be to persuade the Earth to go round, necessarily a -hard thing, because it is unaccustomed to do so; and the experience of -rotating and exerting itself incessantly will be all the more strange, -seeing that hitherto it has never stirred from its present position. -If, then, your Excellency now begins to think of idleness, I fear the -Earth will be as little desirous of bestirring itself as ever it was. - -_Sun_. In that case, it must be pricked, and made to bestir itself -as much as is necessary. But the quickest and surest way is to find -a poet, or, better, a philosopher, who will persuade the Earth to -move itself, or persuasion being unsuccessful, will use force. For -philosophers and poets ordinarily manage these affairs. When I was -younger I used to have a great esteem for the poets, though they -rather caricatured me in representing me racing madly, great and -stout as I am, round and round a grain of sand, simply for the sake -of amusement or exercise. But now that I am older, I am more partial -to philosophy. I study to discern the utility, not the beauty of -things, and poetry seems to me either absurd or wearisome. I wish, -also, to have good substantial reasons for whatever I do. Now, I see -no reason why I should value a life of activity more than a life of -ease and idleness. I have determined, therefore, in future, to leave -the fatigues and discomforts to others, and for my own part to live -quietly at home, without undertaking business of any kind. This change -in me is partly due to my age, but has chiefly been brought about by -the philosophers, a race of people whose power and influence increase -daily. Consequently, to induce the Earth to rotate in my place, a poet -would intrinsically be better than a philosopher: because the poets -are accustomed to give a fictitious value to things by exaggerating -the truth, beauty, and utility of subjects about which they treat, and -because by raising a thousand pleasurable hopes, they often incite -people to fatigues they would else have avoided; whereas philosophers -weary them. But, now that the power of philosophers is so predominant, -I doubt whether a poet would be of much use, if even the Earth gave him -a hearing. Therefore, we had better have recourse to a philosopher. -It is true, philosophers are usually little suited, and still less -inclined, to stimulate other people to exertions; but possibly in so -extreme a case, they may be induced to act contrary to custom. The -Earth has, however, one alternative; it has the option of declining to -undertake all this hard labour. Its destruction will then ensue, and -I am far from sure that this would not be the best thing for it. But -enough of this: we shall see what will take place. Now, either you or -one of your companions had better go at once to the Earth. If there you -discover any one of these philosophers in the open air, regarding the -heavens, and wondering about the cause of this protracted night, as -well he may, take charge of him, and bring him hither on your back. Do -you clearly understand? - -_First Hour_. Yes, Excellency. You shall be obeyed. - - - -_Scene II.--Copernicus pacing the terrace of his house, with his eyes -anxiously directed towards the eastern horizon. A roll of paper in his -hand, which ever and anon he uses as a telescope._ - - -This is a marvellous thing. Either the clocks are all wrong, or else -the sun should have risen more than an hour ago. Yet not a gleam of -light is to be seen in the east, though the sky is as bright and clear -as a mirror. All the stars shine as if it were midnight. I must go and -consult the Almagest and Sacrobosco, and see what they say about this -event. I have often heard talk of the night Jove passed with the wife -of Amphitryon, and I also remember reading a little while ago, in a -modern Spanish book, that the Peruvians record a very long night, at -the end of which the sun proceeded forth from a certain lake called -Titicaca. Hitherto I have regarded these as mere tales, and have never -wavered in my belief. Now, however, that I perceive reason and science -to be absolutely useless, I am determined to believe the truth of -these, and similar things. I will also visit the lakes and puddles in -the neighbourhood, and see if I can fish out the sun. - -Ha! what is this that I hear? It is like the flapping of the wings of -some huge bird. - - -_Scene_ III.--_The Last Hour and Copernicus._ - - -_Last Hour_. Copernicus, I am the Last Hour. - -_Copernicus_. The Last Hour! Well, I suppose I must be resigned. But I -beg of you, if possible, to give me enough time to make my will, and -put my things in order, before I die. - -_Last Hour_. Die! What do you mean? I am not the last hour of your life. - -_Copernicus_. Oh, then, what are you? The last hour of the office of -the breviary? - -_Last Hour_. I can quite imagine you prefer that one to the others, -when you are in your stall. - -_Copernicus_. But how do you know I am a Canon? And how is it you know -my name? - -_Last Hour_. I procured my information about you, from certain people -in the street. I am, in fact, the Last Hour of day. - -_Copernicus_. Ah! now I understand. The First Hour is unwell; and that -is why day is not yet visible. - -_Last Hour_. I have news for you. There will never be any more daylight -unless you provide it yourself. - -_Copernicus_. You would throw on me the responsibility of making -daylight? A fine thing, indeed! - -_Last Hour_. I will tell you how. But first of all, you must come with -me at once to the house of the Sun, my father. You shall hear more when -we set out. His Excellency will explain everything when we arrive. - -_Copernicus_. I trust it is all right. But the journey, unless I am -mistaken, must be a very long one. And how can I take enough food -to prevent my dying of hunger a few years before reaching the Sun? -Besides, I doubt if his Excellency's lands produce the where-withal to -supply me with even a single meal. - -_Last Hour_. Do not trouble yourself with these doubts. You will not -stay long in my father's house, and the journey will be completed in a -moment. For you must know that I am a spirit. - -_Copernicus_. Maybe. But I am a body. - -_Last Hour_. Well, well: you are not a metaphysician that you need -excite yourself about these matters. Come now, mount on my shoulders, -and leave all the rest to me. - -_Copernicus_. Courage. There, it is done! I will pursue this novelty to -its issue. - - - -_Scene_ IV.--_Copernicus and the Sion._ - - -Copernicus_. Most noble Lord. - -_Sun_. Forgive me, Copernicus, if I do not offer you a chair: one does -not use such things here. But we will soon despatch our business. My -servant has already explained the matter to you; and from what the -child tells me, I imagine you will do very well for our purpose. - -_Copernicus_. My lord, I discern great difficulties in the matter. - -_Sun_. Difficulties ought not to frighten such a man as yourself. They -are even said to make the brave man still more courageous. But tell me -briefly of what these difficulties consist. - -_Copernicus_. In the first place, although philosophy is a great power, -I doubt whether it can persuade the Earth to change its comfortable -sitting posture for a state of restless activity; especially in these -times, which are not heroic. - -_Sun_. And if persuasion be ineffectual, you must try force. - -_Copernicus_. Willingly, Illustrious, if I were a Hercules, or even an -Orlando, instead of a mere Canon of Varmia. - -_Sun_. What has that to do with it? Did not one of your ancient -mathematicians say, that if he had standing room given him outside the -world, he would undertake to move heaven and earth? Now, you are not -required to move heaven, and behold, you are already in a place outside -the earth. Therefore, unless you are not so clever as that ancient, you -will no doubt be able to move the Earth, whether it be willing, or not. - -_Copernicus_. My lord, such a thing might be possible. But a lever -would be necessary, of such dimensions that neither I nor even -your Illustrious Lordship could pay half the cost of its materials -and manufacture. There are, however, other and far more serious -difficulties, which I will now mention. - -You know the Earth has hitherto occupied the principal position in -the Universe, that is the centre. Motionless, it has had nothing to -do but regard all the other spheres, great and small, brilliant and -obscure, continuously gyrating around and on all sides of it with a -marvellous regularity and speed. All things seem to be occupied in -its service; so that the Universe may be likened to a court, in the -midst of which the Earth sits as on a throne, surrounded by attendant -globes, like courtiers, guards, and servants, each of which fulfils -its respective office. Consequently, the Earth has always regarded -itself as Empress of the Universe. So far, indeed, little fault can be -found with its control, and I do not think your design an improvement -on the old state of affairs. But what shall I say to you about men? We -esteem ourselves (and shall always do so) to be in the same relation to -the rest of created beings as the Earth is to the Universe. And more -than this. Supreme among terrestrial creatures, we all, including the -ragged beggar who dines on a morsel of black bread, have a most exalted -idea of ourselves. We are each of us emperors, and our empire is only -bounded by the Universe, for it includes all the stars and planets, -visible and invisible. Man is, in his own > estimation, the final cause -of all things, including even your Illustrious Lordship. - -Now, if we remove the Earth from its place in the centre, and make it -whirl round and round unremittingly, what will be the consequence? -Simply, that it will act like all the other globes, and be enrolled -in the number of the planets. Then all its terrestrial majesty will -vanish, and the Earth will have to abdicate its imperial throne. Men, -too, will lose their human majesty, and be deprived of their supremacy; -they will be left alone with their rags, and miseries, which are not -insignificant. - -_Sun_. In short, Don Nicolas, what do you wish to prove by this -discourse? Is it that you have scruples of conscience lest the deed -should be treasonable? - -_Copernicus_. No, it is not that, Illustrious. For, to the best of my -knowledge neither the Codes, nor the Digest, nor the books of public, -imperial, international, or natural law, make any mention of such -treason. What I wanted to show was, that this action, subverting our -planetary relationships, will not only work alteration in the order -of nature; for it will change the position of things _inter se_, and -the ends for which created beings now exist; it will also necessarily -make a great revolution in the science of metaphysics, and everything -connected with the speculative part of knowledge. The result will be -that men, even if they are able and willing to critically examine into -the why and wherefore of life, will discover themselves and their aims -to be very different from what they are now, or from what they imagine -them to be. - -_Sun_. My dear child, the thought of these things does not disturb me -much; so little respect have I for metaphysics, or physics, or even -alchemy, necromancy, or any such things. Besides, men will in time -become content with their position; or, if they do not like it, they -may argue the matter to their hearts' content, and will doubtless -succeed in believing just what they please. In this way they may still -deceive themselves under the names of Barons, Dukes, Emperors, or -anything else. If, however, they are inconsolable, I confess it will -not give me much uneasiness. - -_Copernicus_. Well, then, apart from men and the Earth, consider, -Illustrious, what may reasonably be expected to happen in regard -to the other planets. These, when they see the Earth reduced to -their condition, and doing precisely what they do, just like one of -themselves, will be jealous of its apparent superiority. They will be -dissatisfied with their own naked simplicity and sad loneliness, and -will desire to have their rivers, mountains, seas, plants, animals, and -men; for they will see no reason why they should be in the smallest -degree less endowed than the Earth. Thereupon will ensue another great -revolution in the Universe: an infinite number of new races and people -will instantaneously proceed from their soil, like mushrooms. - -_Sun_. Well, let them come, and the more the merrier. My light and heat -will suffice for them all without any extra expense. The Universe shall -have food, clothes, and lodging amply provided gratis. - -_Copernicus_. But, if your Illustrious Lordship will reflect a moment, -yet another objection may be discerned. The stars, having rivalled the -Earth, will turn their attentions to you. They will notice your fine -throne, noble court, and numerous planetary satellites. Consequently, -they also will wish for thrones. And more, they will desire to rule, as -you do, over inferior planets, each of which must of course be peopled -and ornamented like the Earth. It is needless to mention the increased -unhappiness of the human race. Their insignificance will be greater -than ever. They will burst out in all these millions of new worlds, so -that even the tiniest star of the milky way will be provided with its -own race of mortals. Now, looking at this, solely as affecting your -interests, I affirm that it will be very prejudicial. Hitherto you have -been, if not the first, certainly the second in the Universe; that is, -after the Earth; nor have the stars aspired to rival you in dignity. In -this new state, however, you will have as many equals as stars, each -with their respective stars. Beware then lest this change be ruinous to -your supremacy. - -_Sun_. You remember Csar's remark, when, crossing the Alps, he -happened to pass a certain miserable little barbarian village. He said -that he would rather be the first in that village, than the second -in Rome. Similarly I would rather be first in this my own world than -second in the Universe. But you must not think it is ambition that -makes me desirous of changing the present state of things; it is solely -my love of peace, or, more candidly, idleness. Therefore it is a small -matter to me whether I am first or last in the Universe: unlike Cicero, -I care more for ease than dignity. - -_Copernicus_. I also, Illustrious, have striven my utmost to obtain -this ease. But, supposing your Lordship is successful in your -endeavour, I doubt whether it will be of long duration. For, in the -first place, I feel almost sure that before many years have elapsed -you will be impelled to go winding round and round like a windlass, -or a wheel, without however varying your locality. Then, after a -time, you will probably be desirous of rotating round something--the -Earth for instance. Ah! well, be that as it may; if you persist in -your determination, I will try to serve you, in spite of the great -difficulties necessarily to be overcome. If I fail, you must attribute -the failure to my inability, not unwillingness. - -_Sun_. That is well, my Copernicus. Do your best. - -_Copernicus_. There is however yet another obstacle. - -_Sun_. What is it? - -_Copernicus_. I fear lest I should be burnt alive for my pains. In -which case, it would be improbable that I, like the Phoenix, should -rise from my ashes. I should therefore never see your Lordship's face -again. - -_Sun_. Listen, Copernicus. You know that once upon a time I was a -prophet, when poetry ruled the world, and philosophy was scarcely -hatched. I will now utter my last prophecy. Put faith in me on the -strength of my former power. This is what I say. It may be that those -who come after you, and confirm your deeds, shall be burnt, or killed -in some other way; but you shall be safe, nor shall you suffer at -all on account of this undertaking. And to make your safety certain, -dedicate to the Pope the book[1] you will write on the subject. If you -do this, I promise that you will not even lose your canonry. - - -[Footnote 1: Copernicus did in effect dedicate his book on the -"Revolution of the Celestial Bodies," the printing of which was only -completed a few days before his death, to Pope Paul III. The system -expounded therein was condemned by a decree of Paul V. in 1616. This -condemnation remained in force until 1821, when it was revoked by Pius -VII. The sun is supposed to be in the centre, and motionless; the earth -and the rest of the planets move round it in elliptical orbits. The -heavens and stars are supposed to be stationary, and their apparent -diurnal motion from east to west is imputed to the earth's motion from -west to east.] - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY._ - - -_Almanac Seller_. Almanacs! New Almanacs! New Calendars! Who wants new -Almanacs? - -_Passer-by_. Almanacs for the New Year? - -_Alm. Seller_. Yes, Sir. - -_Passer_. Do you think this New Year will be a happy one? - -_Alm. Seller_. Yes, to be sure, Sir. - -_Passer_. As happy as last year? - -_Alm. Seller_. Much more so. - -_Passer_. As the year before? - -_Alm. Seller_. Still more, Sir. - -_Passer_. Why? Should you not like the New Year to resemble one of the -past years? - -_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, I should not. - -_Passer_. How many years have gone by since you began to sell almanacs? - -_Alm. Seller_. About twenty years, Sir. - -_Passer_. Which of the twenty should you wish the New Year to be like? - -_Alm. Seller_. I do not know. - -_Passer_. Do you not remember any particular year which you thought a -happy one? - -_Alm. Seller_. Indeed I do not, Sir. - -_Passer_. And yet life is a fine thing, is it not? - -_Alm. Seller_. So they say. - -_Passer_. Would you not like to live these twenty years, and even all -your, past life from your birth, over again? - -_Alm. Seller_. Ah, dear Sir, would to God I could! - -_Passer_. But if you had to live over again the life you have already -lived, with all its pleasures and sufferings? - -_Alm. Seller_. I should not like that. - -_Passer_. Then what other life would you like to live? Mine, or that of -the Prince, or whose? Do you not think that I, or the Prince, or any -one else, would reply exactly as you have done; and that no one would -wish to repeat the same life over again? - -_Alm. Seller_. I do believe that. - -_Passer_. Then would you recommence it on this condition, if none other -were offered you? - -_Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, indeed I would not. - -_Passer_. Then what life would you like? - -_Alm. Seller_. Such an one as God would give me without any conditions. - -_Passer_. A life at hap-hazard, and of which you would know nothing -beforehand, as you know nothing about the New Year? - -_Alm. Seller_. Exactly. - -_Passer_. It is what I should wish, had I to live my life over again, -and so would every one. But this proves that Fate has treated us all -badly. And it is clear that each person is of opinion that the evil he -has experienced exceeds the good, if no one would wish to be re-born on -condition of living his own life over again from the beginning, with -just its same proportion of good and evil. This life, which is such a -fine thing, is not the life we are acquainted with, but that of which -we know nothing; it is not the past life, but the future. With the New -Year Fate will commence treating you, and me, and every one well, and -the happy life will begin. Am I not right? - -_Alm. Seller_. Let us hope so. - -_Passer_. Show me the best almanac you have. - -_Alm. Seller_. Here it is, Sir. This is worth thirty soldi. - -_Passer_. Here are thirty soldi. - -_Alm. Seller_. Thank you, Sir. Good day, Sir.--Almanacs! New Almanacs! -New Calendars! - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS._ - - - "One day when I, Porphyrius, was meditating about taking my - own life, Plotinus guessed my intention. He interrupted me, - and said that such a design could not proceed from a healthy - mind, but was due to some melancholy indisposition, and - that I must have change of air" (Ex. _Life of Plotinus_, by - Porphyrius). - - The same incident is recounted in the life of Plotinus by - Eunapius, who adds that Plotinus recorded in a book the - conversation he then held with Porphyrius on the subject. - -_Plotinus_. You know, Porphyrius, how sincerely I am your friend. You -will not wonder therefore that I am unquiet about you. For some time -I have noticed how sad and thoughtful you are; your expression of -countenance is unusual, and you have let fall certain words which make -me anxious. In short, I fear that you contemplate some evil design. - -_Porphyrius_. How! What do you mean? - -_Plotinus_. I think you intend to do yourself some injury; it were a -bad omen to give the deed its name. Listen to me, dear Porphyrius, and -do not conceal the truth. Do not wrong the friendship that has so long -existed between us. I know my words will cause you displeasure, and -I can easily understand that you would rather have kept your design -hid. But I could not be silent in such a matter, and you ought not to -refuse to confide in one who loves you as much as himself. Let us then -talk calmly, weighing our words. Open your heart to me. Tell me your -troubles, and let me be auditor of your lamentations. I have deserved -your confidence. I promise, on my part, not to oppose the carrying out -of your resolution, if we agree that it is useful and reasonable. - -_Porphyrius_. I have never denied a request of yours, dear Plotinus. I -will therefore confess to you what I would rather have kept to myself; -nothing in the world would induce me to tell it to anyone else. You are -right in your interpretation of my thoughts. If you wish to discuss -the subject, I will not refuse, in spite of my dislike to do so; for -on such occasions the mind prefers to encompass itself with a lofty -silence, and to meditate in solitude, giving itself up for the time to -a state of complete self-absorption. Nevertheless, I am willing to do -as you please. - -In the first place, I may say that my design is not the consequence of -any special misfortune. It is simply the result of an utter weariness -of life, and a continuous ennui which has long possessed me like a -pain. To this may be added a feeling of the vanity and nothingness -of all things, which pervades me in body and soul. Do not say that -this disposition of mind is unreasonable, though I will allow that it -may in part proceed from physical causes. It is in itself perfectly -reasonable, and therein differs from all our other dispositions; for -everything which makes us attach some value to life and human things, -proves on analysis to be contrary to reason, and to proceed from some -illusion or falsity. Nothing is more rational than ennui.[1] Pleasures -are all unreal. Pain itself, at least mental pain, is equally false, -because on examination it is seen to have scarcely any foundation, or -none at all. The same may be said of fear and hope. Ennui alone, which -is born from the vanity of things, is genuine, and never deceives. If, -then, all else be vain, the reality of life is summed up in ennui. - -_Plotinus_. It may be so. I will not contradict you as to that. But we -must now consider the nature of your project. You know Plato refused to -allow that man is at liberty to escape, like a fugitive slave, from the -captivity in which he is placed by the will of the gods, in depriving -himself of life. - -_Porphyrius_. I beg you, dear Plotinus, to leave Plate alone now, -with his doctrines and dreams. It is one thing to praise, explain, -and champion certain theories in the schools and in books, but quite -another to practically exemplify them. School-teaching and boots -constrain us to admire Plato, and conform to him, because such is the -custom in the present day. Bat in real life, far from being admired, -he is even detested. It is true Plato is said to have spread abroad by -his writings the notion of a future life, thus leaving men in doubt as -to their fate after death, and serving a good purpose in deterring men -from evil in this life, through fear of punishment in the next. If I -imagined Plato to have been the inventor of these ideas and beliefs, I -would speak thus to him:-- - -"You observe, O Plato, how inimical to our race the power which governs -the world has always been, whether known as Nature, Destiny, or Fate. -Many reasons contradict the supposition that man has that high rank -in the order of creation which we are pleased to imagine; but by no -reason can he be deprived of the characteristic attributed to him -by Homer--that of suffering. Nature, however, has given us a remedy -for all evils. It is death, little feared by those who are not fully -intelligent, and by all others desired. - -"But you have deprived us of this dearest consolation of our life, -full of suffering that it is. The doubts raised by you have torn this -comfort from our minds, and made the thought of death the bitterest -of all thoughts. Thanks to you, unhappy mortals now fear the storm -less than the port. Driven from their one place of repose, and robbed -of the only remedy they could look for, they resign themselves to the -sufferings and troubles of life. Thus, you have been more cruel towards -us than Destiny, Nature, or Fate. And since this doubt, once conceived, -can never be got rid of, to you is it due that your fellow-men regard -death as something more terrible than life. You are to blame that rest -and peace are for ever banished from the last moments of man, whereas -all other animals die in perfect fearlessness. This one thing, O Plato, -was wanting to complete the sum of human misery. - -"True, your intention was good. But it has failed in its purpose. -Violence and injustice are not arrested, for evil-doers only realise -the terrors of death in their last moments, when quite powerless to do -more harm. Your doubts trouble only the good, who are more disposed -to benefit than injure their fellow-men, and the weak and timid, who -are neither inclined by nature nor disposition to oppress anyone. Bold -and strong men, who have scarcely any power of imagination, and those -who require some other restraint than mere law, regard these fears as -chimerical, and are undeterred from evil doing. We see daily instances -of this, and the experience of all the centuries, from your time down -to the present, confirms it. Good laws, still more, good education, and -mental and social culture,--these are the things that preserve justice -and mildness amongst men. Civilisation, and the use of reflection and -reason, make men almost always hate to war with each other and shed one -another's blood, and render them disinclined to quarrel, and endanger -their lives by lawlessness. But such good results are never due to -threatening fancies, and bitter expectation of terrible chastisement; -these, like the multitude and cruelty of the punishments used in -certain states, only serve to increase the baseness and ferocity of -men, and are therefore opposed to the well-being of human society. - -"Perhaps, however, you will reply that you have promised a reward -in the future for the good. What then is this reward? A state of -life which seems full of ennui, even less tolerable than our present -existence! The bitterness of your punishments is unmistakable; but the -sweetness of your rewards is hidden and secret, incomprehensible to our -minds. How then can order and virtue be said to be encouraged by your -doctrine? I will venture to say that if but few men have been deterred -from evil by the fear of your terrible Tartarus, no good man has been -led to perform a single praiseworthy action by desire of your Elysium. -Such a Paradise does not attract us in the least. But, apart from the -fact that your heaven is scarcely an inviting place, who among the -best of us can hope to merit it? What man can satisfy your inexorable -judges, Minos, Eacus, and Rhadamanthus, who will not overlook one -single fault, however trivial? Besides, who can say that he has reached -your standard of purity? In short, we cannot look for happiness in the -world to come; and however clear a man's conscience may be, or however -upright his life, in his last hour he will dread the future with its -terrible incertitude. It is due to your teaching that fear is a much -stronger influence than hope, and may be said to dominate mankind. - -"This then is the result of your doctrines. Man, whose life on earth -is wretched in the extreme, anticipates death, not as an end to all -his miseries, but as the beginning of a condition more wretched still. -Thus, you surpass in cruelty, not only Nature and Destiny, but the most -merciless tyrant and bloodthirsty executioner the world has ever known. - -"But what cruelty can exceed that of your law, forbidding man to put -an end to his sufferings and troubles by voluntarily depriving himself -of life, thereby triumphing over the horrors of death? Other animals -do not desire to put an end to their life, because their unhappiness -is less than ours; nor would they even have sufficient courage to face -a voluntary death. But if they did wish to die, what should deter them -from fulfilling their desire? They are affected by no prohibition, nor -fear of the future. Here again you make us inferior to brute beasts. -The liberty they possess, they do not use; the liberty granted also to -us by Nature, so miserly in her gifts, you take away. Thus, the only -creatures capable of desiring death, have the right to die refused -them. Nature, Destiny, and Fortune overwhelm us with cruel blows, that -cause us to suffer fearfully; you add to our sufferings by tying our -arms and enchaining our feet, so that we can neither defend ourselves, -nor escape from our persecutors. - -"Truly, when I think over the great wretchedness of humanity, it seems -to me that your doctrines, above all things, O Plato, are guilty of -it, and that men may well complain of you more than of Nature. For the -latter, in decreeing for us an existence full of unhappiness, has left -us the means of escaping from it when we please. Indeed, unhappiness -cannot be called extreme, when we have in our hands the power to -shorten it at will. Besides, the mere thought of being able to quit -life at pleasure, and withdraw from the miseries of the world, is so -great an alleviation of our lot, that in itself it suffices to render -existence supportable. Consequently, there can be no doubt that our -chief unhappiness proceeds from the fear, that in abbreviating our life -we might be plunged into a state of greater misery than the present. -And not only will our misery be greater in the future, but it will -be so full of the refinement of cruelty, that a comparison of these -unexperienced tortures with the known sufferings of this life, reduces -the latter almost to insignificance. - -"You have easily, O Plato, raised this question of immortality; but -the human species will become extinct before it is settled. Your genius -is the most fatal thing that has ever afflicted humanity, and nothing -can ever exist more disastrous in its effects." - -That is what I would say to Plato, had he invented the doctrine we -are discussing; but I am well aware he did not originate it. However, -enough has been said. Let us drop the subject, if you please. - -_Plotinus_. Porphyrius, you know how I revere Plato; yet in talking to -you on such an occasion as this, I will give you my own opinion, and -will disregard his authority. The few words of his that I spoke were -rather as an introduction than anything else. Returning to my first -argument, I affirm that not only Plato and every other philosopher, -but Nature herself, teaches us that it is improper to take away our -own life. I will not say much on this point, because if you reflect a -little, I am sure you will agree with me that suicide is unnatural. It -is indeed an action the most contrary possible to nature. The whole -order of things would be subverted if the beings of the world destroyed -themselves. And it is repugnant and absurd to suppose that life is -given only to be taken away by its possessor, and that beings should -exist only to become non-existent. The law of self-preservation is the -strictest law of nature. Its maintenance is enjoined in every possible -way on man and all creatures of the universe. And, apart from anything -else, do we not instinctively fear, hate, and shun death, even in spite -of ourselves? Therefore, since suicide is so utterly contrary to our -nature, I cannot think that it is permissible. - -_Porphyrius_. I have already meditated on the subject from all points -of view; for the mind could not design such a step without due -consideration. It seems to me that all your reasoning is answerable -with just as much counter reasoning. But I will be brief. - -You doubt whether it be permissible to die without necessity. I ask -you if it be permissible to be unhappy? Nature, you say, forbids -suicide. It is a strange thing that since she is either unable or -unwilling to make me happy, or free me from unhappiness, she should -have the power to force me to live. If Nature has given us a love of -life, and a hatred of death, she has also given us a love of happiness, -and a hatred of suffering; and the latter instincts are much more -powerful than the former, because happiness is the supreme aim of all -our actions and sentiments of love or hatred. For to what end do we -shun death, or desire life, save to promote our well-being, and for -fear of the contrary? - -How then can it be unnatural to escape from suffering in the only way -open to man, that is, by dying; since in life it can never be avoided? -How, too, can it be true, that Nature forbids me to devote myself to -death, which is undoubtedly a good thing, and to reject life, which -is undoubtedly an evil and injurious thing, since it is a source of -nothing but suffering to me? - -_Plotinus_. These things do not persuade me that suicide is not -unnatural. Have we not a strong instinctive horror of death? Besides, -we never see brute beasts, which invariably follow the instincts of -their nature (when not contrarily trained by man), either commit -suicide, or regard death as anything but a condition to be struggled -against, even in their moments of greatest suffering. In short, all -men who commit this desperate act, will be found to have lived out of -conformity to nature. They, on the contrary, who live naturally, would -without exception reject suicide, if even the thought proposed itself -to them. - -_Porphyrius_. Well, if you like, I will admit that the action is -contrary to nature. But what has that to do with it, if we ourselves -do not conform to nature; that is, are no longer savages? Compare -ourselves, for instance, with the inhabitants of India or Ethiopia, who -are said to have retained their primitive manners and wild habits. You -would scarcely think that these people were even of the same species -as ourselves. This transformation of life, and change of manners and -customs by civilisation, has been accompanied, in my opinion, by an -immeasurable increase of suffering. Savages never wish to commit -suicide, nor does their imagination ever induce them to regard death -as a desirable thing; whereas we who are civilised wish for it, and -sometimes voluntarily seek it. - -Now, if man be permitted to live unnaturally, and be consequently -unhappy, why may he not also die unnaturally? For death is indeed -the only way by which he can deliver himself from the unhappiness -that results from civilisation. Or, why not return to our primitive -condition, and state of nature? Ah, we should find it almost impossible -as far as mere external circumstances are concerned, and in the more -important matters of the mind, quite impossible. What is less natural -than medicine? By this I mean surgery, and the use of drugs. They are -both ordinarily used expressly to combat nature, and are quite unknown -to brute beasts and savages. Yet, since the diseases they remedy are -unnatural, and only occur in civilised countries, where people have -fallen from their natural condition, these arts, being also unnatural, -are highly esteemed and even indispensable. Similarly, suicide, which -is a radical cure for the disease of despair, one of the outcomes of -civilisation, must not be blamed because it is unnatural; for unnatural -evils require unnatural remedies. It would indeed be hard and unjust -that reason, which increases our misery by forcing us to go contrary to -nature, should in this matter join hands with nature, and take from us -our only remaining hope and refuge, and the only resource consistent -with itself, and should force us to continue in our wretchedness. - -The truth is this, Plotinus. Our primitive nature has departed from us -for ever. Habit and reason have given us a new nature in place of the -old one, to which we shall never return. Formerly, it was unnatural -for men to commit suicide, or desire death. In the present day, both -are natural. They conform to our new nature, which however, like the -old one, still impels us to seek our happiness. And since death is our -greatest good, is it remarkable that men should voluntarily seek it? -For our reason tells us that death is not an evil, but, as the remedy -for all evils, is the most desirable of things. - -Now tell me: are all other actions of civilised men regulated by the -standard of their primitive nature? If so, give me a single instance. -No, it is our present, and not our primitive nature, that interprets -our actions; in other words, it is our reason. Why then should suicide -alone be judged unreasonably, and from the aspect of our primitive -nature? Why should this latter, which has no influence over our life, -control our death? Why should not the same reason govern our death -which rules our life? It is a fact, whether due to reason or our -unhappiness, that in many people, especially those who are unfortunate -and afflicted, the primitive hatred of death is extinguished, and -even changed into desire and love, as I have said. Such love, though -incompatible with our early nature, is a reality in the present day. -We are also necessarily unhappy because we live unnaturally. It were -therefore manifestly unreasonable to assert that the prohibition which -forbade suicide in the primitive state should now hold good. This seems -to me sufficient justification of the deed. It remains to be proved -whether or not it be useful. - -_Plotinus_. Never mind that side of the question, my dear Porphyrius, -because if the deed be permissible, I have no doubt of its extreme -utility. But I will never admit that a forbidden and improper action -can be useful. The matter really resolves itself into this: which is -the better, to suffer, or not to suffer? It is certain that most men -would prefer suffering mixed with enjoyment, to a state devoid of both -suffering and enjoyment, so ardently do we desire and thirst after -joy. But this is beside the question, because enjoyment and pleasure, -properly speaking, are as impossible as suffering is inevitable. I mean -a suffering as continuous as our never satisfied desire for pleasure -and happiness, and quite apart from the peculiar and accidental -sufferings which must infallibly be experienced by even the happiest of -men. In truth, were we certain that in continuing to live, we should -continue thus to suffer, we should have sufficient reason to prefer -death to life; because existence does not contain a single genuine -pleasure to compensate for such suffering, even if that were possible. - -_Porphyrius_. It seems to me that ennui alone, and the fact that we -cannot hope for an improved existence, are sufficiently cogent reasons -to induce a desire for death, even though our condition be one of -prosperity. And it is often a matter of surprise to me that we have no -record of princes having committed suicide through ennui and weariness -of their grandeur, like other men in lower stations of life. We read -how Hegesias, the Cyrenaic, used to reason so eloquently about the -miseries of life, that his auditors straightway went and committed -suicide; for which reason he was called the "death persuader," and -was at length forbidden by Ptolemy to hold further discourse on the -subject. Certain princes, it is true, have been suicides, amongst -others Mithridates, Cleopatra, and Otho. But these all put an end to -themselves to escape some peculiar evils, or from dread of an increase -of misfortune. Princes are, I imagine, more liable than other men to -feel a hatred of their condition, and to think favourably of suicide. -For have they not reached the summit of what is called human happiness? -They have nothing to hope for, because they have everything that -forms a part of the so-called good things of this life. They cannot -anticipate greater pleasure to-morrow than they have enjoyed to-day. -Thus they are more unfortunately situated than all less exalted people. -For the present is always sad and unsatisfactory; the future alone is a -source of pleasure. - -But be that as it may. We see then that there is nothing to prevent -men voluntarily quitting life, and preferring death, save the fear -of another world. All other reasons are palpably ill-founded. They -are due to a wrong estimate, in comparing the advantages and evils of -existence; and whoever at any time feels a strong attachment to life, -or lives in a state of contentment, does so under a mistake, either of -judgment, will, or even fact. - -_Plotinus_. That is true, dear Porphyrius. But nevertheless, let me -advise, nay implore, you to listen to the counsels of Nature rather -than Reason. Follow the instincts of that primitive Nature, mother of -us all, who, though she has manifested no affection for us in creating -us for unhappiness, is a less bitter and cruel foe than our own reason, -with its boundless curiosity, speculation, chattering, dreams, ideas, -and miserable learning. Besides, Nature has sought to diminish our -unhappiness by concealing or disguising it from us as much as possible. -And although we are greatly changed, and the power of nature within us -is much lessened, we are not so altered but that much of our former -manhood remains, and our primitive nature is not quite stifled within -us. In spite of all our folly, it will never be otherwise. So, too, -the mistaken view of life that you mention, although I admit that it -is in reality palpably erroneous, will continue to prevail. It is -held not only by idiots and the half-witted, but by clever, wise, and -learned men, and always will be, unless the Nature that made us--and -not man nor his reason--herself puts an end to it. And I assure you -that neither disgust of life, nor despair, nor the sense of the nullity -of things, the vanity of all anxiety, and the insignificance of man, -nor hatred of the world and oneself, are of long duration; although -such dispositions of mind are perfectly reasonable, and the contrary -unreasonable. For our physical condition changes momentarily in more or -less degree; and often without any especial cause life endears itself -to us again, and new hopes give brightness to human things, which once -more seem worthy of some attention, not indeed from our understanding, -but from what may be termed the higher senses of the intellect. This is -why each of us, though perfectly aware of the truth, continues to live -in spite of Reason, and conforms to the behaviour of others; for our -life is controlled by these senses, and not by the understanding. - -Whether suicide be reasonable, or our compromise with life -unreasonable, the former is certainly a horrible and inhuman action. It -were better to follow Nature, and remain man, than act like a monster -in following Reason. Besides, ought we not to give some thought to the -friends, relatives, acquaintance, and people with whom we have been -accustomed to live, and from whom we should thus separate for ever? And -if the thought of such separation be nothing to us, ought we not to -consider their feelings? They lose one whom they loved and respected; -and the atrocity of his death enhances their grief. I know that the -wise man is not easily moved, nor yields to pity and lamentation to -a disquieting extent; he does not abase himself to the ground, shed -tears immoderately, nor do other similar things unworthy of one who -clearly understands the condition of humanity. But such fortitude of -soul should be reserved for grievous circumstances that arise from -nature, or are unavoidable; it is an abuse of fortitude to deprive -ourselves for ever of the society and conversation of those who are -dear to us. He is a barbarian, and not a wise man, who takes no account -of the grief experienced by his friends, relations, and acquaintances. -He who scarcely troubles himself about the grief his death would cause -to his friends and family is selfish; he cares little for others, and -all for himself. And truly, the suicide thinks only of himself. He -desires nought but his personal welfare, and throws away all thought -of the rest of the world. In short, suicide is an action of the most -unqualified and sordid egotism, and is certainly the least attractive -form of self-love that exists in the world. - -Finally, my dear Porphyrius, the troubles and evils of life, although -many and inevitable, when, as in your case, unaccompanied by grievous -calamity or bodily infirmity, are after all easy to be borne, -especially by a wise and strong man like yourself. And indeed, life -itself is of so little importance, that man ought not to trouble -himself much either to retain or abandon it; and, without thinking -greatly about it, we ought to give the former instinct precedence over -the latter. - -If a friend begged you to do this, why should you not gratify him? - -Now I earnestly entreat you, dear Porphyrius, by the memory of our -long friendship, put away this idea. Do not grieve your friends, who -love you with such warm affection, and your Plotinus,[2] who has no -dearer nor better friend in the world. Help us to bear the burden -of life, instead of leaving us without a thought. Let us live, dear -Porphyrius,[3] and console each other. Let us not refuse our share of -the sufferings of humanity, apportioned to us by destiny. Let us cling -to each other with mutual encouragement, and hand in hand strengthen -one another better to bear the troubles of life. Our time after all -will be short; and when death comes, we will not complain. In the last -hour, our friends and companions will comfort us, and we shall be -gladdened by the thought that after death we shall still live in their -memory, and be loved by them. - - -[Footnote 1: "Ennui is a state only experienced by the intelligent. -The greater the mind, the more constant, painful, and terrible is the -ennui it suffers. Ennui is in some respects the sublimest of human -sentiments" (_Leopardi's "Pensieri_" Nos. lxvii. and lxviii.)] - -[Footnote 2: _Plotinus_ was born 204 A.D. He began teaching philosophy -in Rome, and was highly esteemed at court. Eunapius says of him, "The -heavenly elevation of his mind, and his perplexed style, made him very -tiresome and unpleasant." He was ascetic in his habits; disparaged -patriotism; depreciated material things; purposely forgot his birthday; -and acted altogether rather as a spectator of other men's lives than as -a living man himself.] - -[Footnote 3: _Porphyrius_ was born 233 A.D. He was a pupil of Plotinus, -and like him established a school of philosophy at Rome. From study of -the writings of Plotinus he fell into a state of disgust with life, -and retiring from Rome, lived alone in a solitary and wild part of -Sicily. Here he determined to put an end to his life by starvation. -He was found by Plotinus, who had followed him from Rome, in a state -of extreme weakness, and was, by his wise counsels, dissuaded from -completing his intention.] - - - - -_COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF MARCUS BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS._ - - -I think, in all ancient history there can be found no words more -lamentable and terrifying, yet withal, speaking humanly, more -true, than those uttered by Marcus Brutus shortly before death, in -disparagement of virtue. This is what, according to Dionysius Cassius, -he is reported to have said:-- - -"O miserable virtue! Thou art but a mere phrase, and I have followed -thee, as though thou wert a reality. Fate is stronger than thee." - -Plutarch, in his life of Brutus, makes no mention of this, which has -induced Pier Vettori to conclude that Cassius has here taken licence -in prose often accorded to poetry. But its truth is confirmed by the -witness of Florus, who states that Brutus, when at the point of death, -exclaimed, that virtue was "an expression, and not a reality." - -Many people are shocked at those words of Brutus, and blame him for -uttering them. They infer from their meaning, either that virtue -is a sealed book to them, or else that they have never experienced -ill-fortune. The former inference alone is credible. In any case, it -is certain they but slightly understand, and still less realise the -unhappiness of human affairs, or else they stupidly wonder why the -doctrines of Christianity were not in force before the time of Christ. - -Other people interpret these words as demonstrating that Brutus was -not after all the noble and pious man he was supposed to have been. -They imagine that just before death he threw off the mask. But they are -wrong; and if they give Brutus credit for sincerity in uttering these -words in repudiation of virtue, let them consider how it were possible -for him to abandon what he never possessed, or to disassociate himself -from that with which he never had any association. If they think he was -insincere, and spoke designedly and with ostentation, let them explain -what object he could have in speaking vain and fallacious words, and -immediately afterwards acting in accordance with them? Are facts -deniable, simply because they are not in harmony with words? - -Brutus was a man overwhelmed by a great and unavoidable catastrophe. -He was disheartened, and wearied with life and fortune, and having -abandoned all desires and hopes, the deceitfulness of which he had -experienced, he determined to take his destiny into his own hands, and -to put an end to his unhappiness. Why should he, at the very moment -of eternal separation from his fellows, trouble to hunt the phantom -of glory, and study to give forth words and thoughts to deceive those -around him, and to gain human esteem, when he was about to leave -humanity for ever? What was it to him that he might gain a reputation -on that earth which appeared so hateful and contemptible to him? - -These words of Brutus are well known to most of us. The following -utterance of Theophrastus at the point of death is, I believe, less -known, though very worthy of consideration. It forms a parallel with -that of Brutus, both as to its substance and time of delivery. Diogenes -Laertius mentions it, not, in my opinion, as original to himself, but -as an extract from some more ancient and important work. He says that -Theophrastus, just before death, being asked by his disciples whether -he would leave them any token or words of advice, replied: - -"None, except that man despises and rejects many pleasures for the sake -of glory. But no sooner does he begin to live than death overtakes him. -Hence the love of glory is as fatal a thing as possible. Strive to live -happily: abandon studies, which are a weariness; or cultivate them only -so that they may bring you fame. Life is more vain than useful. As for -me, I have no time to think more about it; you must study what is most -expedient." So saying, he died. - -Other sayings of Theophrastus on this occasion are mentioned by Cicero -and St. Jerome. These are better known, but have nothing to do with our -subject. - -It would seem that Theophrastus lived to the age of more than a -hundred, having devoted all his lifetime to study and writing, and -having been an unwearied pursuer of glory. Suidas says that his death -was due to the excess of his studies, and that he died surrounded by -about two thousand of his disciples and followers, reverenced for his -wisdom throughout the whole of Greece, regretting his pursuit of glory, -just as Brutus repented of virtue. These two words, glory and virtue, -were by the ancients regarded as almost synonymous in meaning, though -it is not so in the present day. Theophrastus did not indeed say that -glory is more frequently a matter of fortune than merit, which is -oftener true now than in former times; but had he said so, there would -have been no difference between his idea and that of Brutus. - -Such abjurations, or rather apostasies, of those noble errors which -beautify, nay compose our very life, are of daily occurrence. They -are due to the fact that the human intelligence in process of time -discovers, not only the nakedness, but even the skeleton of things: -wisdom also, which was regarded by the ancients as the consolation -and chief cure for our unhappiness, has been obliged to impeach our -condition, and almost requires a consolation for itself, since had -not men followed it, they would not have known the greatness of their -misfortune, or at least would have been able to remedy it with hope. -But the ancients used to believe, according to the teaching of Nature, -that things were things, and not appearances, and that human life was -destined to partake of happiness as well as unhappiness. Consequently, -such apostasies as these were very rare, and were the result not of -passions and vices, but of a sentiment and realisation of the truth of -things. Therefore they deserve careful and philosophical consideration. - -The words of Theophrastus are the more surprising when we think of -the circumstances in which he died. He was prosperous and successful; -and it would seem as though he could not have a single cause for -regret. His chief aim, glory, he had succeeded in acquiring long -ago. The utterance of Brutus, on the other hand, was one of those -inspirations of misfortune which sometimes open out a new world to -our minds, and persuade us of truths that require a long time for -the mere intelligence to discover. Misfortune may indeed be compared -in its effect to the frenzy of lyric poets, who at a glance, as if -situated in a lofty place, take in as much of the domain of human -knowledge as requires many centuries before it be discerned by -philosophers. In almost all ancient writings (whether philosophical, -poetical, historical, or aught else), we meet with many very sorrowful -expressions, common enough to us nowadays, but strange to the people of -those times. These sentences, however, were mostly due to the innate -or accidental misfortune of the writer, or the persons who spoke them, -whether imaginary or real. And rarely we find on the monuments of the -ancients any expression of the sadness or ennui which they felt because -of the unreality of happiness, or their misfortunes, whether natural, -or due to force of circumstances. For when they suffered, they lamented -their sufferings as the only hindrance to their happiness, which they -not only considered it possible to obtain, but even man's right, -although Fate proved sometimes too strong. - -Now, let us seek what could have placed in the mind of Theophrastus -this sentiment about the vanity of glory and life, which, considering -his epoch and nation, is an extraordinary one. In the first place, -we find that the studies of this philosopher were not limited to one -or two branches of science. The record of his writings, which are -mostly lost, informs us that his knowledge included little less than -everything then knowable. And this universal science was not like -that of Plato, subordinated to his imagination, but conformed to the -teaching of Aristotle in being the result of experience and reason; its -aim, too, was not the discovery of the beautiful, but that which is its -especial contrary, the useful. This being so, it is not wonderful that -Theophrastus should attain to the height of human wisdom,--that is, a -knowledge of the vanity of life, and wisdom itself. For it is a fact -that the numerous discoveries made recently by philosophers about the -nature of men and things, are chiefly the result of a comparison and -synthesis of the different sciences and studies, whereby the mutual -connection between the most distant parts of nature is demonstrated. - -Besides, from his book of "Characters" we learn how clearly -Theophrastus discerned the qualities and manners of men; indeed, with -the exception of the poets, very few ancient writers equal him in -this respect. And this faculty is the sure sign of a mind capable of -numerous, diverse, and powerful sensations. For, to produce a keen -representation of the moral qualities and passions of men, the writer -relies less on what actual facts he may have collected, or observations -made, about the manners of others, than on his own mind, even though -his personal habits be very different from those of his subjects. - -Massillon was asked one day what enabled him to describe so naturally -the habits and feelings of men, who, like himself, lived more in -solitude than society. He replied: "I contemplate myself." Dramatists -and other poets do the same thing. Now a many-sided mind, subtle in -discernment, cannot but feel the nakedness and absolute unhappiness -of life; it acquires a tendency to sadness after meditation excited -by numerous studies, especially such as are concerned with the very -essence of things, like the speculative sciences. - -It is certain that Theophrastus, who loved study and glory above -everything, and was master or rather founder of a very numerous school, -knew and formally announced the uselessness of human exertions, -including his own teaching and that of others; the little affinity -existing between virtue and happiness of life; and the superior power -of fortune to merit in the acquirement of happiness, equally among -the wise and others. In this respect, perhaps, he was superior to -all the Greek philosophers, especially those preceding Epicurus, -from whom both in manners and thought he was essentially different. -This is owing partly to circumstances already mentioned, and is also -due to other things referred to by ancient writers on the subject -of his teaching It would seem as though his own fate has proved the -truth of his doctrine. For he is not esteemed by modern philosophers -as he ought to be, since all his moral writings are lost, with the -exception of his "Characters." His writings, too, on the subjects of -politics and laws, and almost all those relating to metaphysics, are -also missing. Besides, the ancient philosophers were little inclined -to give him credit for keener perception than they possessed; on the -contrary, many of them, especially such as were shallow and conceited, -blamed and ill-treated him. These men taught that the wise man is -essentially happy, and that virtue and wisdom suffice to procure -happiness; although they were only too well aware of the contrary, even -supposing they had any real knowledge of either the one or the other. -Philosophers will never be cured of this idea. Even the philosophy of -the present day teaches the same thing; whereas, correctly speaking, it -can only say that everything beautiful, delightful, and great, is mere -falsity and nothingness. - -But to return to Theophrastus. Most of the ancients were incapable of -the profound and sorrowful sentiment that inspired him. "Theophrastus -is roughly handled by all the philosophers in their writings and -schools for having praised this saying of Callisthenes: 'Fortune, not -wisdom, is the mistress of life.' They consider that no philosopher -ever gave expression to a weaker sentiment." So says Cicero, who in -another place remarks that Theophrastus in his book about "The Happy -Life," attributed much influence to fortune, which he considered a most -important factor of happiness. Again, he adds, "Let us make much use of -Theophrastus; but give virtue more reality and value than he gave to -it." - -Perhaps it may be imagined from these remarks that Theophrastus had -little sympathy with the weaknesses of human nature, and that he -waged war against their influence in public and private life, both -by his writings and actions. It might also be thought that he would -restrict the empire of the imagination in favour of that of reason. As -a matter of fact, he did just the contrary. Concerning his actions, -we read in Plutarch's book against Colotes that our philosopher twice -freed his country from a tyranny. As for his teachings, Cicero says -that Theophrastus in a writing on the subject of "Wealth," dilated -at considerable length on the advantages of magnificence and pomp -at the shows and national festivals; indeed he considered the chief -usefulness of riches to lie in the consequent power of expenditure -that accompanied them. This idea is blamed and ridiculed by Cicero, -with whom, however, I will not discuss the question, for his -superficial knowledge of philosophy might have easily led him to a -wrong conclusion. I imagine Cicero to have been a man rich in civil and -domestic virtues, but ignorant of the greatest stimulants and bulwarks -of virtue that the world possesses, namely, those things that are -peculiarly adapted to excite and arouse the mind, and exercise the -powers of the imagination. - -I will merely say that those men among, the ancients and moderns -who knew best and realised most strongly and deeply the nullity of -everything, and the force of truth, have not only refrained from -endeavouring to lead others to their condition, but have even laboured -hard to conceal and disguise it from themselves. They acted like men -who had learnt from experience the wretchedness that resulted from -wisdom and knowledge. Many celebrated examples of this are furnished, -especially in recent times. Truly, if our philosophers fully understood -what they endeavour to teach, and realised in their own persons the -consequences of their philosophy, instead of welcoming their knowledge, -they would hate and abhor it. They would strive to forget what they -know, and to shut' their eyes to that which they see. They would take -refuge, as their best resource, in those sweet unrealities, which -Nature herself has placed in all our minds; nor would they think it -well to enforce on others the doctrine of the nothingness of all -things. If, however, desire of glory should incite them to do this -last, they will admit that in this part of the universe we can only -live by putting faith in things that are non-existent. - -There is another considerable difference between the circumstances -of Theophrastus and Brutus, that of time. When Theophrastus lived, -the influence of those fictions and phantoms which ruled the thoughts -and actions of the ancients, had not departed. The epoch of Brutus, -on the other hand, may be termed the last age of the imagination. -Knowledge and experience of the truth prevailed amongst the people. -Had it not been so, Brutus need not have fled from life as he did, -and the Roman republic would not have died with him. And not only the -republic, but also the whole of antiquity, that is, the old customs -and characteristics of the civilised world, were at the point of -death, together with the opinions which gave birth to, and supported -them. Life had already lost its value, and wise men sought to console -themselves not so much for their fate as for existence itself; because -they regarded it as incredible that man should be born essentially -and solely for misery. Thus they arrived at the conception of another -life, which might explain the reason of virtue and noble actions. Such -explanation had hitherto been found in life itself, but was so no -longer, nor was it ever again to be found there. - -To these ideas of futurity are due the noble sentiments often expressed -by Cicero, especially in his oration for Archias. - - - - -_DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND._ - - -_Friend_. I have read your book. It is as melancholy as usual. - -_Tristano_. Yes, as usual. - -_Friend_. Melancholy, disconsolate, hopeless. It is clear that this -life appears to you an abominable thing. - -_Tristano_. How can I excuse myself? I was then so firmly convinced of -the truth of my notion about the unhappiness of life. - -_Friend_. Unhappy it may be. But even then, what good ... - -_Tristano_. No, no; on the contrary, it is very happy. I have changed -my opinion now. But when I wrote this book I had that folly in my -head, as I tell you. And I was so full of it, that I should have -expected anything rather than to doubt the truth of what I wrote on the -subject. For I thought the conscience of every reader would assuredly -bear witness to the truth of my statements. I imagined there might -be differences of opinion as to the use or harm of my writings, but -none as to their truth. I also believed that my lamentations, since -they were aroused by misfortunes common to all, would be echoed in -the heart of every one who heard them. And when I afterwards felt -impelled to deny, not merely some particular observation, but the whole -fabric of my book, and to say that life is not unhappy, and that if -it seemed so to me, it must have been the effect of illness, or some -other misfortune peculiar to myself, I was at first amazed, astonished, -petrified, and for several days as though transported into another -world. Then I began to think, and was a little irritated with myself. -Finally I laughed, and said to myself that the human race possesses -a characteristic common to husbands. For a married man who wishes -to live a quiet life, relies on the fidelity of his wife, even when -half the world knows she is faithless. Similarly, when a man takes -up his abode in any country, he makes up his mind to regard it as -one of the best countries in the world, and he does so. For the same -reason, men, desiring to live, agree to consider life a delightful and -valuable thing; they therefore believe it to be so, and are angry with -whoever is of the contrary opinion. Hence it follows, that in reality -people always believe, not the truth, but what is, or appears to be, -best for them. The human race, which has believed, and will continue -to put faith in so many absurdities, will never acknowledge that it -knows nothing, that it is nothing, and that it has nothing to hope. No -philosopher teaching any one of these three things would be successful, -nor would he have followers, and the populace especially would refuse -to believe in him. For, apart from the fact that all three doctrines -have little to recommend them to any one who wishes to live, the two -first offend man's pride, and they all require courage and strength -of mind in him who accepts them. Now, men are cowards, of ignoble and -narrow minds, and always anticipating good, because always ready to -vary their ideas of good according to the necessities of life. They -are very willing, as Petrarch says, to surrender to fortune; very -eager and determined to console themselves in any misfortune; and -to accept any compensation in exchange for what is denied them, or -for that which they have lost; and to accommodate themselves to any -condition of life, however wicked and barbarous. When deprived of any -desirable thing, they nourish themselves on illusions, from which they -derive as much satisfaction as if their conceptions were the most -genuine and real things in the world. As for me, I cannot refrain from -laughing at the human race, enamoured of life, just as the people in -the south of Europe laugh at husbands enamoured of faithless wives. -I consider men show very little courage in thus allowing themselves -to be deceived and deluded like fools; they are not only content to -bear the greatest sufferings, but also are willing to be as it were -puppets of Nature and Destiny. I here refer to the deceptions of the -intellect, not the imagination. Whether these sentiments of mine are -the result of illness, I do not know; but I do know that, well or ill, -I despise men's cowardice, I reject every childish consolation and -illusive comfort, and am courageous enough to bear the deprivation of -every hope, to look steadily on the desert of life, to hide no part of -our unhappiness, and to accept all the consequences of a philosophy, -sorrowful but true. This philosophy, if of no other use, gives the -courageous man the proud satisfaction of being able to rend asunder the -cloak that conceals the hidden and mysterious cruelty of human destiny. - -This I said to myself, almost as though I were the inventor of this -bitter philosophy, which I saw rejected by every one as a new and -unheard-of thing. But, on reflection, I found that it dated from the -time of Solomon, Homer, and the most ancient poets and philosophers, -who abound with fables and sayings which express the unhappiness of -human life. One says that "man is the most miserable of the animals." -Another that, "it were better not to be born, or, being born, to die in -the cradle." Again, "whom the gods love, die young;" besides numberless -other similar sayings. And I also remembered that from then even until -now, all poets, philosophers, and writers, great and small, have in one -way or another echoed and confirmed the same doctrines. - -Then I began to think again, and spent a long time in a state of -wonder, contempt, and laughter. At length I turned to study the matter -more deeply, and came to the conclusion that man's unhappiness is one -of the innate errors of the mind, and that the refutation of this idea, -through the demonstration of the happiness of life, is one of the -greatest discoveries of the nineteenth century. Now, therefore, I am at -peace, and confess I was wrong to hold the views I previously held. - -_Friend_. Then have you changed your opinion? - -_Tristano_. Of course. Do you imagine I should oppose the discoveries -of the nineteenth century? - -_Friend_. Do you believe all the century believes? - -_Tristano_. Certainly. Why not? - -_Friend_. You believe then in the infinite perfectibility of the human -race, do you not? _Tristano_. Undoubtedly. - -_Friend_. Do you also believe that the human race actually progresses -daily? - -_Tristano_. Assuredly. It is true that sometimes I think one of the -ancients was physically worth four of us. And the body is the man; -because (apart from all else) high-mindedness, courage, the passions, -capacity for action and enjoyment, and all that ennobles and vivifies -life, depend on the vigour of the body, without which they cannot -exist. The weak man is not a man, but a child, and less than a child, -because it is his fate to stand aside and see others live. All he can -do is to chatter. Life is not for him. Hence in olden times, and even -in more enlightened ages, weakness of body was regarded as ignominious. - -But with us, it is very long since education deigned to think of such -a base and abject thing as the body. The mind is its sole care. Yet, -in its endeavours to cultivate the mind, it destroys the body without -perceiving that the former is also necessarily destroyed. And even if -it were possible to remedy this false system of education, it would be -impossible to discover, without a radical change in the state of modern -society, any cure for the other inconveniences of life, whether public -or private. - -Everything that formerly tended to preserve and perfect the body, seems -to-day to be in conspiracy for its destruction. The consequence is, -that, compared with the ancients, we are little better than children, -and they in comparison with us may indeed be termed perfect men. I -refer equally to individuals in comparison with individuals, as to the -masses (to use this most expressive modern term) compared to the masses. - -I will add also that the superior vigour of the ancients is manifested -in their moral and metaphysical systems. - -But I do not allow myself to be influenced by such trifling objections, -and I firmly believe that the human race is perpetually in a state of -progression. - -_Friend_. You believe also, if I rightly understand you, that -knowledge, or, as, it is called, enlightenment, continually increases. - -_Tristano_. Assuredly. Although I observe that the desire of knowledge -grows in proportion as the appreciation for study diminishes. And, -astonishing to say, if you count up the number of truly learned men who -lived contemporaneously a hundred and fifty years ago, or even later, -you will find them incomparably more numerous than at present. It may -perhaps be said that learned people are rare nowadays because knowledge -is more universally disseminated, instead of being confined to the -heads of a few; and that the multitude of educated people compensate -for the rarity of learned people. But knowledge is not like riches, -which whether divided or accumulated, always make the same total. In a -country where every one knows a little, the total knowledge is small; -because knowledge begets knowledge, but will not bear dispersion. -For superficial instruction cannot indeed be divided amongst many, -though it may be common to many unlearned men. Genuine knowledge -belongs only to the learned, and depth in knowledge to the few that -are very learned. And, with rare exceptions, only the man who is very -learned, and possessed of an immense fund of knowledge, is able to add -materially to the sum of human science. Now, in the present time, it is -daily more difficult to discover a really learned man, save perhaps in -Germany, where science is not yet dethroned. - -I utter these reflections simply for the sake of a little talk and -philosophising, not because I doubt for a single moment the truth of -what you say. Indeed, were I to see the world quite full of ignorant -impostors on the one hand, and presumptuous fools on the other, I -should still hold to my present belief that knowledge and enlightenment -are on the increase. - -_Friend_. Of course, then, you believe that this century is superior to -all the preceding ones? - -_Tristano_. Decidedly. All the centuries have had this opinion of -themselves; even those of the most barbarous ages. The present century -thinks so, and I agree with it. But if you asked me in what it is -superior to the others, and whether in things pertaining to the body or -the mind, I should refer you to what I said just now on the subject of -progress. - -_Friend_. In short, to sum it up in two words, do you agree with what -the journals say about nature, and human destiny? We are not now -talking of literature or politics, on which subjects their opinion is -indisputable. - -_Tristano_. Precisely. I bow before the profound philosophy of -the journals, which will in time supersede every other branch of -literature, and every serious and exacting study. The journals are the -guides and lights of the present age. Is it not so? - -_Friend_. Very true. Unless you are speaking ironically, you have -become one of us. - -_Tristano_. Yes. Certainly I have. - -_Friend_. Then what shall you do with your book? Will you allow it to -go down to posterity, conveying doctrines so contrary to the opinions -you now hold? - -_Tristano_. To posterity? Permit me to laugh, since you are no doubt -joking; if I thought otherwise, I should laugh all the more. For it -is not a personal matter, but one relating to the individuals and -individual things of the nineteenth century; about whom and which there -is no fear of the judgment of posterity, since they will know no more -about the matter than their ancestors knew. "Individuals are eclipsed -in the crowd," as our modern thinkers elegantly say; which means, that -the individual need not put himself to any inconvenience, because, -whatever his merit, he can neither hope for the miserable reward of -glory, in reality, nor in his dreams. - -Leave therefore the masses to themselves; although I would ask the -wiseacres who illumine the world in the present day, to explain how the -masses can do anything without the help of the individuals that compose -them. - -But to return to my book, and posterity. Books now are generally -written in less time than is necessary for reading them. Their worth is -proportioned to their cost, and their longevity to their value. It is -my opinion that the twentieth century will make a very clean sweep of -the immense bibliography of the nineteenth. Perhaps however it will say -something to this effect: "We have here whole libraries of books which -have cost some twenty, some thirty years of labour, and some less, but -all have required very great exertion; let us read these first, because -it is probable there is much to be learnt from them. These at an end, -we will pass to lighter literature." - -My friend, this is a puerile age, and the few men remaining are -obliged to hide themselves for very shame, resembling, as they do, -a well-formed man in a land of cripples. And these good youths of -the century are desirous of doing all that their ancestors did. Like -children they wish to act on the spur of the moment, without any -laborious preparation. They would like the progress of the age to be -such as to exempt them and their successors from all fatiguing study -and application in the acquirement of knowledge. For instance, a -commercial friend of mine told me the other day that even mediocrity -has become very rare. Scarcely any one is fit to fulfil properly the -duty which devolves upon him, either by necessity or choice. This -seems to me to mark the true distinction between this century and -the preceding ones. At all times greatness has been rare; but in -former centuries mediocrity prevailed, whereas in our century nullity -prevails. All people wish to be everything. Hence, there is such -confusion and riot, that no attention is paid to the few great men -who are still to be found, and who are unable to force a way through -the vast multitude of rivals. Thus, whilst the lowest people believe -themselves illustrious, obscurity and success in nothing is the common -fate both of the highest and lowest. - -But, long live statistics! Long live the sciences, economical, moral, -and political; the pocket encyclopdias; the manuals of everything; -and all the other fine creations of our age! And may the nineteenth -century live for ever! For though poor in results, it is yet very rich -and great in promise, which' is well known to be the best of signs. Let -us therefore console ourselves that for sixty-six[1] more years this -admirable century will have the talking to itself, and will be able to -utter its own opinions. - -_Friend_. You speak, it seems, somewhat ironically. But you ought at -least to remember that this is a century of transition. - -_Tristano_. What do you infer from that? All centuries have been, and -will be, more or less transitional; because human society is never -stationary, and will never at any time attain to a fixed condition. -It follows therefore that this fine word is either no excuse for the -nineteenth century, or is one common to all the centuries. It remains -to be seen whether the transition now in progress is from good to -better, or from bad to worse. - -But perhaps you mean to say that the present age is especially -transitional, inasmuch as it is a rapid passage from one state of -civilisation to another, absolutely different. In which case I would -ask your permission to laugh at this rapidity. Every transition -requires a certain amount of time, and when too rapidly accomplished, -invariably relapses, and the progress has to recommence from the -very beginning. Thus it has always been. For nature does not advance -by leaps; and when forced, no durable result is obtained. In short, -precipitous transitions are only apparent transitions, and do not -represent genuine progress. - -_Friend_. I advise you not to talk in this fashion with every one, -because if you do you will gain many enemies. - -_Tristano_. What does it matter? Henceforth, neither enemies nor -friends can do me much harm. - -_Friend_. Very probably you will be despised as one incapable of -comprehending the spirit of modern philosophy, and who cares little for -the progress of civilisation and the sciences. - -_Tristano_. I should be very sorry for that; but what can I do? If I am -despised, I will endeavour to console myself. - -_Friend_. But have you, or have you not, changed your opinions? And -what is to be done about your book? - -_Tristano_. It would be best to burn it. If it be not burnt, it may be -preserved as a book full of poetic dreams, inventions, and melancholy -caprices; or better, as an expression of the unhappiness of the writer. -Because, I will tell you in confidence, my dear friend, that I believe -you and every one else to be happy. As for myself, however, with your -permission, and that of the century, I am very unhappy, and all the -journals of both worlds cannot persuade me to the contrary. - -_Friend_. I do not know the cause of this unhappiness of which you -speak. But a man is the best judge of his own happiness or unhappiness, -and his opinion cannot be wrong. - -_Tristano_. Very true. And more, I tell you frankly that I do not -submit to my unhappiness, nor bow the head, and come to terms with -Destiny, like other men. I ardently wish for death above everything, -with such warmth and sincerity as I firmly believe few have desired it. - -I would not speak to you thus, if I were not sure that when the time -came I should not belie my words. I may add that although I do not -yet foresee the end of my life, I have an inward feeling that almost -assures me the hour of which I speak is not far distant. I am more -than ripe for death, and it seems to me too absurd and improbable, -that being dead spiritually, as I am, and the tale of my life being -told in every part, I should linger out the forty or fifty years with -which Nature threatens me. I am terrified at the mere thought of such -a thing. But, like all evils that exceed the power of imagination, -this seems to me a dream and illusion, devoid of truth. So that if any -one speaks to me about the distant future, as though I were to have a -part in it, I cannot help smiling to myself, so sure am I that I have -not long to live. This thought, I may say, alone supports me. Books -and studies, which I often wonder I ever loved, great designs, and -hopes of glory and immortality, are things now undeserving of even a -smile. Nor do I now laugh at the projects and hopes of this century. I -cordially wish them every possible success, and I praise, admire, and -sincerely honour their good intentions. But I do not envy posterity, -nor those who have still a long life before them. Formerly I used to -envy fools, imbeciles, and people with a high opinion of themselves, -and I would willingly have changed my lot with any one of them. Now, -I envy neither fools, nor the wise, the great, the small, the weak, -the powerful. I envy the dead, and with them alone would I exchange my -lot. Every pleasurable fancy, every thought of the future that comes -to me in my solitude, and with which I pass away the time, is allied -with the thought of death, from which it is inseparable. And in this -longing, neither the remembrance of my childish dreams, nor the thought -of having lived in vain, disturbs me any more as formerly. When death -comes to me, I shall die as peacefully and contentedly as if it were -the only thing for which I had ever wished in the world. This is the -sole prospect that reconciles me to Destiny. - -If, on the one hand, I were offered the fortune and fame of Csar or -Alexander, free from the least stain; and, on the other hand, death -to-day, I should unhesitatingly choose to die to-day. - - -[Footnote 1: Written in 1834.] - - - -THE END. - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Essays and Dialogues, by Giacomo Leopardi - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES *** - -***** This file should be named 52356-8.txt or 52356-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/3/5/52356/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org -(Images generously made available by the Bodleian Libraries, -Oxford.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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