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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..39e9694 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66522 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66522) diff --git a/old/66522-0.txt b/old/66522-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0a4a053..0000000 --- a/old/66522-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5104 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Learning and Other Essays, by John Jay -Chapman - -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: Learning and Other Essays - -Author: John Jay Chapman - -Release Date: October 11, 2021 [eBook #66522] - -Language: English - -Produced by: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive/American - Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEARNING AND OTHER -ESSAYS *** - - - - - - LEARNING - AND - OTHER ESSAYS - - BY - JOHN JAY CHAPMAN - - NEW YORK - MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY - 1910 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1910 - BY JOHN JAY CHAPMAN - - _Electrotyped by - The Maple Press - York, Pa._ - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGES - - LEARNING 1 - - PROFESSORIAL ETHICS 39 - - THE DRAMA 53 - - NORWAY 83 - - DOCTOR HOWE 89 - - JESTERS 149 - - THE COMIC 155 - - THE UNITY OF HUMAN NATURE 175 - - THE DOCTRINE OF NON-RESISTANCE 193 - - CLIMATE 207 - - THE INFLUENCE OF SCHOOLS 213 - - THE ÆSTHETIC 235 - - - - -LEARNING. - - -An expert on Greek Art chanced to describe in my hearing one of the -engraved gems in the Metropolitan Museum. He spoke of it as ‘certainly -one of the great gems of the world,’ and there was something in his -tone that was even more thrilling than his words. He might have been -describing the Parthenon or Beethoven’s Mass,--such was the passion of -reverence that flowed out of him as he spoke. I went to see the gem -afterwards. It was badly placed, and for all artistic purposes was -invisible. I suppose that even if I had had a good look at it, I should -not have been able to appreciate its full merit. Who could?--save the -handful of adepts in the world, the little group of gem-readers, by -whom the mighty music of this tiny score could be read at sight. - -Nevertheless it was a satisfaction to me to have seen the stone. I knew -that through its surface there poured the power of the Greek world; -that not without Phidias and Aristotle, and not without the Parthenon, -could it have come into existence. It carried in its bosom a digest -of the visual laws of spiritual force, and was as wonderful and as -sacred as any stone could well be. Its value to mankind was not to be -measured by my comprehension of it, but was inestimable. As Petrarch -felt toward the Greek manuscript of Homer which he owned but could not -read, so did I feel toward the gem. - -What is Education? What are Art and Religion and all those higher -interests in civilization which are always vaguely held up to us as -being the most important things in life? These things elude definition. -They cannot be put into words except through the interposition of -what the Germans call ‘a metaphysic.’ Before you can introduce them -into discourse, you must step aside for a moment and create a theory -of the universe; and by the time you have done this, you have perhaps -befogged yourself and exhausted your readers. Let us be content with -a more modest ambition. It is possible to take a general view of -the externals of these subjects without losing reverence for their -realities. It is possible to consider the forms under which art and -religion appear,--the algebra and notation by which they have expressed -themselves in the past,--and to draw some general conclusion as to the -nature of the subject, without becoming entangled in the subject itself. - -We may deal with the influence of the gem without striving exactly to -translate its meaning into speech. We all concede its importance. We -know, for instance, that the admiration of my friend the expert was no -accident. He found in the design and workmanship of the intaglio the -same ideas which he had been at work on all his life. Greek culture -long ago had become a part of this man’s brain, and its hieroglyphs -expressed what to him was religion. So of all monuments, languages, -and arts which descend to us out of the past. The peoples are dead, -but the documents remain; and these documents themselves are part of -a living and intimate tradition which also descends to us out of the -past,--a tradition so familiar and native to the brain that we forget -its origin. We almost believe that our feeling for art is original with -us. We are tempted to think there is some personal and logical reason -at the back of all grammar, whether it be the grammar of speech or the -grammar of architecture,--so strong is the appeal to our taste made -by traditional usage. Yet the great reason of the power of art is the -historic reason. ‘In this manner have these things been expressed: in -similar manner must they continue to be said.’ So speaks our artistic -instinct. - -Good usage has its sanction, like religion or government. We transmit -the usage without pausing to think why we do so. We instinctively -correct a child, without pausing to reflect that the fathers of the -race are speaking through us. When the child says, ‘Give me a apple,’ -we correct him--“You must say, ‘An apple.’” What the child really -means, in fact, is an apple. - -All teaching is merely a way of acquainting the learner with the body -of existing tradition. If the child is ever to have anything to say -of his own, he has need of every bit of this expressive medium to -help him do it. The reason is, that, so far as expressiveness goes, -only one language exists. Every experiment and usage of the past is a -part of this language. A phrase or an idea rises in the Hebrew, and -filters through the Greek or Latin and French down to our own time. -The practitioners who scribble and dream in words from their childhood -up,--into whose habit of thought language is kneaded through a thousand -reveries,--these are the men who receive, reshape, and transmit it. -Language is their portion, they are the priests of language. - -The same thing holds true of the other vehicles of idea, of painting, -architecture, religion, etc., but since we have been speaking of -language, let us continue to speak of language. Expressiveness follows -literacy. The poets have been tremendous readers always. Petrarch, -Dante, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe, Byron, Keats--those of -them who possessed not much of the foreign languages had a passion -for translations. It is amazing how little of a foreign language you -need if you have a passion for the thing written in it. We think of -Shakespeare as of a lightly-lettered person; but he was ransacking -books all day to find plots and language for his plays. He reeks with -mythology, he swims in classical metaphor: and, if he knew the Latin -poets only in translation, he knew them with that famished intensity -of interest which can draw the meaning through the walls of a bad -text. Deprive Shakespeare of his sources, and he could not have been -Shakespeare. - -Good poetry is the echoing of shadowy tongues, the recovery of -forgotten talent, the garment put up with perfumes. There is a passage -in the Tempest which illustrates the freemasonry of artistic craft, -and how the weak sometimes hand the torch to the mighty. Prospero’s -apostrophe to the spirits is, surely, as Shakespearian as anything in -Shakespeare and as beautiful as anything in imaginative poetry. - - “Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves; - And ye, that in the sands with printless foot - Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him, - When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that - By moonshine do the sour ringlets make, - Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime - Is to make midnight mushrooms that rejoice - To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid - (Weak masters though ye be) I have bedimmed - The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds, - And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault - Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder - Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak - With his own bolt: the strong-bas’d promontory - Have I made shake; and by the spurs pluck’d up - The pine and cedar: graves at my command - Have waked their sleepers; oped and let them forth - By my so potent art.” - -Shakespeare borrowed this speech from Medea’s speech in Ovid, which -he knew in the translation of Arthur Golding; and really Shakespeare -seems almost to have held the book in his hand while penning Prospero’s -speech. The following is from Golding’s translation, published in 1567: - - “Ye Ayres and windes; ye Elves of Hilles - and Brooks, of Woods alone, - Of standing Lakes and of the Night approach - ye every chone. - Through helpe of whom (the crooked banks much - wondering at the thing) - I have compelled streams to run clean backward - to their spring. - By charmes I make the calm seas rough, and make - the rough Seas plaine. - And cover all the Skie with Clouds and chase them - thence again. - By charmes I raise and lay the windes, and burst the - Viper’s jaw. - And from the bowels of the Earth both stones and trees - doe draw. - Whole woods and Forestes I remove: I make the - Mountains shake, - And even the Earth it selfe to grone and fearfully - to quake. - I call up dead men from their graves: and thee O - lightsome Moone - I darken oft, though beaten brasse abate thy - perill soone. - Our Sorcerie dims the Morning faire, and darkes - the Sun at Noone. - The flaming breath of fierie Bulles ye quenched - for my sake. - And caused their unwieldie neck the bended yokes - to take. - Among the Earthbred brothers you a mortell war - did set - And brought a sleepe the Dragon fell whose eyes - were never shut.” - -There is, and is to be, no end of this reappearance of old metaphor, -old trade secret, old usage of art. No sooner has a masterpiece -appeared, that summarizes all knowledge, than men get up eagerly -the next morning with chisel and brush, and try again. Nothing done -satisfies. It is all in the making that the inspiration lies; and this -endeavor renews itself with the ages, and grows by devouring its own -offspring. - -The technique of any art is the whole body of experimental knowledge -through which the art speaks. The glazes of pottery become forgotten -and have to be hit upon over again. The knack of Venetian glass, the -principle of effect in tiles, in lettering, in the sonnet, in the -fugue, in the tower,--all the prestidigitation of art that is too -subtle to be named or thought of, must yet be acquired and kept up by -practice, held to by constant experiment. - -Good artistic expression is thus not only a thing done: it is a way -of life, a habit of breathing, a mode of unconsciousness, a world of -being which records itself as it unrolls. We call this world Art for -want of a better name; but the thing that we value is the life within, -not the shell of the creature. This shell is what is left behind in the -passage of time, to puzzle our after-study and make us wonder how it -was made, how such complex delicacy and power ever came to co-exist. I -have often wondered over the _Merchant of Venice_ as one wonders -over a full-blown transparent poppy that sheds light and blushes like a -cloud. Neither the poppy nor the play were exactly hewn out: they grew, -they expanded and bloomed by a sort of inward power,--unconscious, -transcendent. The fine arts blossom from the old stock,--from the -poppy-seed of the world. - -I am here thinking of the whole body of the arts, the vehicles through -which the spirit of man has been expressed. I am thinking also of -the sciences,--whose refractory, belligerent worshipers are even less -satisfied with any past expression than the artists are, for their -mission is to destroy and to rearrange. They would leave nothing -alive but themselves. Nevertheless, science has always been obliged -to make use of written language in recording her ideas. The sciences -are as much a part of recorded language as are the arts. No matter how -revolutionary scientific thought may be, it must resort to metaphysics -when it begins to formulate its ultimate meanings. Now when you -approach metaphysics, the Greek and the Hebrew have been there before -you: you are very near to matters which perhaps you never intended to -approach. You are back at the beginning of all things. In fact, human -thought does not advance, it only recurs. Every tone and semi-tone in -the scale is a keynote; and every point in the Universe is the centre -of the Universe; and every man is the centre and focus of the cosmos, -and through him passes the whole of all force, as it exists and has -existed from eternity; hence the significance which may at any moment -radiate out of anything. - -The different arts and devices that time hands to us are like our -organs. They are the veins and arteries of humanity. You cannot -rearrange them or begin anew. Your verse-forms and your architecture -are chosen for you, like your complexion and your temperament. The -thing you desire to express is in them already. Your labors do no more -than enable you to find your own soul in them. If you will begin any -piece of artistic work in an empirical spirit and slave over it until -it suits you, you will find yourself obliged to solve all the problems -which the artists have been engaged on since the dawn of history. Be as -independent as you like, you will find that you have been anticipated -at every point: you are a slave to precedent, because precedent has -done what you are trying to do, and, ah, how much better! In the -first place, the limitations, the horrible limitations of artistic -possibility, will begin to present themselves; few things can be done: -they have all been tried: they have all been worked to death: they have -all been developed by immortal genius and thereafter avoided by lesser -minds,--left to await more immortal genius. The field of endeavor -narrows itself in proportion to the greatness of the intellect that is -at work. In ages of great art everyone knows what the problem is and -how much is at stake. Masaccio died at the age of twenty-seven, after -having painted half a dozen pictures which influenced all subsequent -art, because they showed to Raphael the best solution of certain -technical questions. The Greeks of the best period were so very -knowing that everything appeared to them ugly except the few attitudes, -the few arrangements, which were capable of being carried to perfection. - -Anyone who has something to say is thus found to be in one sense a -slave, but a rich slave who has inherited the whole earth. If you can -only obey the laws of your slavery, you become an emperor: you are only -a slave in so far as you do not understand how to use your wealth. -If you have but the gift of submission, you conquer. Many tongues, -many hands, many minds, a traditional state of feeling, traditional -symbols,--the whole passed through the eyes and soul of a single -man,--such is art, such is human expression in all its million-sided -variety. - - -II. - -I have thrown together these remarks in an elliptical and haphazard -way, hoping to show what sort of thing education is, and as a prologue -to a few reflections upon the educational conditions in the United -States. - -It is easy to think of reasons why the standards of general education -should be low in America. Almost every influence which is hostile -to the development of deep thought and clear feeling has been at -the maximum of destructive power in the United States. We are a new -society, made of a Babel of conflicting European elements, engaged in -exploiting the wealth of a new continent, under conditions of climate -which involve a nervous reorganization to Europeans who come to live -with us. Our history has been a history of quiet colonial beginnings, -followed by a national life which, from its inception, has been one of -social unrest. And all this has happened during the great epoch of the -expansion of commerce, the thought-destroying epoch of the world. - -Let us take a rapid glance at our own past. In the beginning we were -settlers. Now the settlement of any new continent plays havoc with -the arts and crafts. Let us imagine that among the Mayflower pilgrims -there had been a few expert wood-carvers, a violin player or two, and a -master architect. These men, upon landing in the colony, must have been -at a loss for employment. They would have to turn into backwoodsmen. -Their accomplishments would in time have been forgotten. Within a -generation after the landing of the pilgrims there must have followed -a decline in the fine arts, in scholarship, and in certain kinds of -social refinement. This decline was, to some extent, counteracted in -our colonial era by the existence of wealth in the Colonies and by the -constant intercourse with Europe, from which the newest models were -imported by every vessel. Nevertheless, it is hard for a colony to -make up for its initial loss; and we have recently seen the United -States government making efforts on a large scale to give to the -American farmer those practices of intensive cultivation of the soil -which he lost by becoming a backwoodsman and has never since had time -to recover for himself. - -The American Revolution was our second serious set-back in education. -So hostile to culture is war that the artisans of France have never -been able to attain to the standards of workmanship which prevailed -under the old monarchy. Our national culture started with the handicap -of a seven years’ war, and was always a little behindhand. During the -nineteenth century the American citizen has been buffeting the waves -of new development. His daily life has been an experiment. His moral, -social, political interests and duties have been indeterminate; nothing -has been settled for him by society. Is a man to have an opinion? -Then he must make it himself. This demands a more serious labor than -if he were obliged to manufacture his own shoes and candlesticks. No -such draught upon individual intellect is made in an old country. You -cannot get a European to understand this distressing overtaxing of the -intelligence in America. Nothing like it has occurred before, because -in old countries opinion is part of caste and condition: opinion is -the shadow of interest and of social status. - -But in America the individual is not protected against society at -large by the bulwark of his class. He stands by himself. It is a noble -idea that a man should stand by himself, and the conditions which -force a man to do so have occasionally created magnificent types of -heroic manhood in America. Lincoln, Garrison, Emerson, and many lesser -athletes are the fruits of these very conditions which isolate the -individual in America and force him to think for himself. Yet their -effect upon general cultivation has been injurious. It seems as if -character were always within the reach of every human soul; but men -must have become homogeneous before they can produce art. - -We have thus reviewed a few of the causes of our American loss -of culture. Behind all these causes, however, was the true and -overmastering cause, namely, that sudden creation of wealth for which -the nineteenth century is noted, the rise all over the world of new -and uneducated classes. We came into being as a part of that world -movement which has perceptibly retarded culture, even in Europe. How, -then, could we in America hope to resist it? Whether this movement is -the result of democratic ideas, or of mechanical inventions, or of -scientific discovery, no one can say. The elements that go to make -up the movement cannot be unraveled. We only know that the world has -changed: the old order has vanished with all its charm, with all its -experience, with all its refinement. In its place we have a crude -world, indifferent to everything except physical well-being. In the -place of the fine arts and the crafts we have business and science. - -Business is, of course, devoted to the increase of physical well-being; -but what is Science? Now, in one sense, science is anything that -true scientific men of the moment happen to be studying. In one -decade, science means the discussion of spontaneous generation, or -spontaneous variation, in the next of plasm, in the next of germs, -or of electrodes. Whatever the scientific world takes up as a study -becomes “science.” It is impossible to deny the truth of this rather -self-destructive definition. In a more serious sense, however, science -is the whole body of organized knowledge; and a distinction is -sometimes made between “pure” science and “applied” science; the first -being concerned solely with the ascertainment of truth, the second, -with practical matters. - -In these higher regions, in which science is synonymous with the search -for truth, science partakes of the nature of religion. It purifies -its votaries; it speaks to them in cryptic language, revealing certain -exalted realities not unrelated to the realities of music, or of -poetry and religion. The men through whom this enthusiasm for pure -science passes are surely, each in his degree, transmitters of heroic -influence; and, in their own way, they form a kind of priesthood. It -must be confessed, too, that this priesthood is peculiarly the product -of the nineteenth century. - -The Brotherhood of Science is a new order, a new Dispensation. It -would seem to me impossible to divide one’s feeling toward science -according to the divisions “pure” and “applied”; because many men in -whom the tide of true enthusiasm runs the strongest deal in applied -science, as, for instance, surgeons, bacteriologists, etc. Nor ought we -to forget those great men of science who have an attitude of sympathy -toward all human excellence, and a reverence for things which cannot -be approached through science. Such men resemble those saints who have -also, incidentally, been kings and popes. Their personal magnitude -obliterates our interest in their position in the hierarchy. We think -of them as men, not as popes, kings or scientists. In the end we must -admit that there are as many kinds of science as there are of men -engaged in scientific pursuits. The word science legitimately means -an immense variety of things, loosely connected together, some of -them deserving of strong reprobation. I shall use the term with such -accuracy as I am able to command, and leave it to the candid reader to -make allowance for whatever injustice this course may entail. - -To begin with, we must find fault with the Brotherhood of Science on -much the same ground that we fought the old religions, upon grounds -of tyranny and narrowness, of dogmatism and presumption. In the next -place, it is evident that, in so far as science is not hallowed by -the spirit of religion, it is a mere extension of business. It is the -essence of world-business, race-business, cosmic-business. It saves -time, saves lives, and dominates the air and the sea; but all these -things may be accomplished, for ought we know, in the course of the -extinction of the better nature of mankind. Science is not directly -interested in the expression of spiritual truth; her notation cannot -include anything so fluctuating, so indeterminate, as the language of -feeling. Science neither sings nor jokes; neither prays nor rejoices; -neither loves nor hates. This is not her fault; but her limitation. Her -fault is that, as a rule, she respects only her own language and puts -trust only in what is in her own shop window. - -I deprecate the contempt which science expresses for anything that -does not happen to be called science. Imperial and haughty science -proclaims its occupancy of the whole province of human thought; yet, -as a matter of fact, science deals in a language of its own, in a set -of formulae and conceptions which cannot cover the most important -interests of humanity. It does not understand the value of the fine -arts and is always at loggerheads with philosophy. Is it not clear that -science, in order to make good her claim to universality, must adopt a -conception of her own function that shall leave to the fine arts and -to religion their languages? She cannot hope to compete with these -languages, nor to translate or expound them. She must accept them. At -present she tramples upon them. - -There are, then, in the modern world these two influences which are -hostile to education,--the influence of business and the influence of -uninspired science. In Europe these influences are qualified by the -vigor of the old learning. In America they dominate remorselessly, and -make the path of education doubly hard. Consider how they meet us in -ordinary social life. We have all heard men bemoan the time they have -spent over Latin and Greek on the ground that these studies did not -fit them for business,--as if a thing must be worthless if it can be -neither eaten nor drunk. It is hard to explain the value of education -to men who have forgotten the meaning of education: its symbols convey -nothing to them. - -The situation is very similar in dealing with scientific men,--at least -with that large class of them who have little learning and no religion, -and who are thus obliged to use the formulae of modern science as their -only vehicle of thought. These men regard humanity as something which -started up in Darwin’s time. They do not listen when the humanities -are mentioned; and if they did they would not understand. When Darwin -confessed that poetry had no meaning for him, and that nothing -significant was left to him in the whole artistic life of the past, -he did not know how many of his brethren his words were destined to -describe. - -We can forgive the business man for the loss of his birthright: he -knows no better. But we have it against a scientist if he undervalues -education. Surely, the Latin classics are as valuable a deposit as the -crustacean fossils, or the implements of the Stone Age. When science -shall have assumed her true relation to the field of human culture we -shall all be happier. To-day science knows that the silkworm must be -fed on the leaves of the mulberry tree, but does not know that the -soul of man must be fed on the Bible and the Greek classics. Science -knows that a queen bee can be produced by care and feeding, but does -not as yet know that every man who has had a little Greek and Latin -in his youth belongs to a different species from the ignorant man. No -matter how little it may have been, it reclassifies him. There is more -kinship between that man and a great scholar than there is between the -same man and some one who has had no classics at all: he breathes from -a different part of his anatomy. Drop the classics from education? Ask -rather, Why not drop education? For the classics are education. We -cannot draw a line and say, ‘Here we start.’ The facts are the other -way. We started long ago, and our very life depends upon keeping alive -all that we have thought and felt during our history. If the continuity -is taken from us, we shall relapse. - -When we discover that these two tremendous interests--business and -commercial science have arisen in the modern world and are muffling -the voice of man, we tremble for the future. If these giants shall -continue their subjugation of the gods, the whole race, we fear, may -relapse into dumbness. By good fortune, however, there are other -powers at work. The race is emotionally too rich and too much attached -to the past to allow its faculties to be lost through disuse. New -and spontaneous crops will soon be growing upon the mould of our own -stubbly, thistle-bearing epoch. - -In the meantime we in America must do the best we can. It is no secret -that our standards of education are below those of Europe. Our art, -our historical knowledge, our music and general conversation, show a -stiffness and lack of exuberance--a lack of vitality and of unconscious -force--the faults of beginners in all walks of life. During the last -twenty-five years much improvement has been made in those branches -of cultivation which depend directly upon wealth. Since the Civil -War there seems to have been a decline in the higher literature, -accompanied by an advance in the plastic arts. And more recently -still there has been a literary reawakening, perhaps not of the most -important kind, yet signifying a new era. If I may employ an obvious -simile, I would liken America to a just-grown man of good impulses -who has lacked early advantages. He feels that cultivation belongs -to him; and yet he cannot catch it nor hold it. He feels the impulse -of expression, and yet he can neither read nor write. He feels that -he is fitted for general society, and yet he has no current ideas or -conversation. And, of course--I say it with regret, but it is a part of -the situation--of course he is heady and proud of himself. - -What do we all desire for this ingenuous youth on whom the postponed -expectation of the world, as Emerson called it, has waited so long? -We desire only to furnish him with true advantages. Let us take a -simultaneous survey of the two extremities of the youth’s education, -namely, of nursery training and of the higher education. The two -are more intimately dependent upon each other than is generally -suspected. With regard to the nursery, early advantages are the key -to education. The focus of all cultivation is the fireside. Learning -is a stove plant that lives in the cottage and thrives during the -long winter in domestic warmth. Unless it be borne into children in -their earliest years, there is little hope for it. The whole future -of civilization depends upon what is read to children before they can -read to themselves. The world is powerless to reconvey itself through -any mind that it has not lived in from the beginning,--so hard is the -language of symbols, whether in music, or in poetry, or in painting. -The art must expand with the heart, as a hot rod of glass is touched by -the gold-leaf, and is afterwards blown into dusty stars and rainbows of -mantling irradiation. If the glass expand before it has been touched by -the metal, there is no means of ever getting the metal into it. - -The age of machinery has peopled this continent with promoters and -millionaires, and the work of a thousand years has been done in a -century. The thing has, however, been accomplished at some cost. An -ignorant man makes a fortune and demands the higher education for his -children. But it is too late: he should have given it to them when he -was in his shirt sleeves. All that they are able to receive now is -something very different from education. In receiving it they drag down -the old standards. School and college are filled with illiterates. The -whole land must patiently wait till Learning has warmed back to life -her chilled and starved descendants. Perhaps the child or grandchild of -the fortune-builder will teach the children on his knee what he himself -learned too late in life to stead him much. - -Hunger and thirst for learning is a passion that comes, as it were, -out of the ground; now in an age of wealth, now in an age of poverty. -Young men are born whom nothing will satisfy except the arts and the -sciences. They seek out some scholar at a university and aim at him -from boyhood. They persuade their parents to send them to college. -They are bored and fatigued by everything that life offers except this -thing. Now, society does not create this hunger. All that society can -do is to provide nourishment of the right kind, good instruction, true -learning, the best scholarship which history has left behind. I believe -that to-day there is a spirit of learning abroad in America--here and -there, in the young--the old insatiable passion. I feel as if men -were arising--most of them still handicapped by the lack of early -training--to whom life has no meaning except as a search for truth. -This exalted famine of the young scholar is the hope of the world. -It is religion and art and science in the chrysalis. The thing which -society must beware of doing is of interposing between the young -learner and his natural food some mechanical product or patent food -of its own. Good culture means the whole of culture in its original -sources; bad culture is any substitute for this. - -Let us now examine the higher departments of education, the university, -the graduate school, the museum,--the learned world in America. -There is one function of learned men which is the same in every age, -namely, the production of text-books. Learned men shed text-books as -the oak sheds acorns, and by their fruits ye shall know them. Open -almost any primary text-book or school book in America, and you will, -on almost every page of it, find inelegancies of usage, roughnesses, -inaccuracies, and occasional errors of grammar. The book has been -written by an incompetent hand. Now, what has the writer lacked? Is -it grammar? Is it acquaintance with English literature, with good -models, with the Bible, with history? It is all these things, and more -than all. No school-room teaching can make a man write good English. -No school teaching ever made an educated man, or a man who could -write a good primary text-book. It requires a home of early culture, -supplemented by the whole curriculum of scholarship and of university -training. Nothing else but this great engine will produce that -little book. - -The same conditions prevail in music. If you employ the nearest -excellent young lady music teacher to teach your boys to play the -piano, she will bring into the house certain child’s music written -by American composers, in which the rules of harmony are violated -and of which the sentiment is vulgar. The books have been written by -incompetent people. There is a demand for such books and they are -produced. They are the best the times afford: let us be glad that they -exist at all and that they are no worse. But note this: it will require -the whole musical impulse of the age, from the oratorio society and the -musical college down to the street organ, to correct the grammar of -that child’s music book. Ten or twenty years from now a like book will -perhaps be brought into your home, filled with better harmony and with -truer musical feeling; and the change will have been wrought through -the influence of Sebastian Bach, of Beethoven,--of the masters of music. - -It is the same with all things. The higher culture must hang over the -cradle, over the professional school, over the community. If you read -the lives of the painters of Italy or of the musicians of Germany, you -will find that, no matter where a child of genius was born, there was -always an educated man to be found in the nearest village--a priest or -a schoolmaster--who gave the child the rudiments himself, and became -the means of sending him to the university. Without this indigent -scholar, where would have been the great master? - -It is familiarity with greatness that we need--an early and first-hand -acquaintance with the thinkers of the world, whether their mode of -thought was music or marble or canvas or language. Their meaning is not -easy to come at, but in so far as it reaches us it will transform us. A -strange thing has occurred in America. I am not sure that it has ever -occurred before. The teachers wish to make learning easy. They desire -to prepare and peptonize and sweeten the food. Their little books -are soft biscuit for weak teeth, easy reading on great subjects; but -these books are filled with a pervading error: they contain a subtle -perversion of education. - -Learning is not easy, but hard; culture is severe. The steps to -Parnassus are steep and terribly arduous. This truth is often -forgotten among us; and yet there are fields of work in which it is -not forgotten, and in such fields art springs up. Let us remember -the accomplishments of our country. The art in which we now most -excel is architecture. America has in it many beautiful buildings and -some learned architects. And how has this come about? Through severe -and conscientious study of the monuments of art, through humble, -old-fashioned training. The architects have had firstrate text-books, -generally written by Europeans, the non-peptonized, gritty, serious -language of masters in the craft. Our painters have done something of -the same sort. They have gone to Europe, and are conversant with what -is being done in Europe. If they are developing their art here, they do -it not ignorantly, but with experience, with consciousness of the past. - -I do not recommend subserviency to Europe, but subserviency to -intellect. Recourse to Europe we must have: our scholars must absorb -Europe without themselves becoming absorbed. It is a curious thing -that the American who comes in contact with the old world exhibits two -opposite faults: he is often too much impressed and loses stamina, or -he is too little impressed and remains a barbarian. Contact with the -past and hard work are the cure for both tendencies. Europe is merely -an incidental factor in the problem of our education, and this is very -well shown in our conduct of our law schools. The Socratic method of -instruction in law schools was first introduced at Harvard, and since -then it has spread to many parts of the world. This is undoubtedly -one of our best achievements in scholarship; and Europe had, so far -as I know, no hand in it. The method consists in the _viva voce_ -discussion of leading cases, text-books being used merely as an -auxiliary: the student thus attacks the sources themselves. Here we -have American scholarship at its best, and it is precisely the same -thing as the European article: it is simply scholarship. - -If we can exhibit this spirit in one branch of learning, why not in -all? The Promethean fire is one single element. A spark of this fire -is all that is needed to kindle this flame. The glance of a child -of genius at an Etruscan vase leaves the child a new being. That is -why museums exist: not only for the million who get something from -them, but for the one young person of intelligence to whom they mean -everything. - -Our American universities exhibit very vividly all the signs of -retardation in culture, which are traceable in other parts of our -social life. A university is always a stronghold of the past, and is -therefore one of the last places to be captured by new influence. -Commerce has been our ruler for many years; and yet it is only quite -recently that the philosophy of commerce can be seen in our colleges. -The business man is not a monster; but he is a person who desires to -advance his own interests. This is his occupation and, as it were, -his religion. The advancement of material interests constitutes -civilization to him. He unconsciously infuses the ideas and methods -of business into anything that he touches. It has thus come about in -America that our universities are beginning to be run as business -colleges. They advertise, they compete with each other, they pretend -to give good value to their customers. They desire to increase their -trade, they offer social advantages and business openings to their -patrons. In some cases they boldly conduct intelligence offices, and -guarantee that no hard work done by the student shall be done in -vain: a record of work is kept during the student’s college life, and -the college undertakes to furnish him at any time thereafter with -references and a character which shall help him in the struggle for -life. - -This miscarriage of education has been developed and is being conducted -by some of our greatest educators, through a perfectly unconscious -adaptation of their own souls to the spirit of the age. The underlying -philosophy of these men might be stated as follows: “There is nothing -in life nobler than for a man to improve his condition and the -condition of his children. Learning is a means to this end.” Such is -the current American conception of education. How far we have departed -from the idea of education as a search for truth, or as the vehicle -of spiritual expression, may be seen herein. The change of creeds has -come about innocently, and the consequences involved in it are, as yet, -perceived by hardly anyone. The scepticism inherent in the new creed is -concealed by its benevolence. You wish to help the American youth. This -unfortunate, benighted, ignorant boy, who has from his cradle heard -of nothing but business success as the one goal of all human effort, -turns to you for instruction. He comes to you in a trusting spirit, -with reverence in his heart, and you answer his hope in this wise: -‘Business and social success are the best things that life affords. -Come to us, my dear fellow, and we will help you toward them.’ Your -son asks you for bread and you give him a stone, for fish and you give -him a serpent. It would have been better for that boy if he had never -come to your college, for in that case he might have retained a belief -that somewhere in the world there existed ideas, art, enthusiasm, -unselfishness, inspiring activity. - -In so far as our universities have been turning into business agencies, -they have naturally lost their imaginative importance. Our professors -seem to be of little more consequence in the community than the -department managers of other large shops. If learning is a useful -commodity which is to be distributed for the personal advantage of the -recipients, it is a thing to be paid for rather than to be worshiped. -To be sure, the whole of past history cannot be swept away in a day, -and we have not wholly discarded a certain conventional and rhetorical -reverence for learning. A dash and varnish of education are thought to -be desirable,--the wash that is growing every year more thin. - -Now, the truth is that the higher education does not advance a man’s -personal interests except under special circumstances. What it gives -a man is the power of expression; but the ability to express himself -has kept many a man poor. Let no one imagine that society is likely to -reward him for self-expression in any walk of life. He is much more -likely to be punished for it. The question of a man’s success in life -depends upon society at large. The more highly an age is educated, -the more highly it rewards education in the individual. In an age of -indifference to learning, the educated man is at a disadvantage. Thus -the thesis that education advances self-interest--that thesis upon -which many of our colleges are now being conducted--is substantially -false. The little scraps and snatches of true education which a man -now gets at college often embarrass his career. Our people are finding -this out year by year, and as they do so, they naturally throw the true -conception of the higher education overboard. If education is to break -down as a commercial asset, what excuse have they for retaining it at -all? They will force the colleges to live up to the advertisements and -to furnish the kind of education that pays its way. It is clear that if -the colleges persist in the utilitarian view, the higher learning will -disappear. It has been disappearing very rapidly, and can be restored -only through the birth of a new spirit and of a new philosophic -attitude in our university life. - -There are ages when the scholar receives recognition during his -lifetime and when the paths which lead to his lecture-room are filled -with men drawn there by his fame. This situation arises in any epoch -when human intellect surges up and asserts itself against tyranny and -ignorance. In the past the tyrannies have been political tyrannies, and -these have become well understood through the struggles of intellect -in the past; but the present commercial tyranny is a new thing and -as yet little understood. It lies like a heavy fog of intellectual -depression over the whole kingdom of Mammon, and is fed by the smoke -from a million factories. The artist works in it, the thinker thinks -in it. Even the saint is born in it. The rain of ashes from the -nineteenth-century Vesuvius of business seems to be burying all our -landscape. - -And yet this is not true. We shall emerge: even we who are in America -and suffer most. The important points to be watched are our university -class-rooms. If our colleges will but allow something unselfish, -something that is true for its own sake, something that is part of the -history of the human heart and intellect, to live in their class-rooms, -the boys will find their way to it. The museum holds the precious -urn, to preserve it. The university, in like manner, stands to house -the alphabets of civilization--the historic instruments and agencies -of intellect. They are all akin to each other as the very name and -function of the place imply. The presidents and professors who sit -beside the fountains of knowledge bear different labels and teach -subjects that are called by various names. But the thing which carries -the label is no more than the shell. The life you cannot label; and -it is to foster this life that universities exist. Enthusiasm comes -out of the world and goes into the university. Toward this point flow -the currents of new talent that bubble up in society: here is the -meeting-place of mind. All that a university does is to give the -poppy-seed to the soil, the oil to the lamp, the gold to the rod of -glass before it cools. A university brings the spirit in touch with its -own language, that language through which it has spoken in former days -and through which alone it shall speak again. - - - - -PROFESSORIAL ETHICS. - - -When I was at a university as an undergraduate--I will not say how many -years ago--I received one morning a visit from a friend who was an -upper classman; for, as I remember it, I was a freshman at the time. -My friend brought a petition, and wished to interest me in the case -of a tutor or assistant professor, a great favorite with the college -boys, who was about to be summarily dismissed. There were, to be sure, -vague charges against him of incompetence and insubordination; but of -the basis of these charges his partisans knew little. They only felt -that one of the bright spots in undergraduate life surrounded this -same tutor; they liked him and they valued his teaching. I remember no -more about this episode, nor do I even remember whether I signed the -petition or not. The only thing I very clearly recall is the outcome: -the tutor was dismissed. - -Twice or thrice again during my undergraduate life, did the same -thing happen--a flurry among the students, a remonstrance much too -late, against a deed of apparent injustice, a cry in the night, and -then silence. Now, had I known more about the world, I should have -understood that these nocturnal disturbances were signs of the times, -that what we had heard in all these cases was the operation of the -guillotine which exists in every American institution of learning, and -runs fast or slow according to the progress of the times. The thing -that a little astonished the undergraduate at the time was that in -almost every case of summary decapitation the victim was an educated -gentleman. And this was not because no other kind of man could be found -in the faculty. It seemed as if some whimsical fatality hung over the -professorial career of any ingenuous gentleman who was by nature a -scholar of the charming, old-fashioned kind. - -Youth grieves not long over mysterious injustice, and it never occurred -to me till many years afterward that there was any logical connection -between one and another of all these judicial murders which used to -claim a passing tear from the undergraduate at Harvard. It is only -since giving some thought to recent educational conditions in America, -that I have understood what was then happening, and why it was that a -scholar could hardly live in an American University. - -In America, society has been reorganized since 1870; the old -universities have been totally changed and many new ones founded. The -money to do this has come from the business world. The men chosen to -do the work have been chosen by the business world. Of a truth, it -must needs be that offenses come; but woe be unto him through whom the -offense cometh. As the Boss has been the tool of the business man in -politics, so the College president has been his agent in education. -The colleges during this epoch have each had a “policy” and a -directorate. They have been manned and commissioned for a certain kind -of service, as you might man a fishing-smack to catch herring. There -has been so much necessary business--the business of expanding and -planning, of adapting and remodeling--that there has been no time for -education. Some big deal has always been pending in each college--some -consolidation of departments, some annexation of a new world--something -so momentous as to make private opinion a nuisance. In this regard -the colleges have resembled everything else in America. The colleges -have simply not been different from the rest of American life. Let a -man express an opinion at a party caucus, or at a railroad directors’ -meeting, or at a college faculty meeting, and he will find that he is -speaking against a predetermined force. What shall we do with such a -fellow? Well, if he is old and distinguished, you may suffer him to -have his say, and then override him. But if he is young, energetic, and -likely to give more trouble, you must eject him with as little fuss as -the circumstances will permit. - -The educated man has been the grain of sand in the college machine. He -has had a horizon of what “ought to be,” and he could not help putting -in a word and an idea in the wrong place; and so he was thrown out -of education in America exactly as he was thrown out of politics in -America. I am here speaking about the great general trend of influences -since 1870, influences which have been checked in recent years, checked -in politics, checked in education, but which it is necessary to -understand if we would understand present conditions in education. The -men who, during this era, have been chosen to become college presidents -have, as a rule, begun life with the ambition of scholars; but their -talents for affairs have been developed at the expense of their taste -for learning, and they have become hard men. As toward their faculties -they have been autocrats, because the age has demanded autocracy here; -as toward the millionaire they have been sycophants, because the age -has demanded sycophancy here. Meanwhile these same college presidents -represent learning to the imagination of the millionaire and to the -imagination of the great public. The ignorant millionaire must trust -somebody; and whom he trusts he rules. Now if we go one step further -in the reasoning, and discover that the millionaire himself has a -somewhat exaggerated reverence for the opinions of the great public, -we shall see that this whole matter is a coil of influence emanating -from the great public, and winding up--and generally winding up very -tight--about the necks of our college faculties and professional -scholars. The millionaire and the college president are simply middle -men, who transmit the pressure from the average citizen to the learned -classes. What the average citizen desires to have done in education -gets itself accomplished, though the process should involve the -extinction of the race of educated gentlemen. The problem before us in -America is the unwinding of this “knot intrinsicate” into which our -education has become tied, the unwinding of this boa-constrictor of -ignorant public opinion which has been strangling and, to some extent, -is still strangling our scholars. - -I have no categorical solution of the problem, nor do I, to tell the -truth, put an absolute faith in any analysis of social forces, even -of my own. If I point out one of the strands in the knot as the best -strand to begin work on, it is with the consciousness that there are -other effectual ways of working, other ways of feeling about the matter -that are more profound. - -The natural custodians of education in any age are the learned men -of the land, including the professors and schoolmasters. Now these -men have, at the present time, in America no conception of their -responsibility. They are docile under the rule of the promoting college -president, and they have a theory of their own function which debars -them from militant activity. The average professor in an American -college will look on at an act of injustice done to a brother professor -by their college president, with the same unconcern as the rabbit who -is not attacked watches the ferret pursue his brother up and down -through the warren, to predestinate and horrible death. We know, -of course, that it would cost the non-attacked rabbit his place to -express sympathy for the martyr; and the non-attacked is poor, and has -offspring, and hopes of advancement. The non-attacked rabbit would, -of course, become a suspect, and a marked man the moment he lifted up -his voice in defense of rabbit-rights. Such personal sacrifice seems -to be the price paid in this world for doing good of any kind. I am -not, however, here raising the question of general ethics; I refer to -the philosophical belief, to the special theory of _professorial_ -ethics, which forbids a professor to protect his colleague. I invite -controversy on this subject; for I should like to know what the -professors of the country have to say on it. It seems to me that -there exists a special prohibitory code, which prevents the college -professor from using his reason and his pen as actively as he ought in -protecting himself, in pushing his interests, and in enlightening the -community about our educational abuses. The professor in America seems -to think that self-respect requires silence and discretion on his part. -He is too great to descend into the arena. He thinks that by nursing -this gigantic reverence for the idea of professordom, such reverence -will, somehow, be extended all over society, till the professor becomes -a creature of power, of public notoriety, of independent reputation -as he is in Germany. In the meantime, the professor is trampled upon, -his interests are ignored, he is overworked and underpaid, he is of -small social consequence, he is kept at menial employments, and the -leisure to do good work is denied him. A change is certainly needed in -all of these aspects of the American professor’s life. My own opinion -is that this change can only come about through the enlightenment of -the great public. The public must be appealed to by the professor -himself in all ways and upon all occasions. The professor must teach -the nation to respect learning and to understand the function and the -rights of the learned classes. He must do this through a willingness to -speak and to fight for himself. In Germany there is a great public of -highly educated, nay of deeply and variously learned people, whose very -existence secures pay, protection, and reverence for the scholar. The -same is true in France, England, and Italy. - -It is the public that protects the professor in Europe. The public -alone can protect the professor in America. The proof of this is that -any individual learned man in America who becomes known to the public -through his books or his discoveries, or his activity in any field of -learning or research, is comparatively safe from the guillotine. His -position has at least some security, his word some authority. This man -has educated the public that trusts him, and he can now protect his -more defenseless brethren, if he will. I have often wondered, when -listening to the sickening tale of some brutality done by a practical -college president to a young instructor, how it had been possible for -the eminent men upon the faculty to sit through the operation without a -protest. A word from any one of them would have stopped the sacrifice, -and protected learning from the oppressor. But no, these eminent men -harbored ethical conceptions which kept them from interfering with -the practical running of the college. Merciful heavens! who is to run -a college if not learned men? Our colleges have been handled by men -whose ideals were as remote from scholarship as the ideals of the New -York theatrical managers are remote from poetry. In the meanwhile, the -scholars have been dumb and reticent. - -At the back of all these phenomena we have, as I have said, the general -atmospheric ignorance of the great public in America. We are so used to -this public, so immersed in it, so much a part of it ourselves, that -we are hardly able to gain any conception of what that atmospheric -ignorance is like. I will give an illustration which would perhaps -never have occurred to my mind except through the accident of actual -experience. If you desire a clue to the American in the matter of the -higher education, you may find one in becoming a school trustee in -any country district where the children taught are the children of -farmers. The contract with any country school-teacher provides that he -shall teach for so many weeks, upon such and such conditions. Now let -us suppose a teacher of genius to obtain the post. He not only teaches -admirably, but he institutes school gardens for the children; he takes -long walks with the boys, and gives them the rudiments of geology. He -is in himself an uplifting moral influence, and introduces the children -into a whole new world of idea and of feeling. The parents are pleased. -I will not say that they are grateful; but they are not ungrateful. It -is true that they secretly believe all this botany and moral influence -to be rubbish; but they tolerate it. Now, let us suppose that before -the year is out the teacher falls sick, and loses two weeks of school -time through absence. You will find that the trustees insist upon his -making up this lost time; the contract calls for it. This seems like a -mean and petty exaction for these parents to impose upon a saint who -has blessed their children, unto the third and fourth generation, by -his presence among them. But let us not judge hastily. This strange -exaction does not result so much from the meanness of the parents, as -from their intellectual limitations. To these parents the hours passed -in school are schooling; the rest does not count. The rest may be -pleasant and valuable, but it is not education. - -In the same way, the professional and business classes in America do -not see any point in paying salaries to professors who are to make -researches, or write books, or think beautiful thoughts. The influence -which an eminent man sheds about him by his very existence, the change -in tone that comes over a rude person through his once seeing the face -of a scholar, the illumination of a young character through contact -with its own ideals--such things are beyond the ken of the average -American citizen to-day. To him, they are fables, to him they are -foolishness. The parent of our college lad is a farmer compared to the -parent of the European lad. - -The American parent regards himself as an enlightened being--yet he -has not, in these matters, an inkling of what enlightenment is. Now, -the intelligence of that parent must be reached; and the learned -classes must do the work of reaching it. The Fathers of the Christian -church made war with book and speech on Paganism. The leaders of the -Reformation went out among the people and made converts. The patriots -of the American Revolution--nay, the fathers of modern science, Tyndal, -Huxley, Louis Agaziz, Helmholtz--wrote popular books and sought to -interest and educate the public by direct contact. Then let the -later-coming followers in learning imitate this popular activity of the -old leaders: we need a host of battlers for the cause. - -For whom do these universities exist, after all? Is it not for the -people at large? Are not the people the ultimate beneficiaries? Then -why should the people not be immediately instructed in such manner as -will lead to their supporting true universities? It is hard to say why -our professors are so timid. Perhaps too great a specialization in -their own education has left them helpless, as all-around fighters. But -the deeper reason seems to be a moral one; they think such activity is -beneath them. It is not beneath them. Whatever be a man’s calling, it -is not beneath him to make a fight for the truth. As for a professor’s -belonging to a mystic guild, no man’s spiritual force is either -increased or diminished by the name he calls his profession. Learning -is their cause, and every honest means to promote learning should be -within their duty. Nor does duty alone make this call for publicity. -Ambition joins in it; the legitimate personal ambition of making one’s -mind and character felt in the world. This blow once struck means -honor, and security of tenure in office, it means public power. - -In fine, the scholars should take the public into their confidence -and dominate the business men on our college boards. This will be -found more easy than at first appears, because the money element, the -millionaire element, is very sensitive to public feeling, and once the -millionaire succumbs, the college president will succumb also. The step -beyond this would consist in the scholars’ taking charge of the college -themselves, merely making use of certain business men on their boards -for purposes of financial administration. - - - - -THE DRAMA. - - -When a subject is too complex and too subtle to admit of any adequate -analysis, people dogmatize about it. They believe that they are thus -recurring to first principles. But what are the principles? That -is just what no one can state. The drama is one of those difficult -subjects which lure the writer on and draw him out. It is a subject -upon which ideas flow easily, theories form of themselves, and -convictions deepen in the very act of improvisation. The writer who -will trust his own inspiration can hardly fail to end by saying -something very true about the drama. That is the trouble with the -drama: so many things are true of it. It is scarcely less confusing -than human life itself. The difficult thing is to strike some balance -between all these interlocking and oscillating truths. - -Consider, for example, how many and illusive are the influences that -go to make up a good dramatic performance. The elements are interwoven -in our consciousness, mingled and flowing together like motes in the -sunbeam, rising, falling, fading, changing, glowing, and ever suffering -transformation and re-birth, like the dream-things that they are. No -matter what you say about a performance you can hardly be sure that -you have hit upon the right explanation. Let us suppose that there -has been an evening of inspiring success. Some golden lead of the -imagination has sprung up and overshot one performance--paused, passed -and vanished--leaving audience and actors, and even critics, to account -for it as they may. You think you have a clue to the situation; but -you have barely time to rejoice over your discovery, when, on the next -evening, disaster follows from the same apparent causes as led to the -first success. The fact is that some unseen power has been at work upon -one evening and not upon the next. The weather, or the composition of -the audience, or the mood of the actors has changed. The fact is that -no two occasions are really alike; but they differ in so many ways that -one can scarcely catalogue their divergencies. - -There is no ill-considered thing that an author may write, or an actor -do on the stage, no mistake or violation of common sense and good -art, that may not be counterbalanced by some happiness which carries -the play in spite of it. And conversely, there is no well-reasoned, -profound, and true theory of play-writing or stage management which, -if logically carried out, may not prove the very vehicle of damnation. -The reason is that your theories are mere nets waved in the air some -miles below the stars which they seem to imprison. Your true theories -are true only to theory; the conditions always upset them. It is, -therefore, not without some trepidation that I tread the paths of this -subject. I almost fear the sound of my own voice and the conclusions -of my own reason. This fear shall be my compass, this the silken -thread, unwinding as I walk, which shall lead me back again out of the -labyrinth and into the daylight. - -The aim of any dramatic performance is to have something happen on a -stage that shall hold people’s attention for two hours and a half or -three hours. Anything that does this is a good drama; and there are as -many kinds of good drama as there are flowers in the meadow. All of -these species are closely related to each other. They are modifications -that spring up from the roots of old tradition, like shoots in an -asparagus bed. - -The different great divisions and species of drama depend on the size -and shape of the theatre used, more than on any other one thing. -For the great theatre you must have slow speech, or, at any rate, -a concentration of theme. For a small modern theatre you must have -quicker motion and more variety. Not only the actor but the playwright -must have some special size of theatre in his mind as he plans a play, -and must adapt his whole art to that size, as he fashions his work. -You might call this the first canon of the drama. - -Now, we have, at present, no controlling conventions, no overmastering -habits of thought about stage matters, and this leads us to forget -the original force, not to say tyranny, of convention in other ages. -England has had no controlling convention in stage matters since -Charles II’s time; and the English stage has thus become a free, wild -sort of place where anything is permitted. It is like the exhibition of -the “Independents” in Paris, where anyone may hire space and hang what -pictures he please, leaving the public to reward or punish him for his -temerity. - -The disadvantage of this condition of things is that the public -does not know what to expect, and therefore fine things may be -misunderstood. The playwright is not sufficiently supported by the -crutch of tradition. He has lost his task-master; but he has lost -also the key to expression. A well-developed, formal tradition is -as necessary to any powerful spiritual deliverance as a system of -punctuation is to writing. It was not until Haydn and Mozart had -developed the form of the symphony and sonata that Beethoven’s work -became possible. The same holds true of all the arts; the great artist -who finds no harness ready-made for his ideas must set to work like -Giotto to painfully create a makeshift of his own. - -If we have to-day no great tyrant of contemporary convention in any -of the arts, we have a hundred fashions. The age is eclectic; the -conventional side of art is at a discount. Now in the drama, the -conventional side of art is of peculiar importance. The more you -surprise an audience, the less you will please it. The thing that -entertains and relaxes people is to have something unmistakable and -easy unrolled before them; something in which the problems are plainly -stated and solved beyond the possibility of a doubt. The good man and -bad man must be labeled; and so must the different sorts of plays -receive labels--as, Comedy, Tragedy, Farce, Problem-play, Tank-drama, -etc.; otherwise a great part of the attention of the audience will be -exhausted in finding the right humor. The modern playwright has thus a -problem that is new to the stage, the problem of giving the grand cue -to the audience as to which kind of play is coming. - -After all, the condition of the contemporary stage is very much -like the condition of contemporary painting. Any good historical -gallery contains samples from the whole history of art. There are as -well-defined classes of pictures as there are of dramas: _e. g._, the -religious picture, the genre picture, the portrait, the landscape, -etc.; and within each of these classes there exists a world of -half-defined traditions in which educated persons are learned, and by -which all artists are somewhat controlled. Now each of these classes -was originally the product of an age devoted to it. But to-day the -artist is eclectic. He is eclectic in spite of himself because he is -not forced by universal expectation to do a particular thing: he must -choose. Whether he be painter or dramatist, the artist in Western -Europe to-day is born into an epoch of miscellaneous experiment. Let -him choose. The spread of international education has brought about -this state of things: art is becoming an international commodity. - -Let us return to the drama, and seize upon some convenient model of -a conventional play--for instance, the old-fashioned melodrama. What -a relief it is to find in the opening act of a play that we are upon -familiar ground, that we know very well what is coming and can enjoy -the elaboration of it. We must have a taste for the whole species or -we can never either like or understand the particular example. And -so also in judging of any drama of another age we must positively -bring the whole of the epoch to bear upon it or we are lost. The -Elizabethans before Shakespeare’s time had developed a drama of -horrors, or running-mad play, in which the audience knew from the -outset that someone was to be dogged and tortured and dragged through -a living Inferno before being thrown on the dung-hill. The audience -expected to be moved to awe and to a certain sort of solemn horror by -the tragedy. The play was to be in blank verse, a narrative play full -of incident--with a host of characters and many changes of imaginary -scene. The story was to be new to the audience and as exciting as -possible. Very often it had, to our modern thinking, no plot; but was -a helter-skelter of delirious cruelty, accompanied by torrents of -passionately excited words which sometimes broke into great poetry -and more often soared in a cloudland of divine bombast. The people -loved this language. They reveled in the rhetoric of the dialogue, and -wallowed in the boldness of the action. The first line, or even the -very name of a horror-play in Elizabeth’s time, was enough to throw the -audience into the proper mood. How mistaken is it for one of us to-day -to read any old play without conjuring up something of its epoch. - -Now let us remember the Greeks, since we cannot escape them. The -cultivated, conventional, logical, and over-civilized Greek wished -his tragedy to be elegant and in a just measure solemn, not to say -awe-inspiring. He expected this, much as we expect coffee after dinner -when we dine out. It was to be done through the means of one of the -old Greek myths, a thing half history, half fable in its complexion. - -In the days of Æschylus the Athenian audience was made up of -God-fearing, conservative people who could be moved to awe by the -contemplation of religious ideas, and by pictures of lofty moral -sufferings. But as time went on, the people became bored by the old -Greek religion, and it required more highly colored pictures to satisfy -them. In the days of Sophocles there is a certain amount of religious -feeling left in the people, though one feels that Sophocles is making -use of it for artistic purposes. In Euripides’ day, however, everything -has been used up in the way of big moral ideas, and the emphasis is -laid on the suffering. Mental agony is manipulated by a skilled hand. -The taste is refined, the logic is perfect, the art is wonderful; but -the dramas of Euripides were felt in his own day and thereafter to -be a little corrupt. People blame Euripides instead of blaming the -insensibility of the Athenian theatre-goer who required this sort of -enginery to make him weep delicious tears. The thing to be noted in -both of these instances--from the English and the Greek stage--is the -part played by the audience. It is only through a tacit consent on all -hands that a certain game shall be played, that very highly-finished, -complex and perfect works of art are produced. There is so much -to be conveyed by a drama that unless the audience will agree to -take nine-tenths of it for granted, the project is hopeless. The -conventions! These are the precious symbols which have been developed -by centuries of toil. They possess such telling value that by their aid -even mediocrity can do good things, and genius, miracles. How shall we -preserve them? - -The world of drama appears to-day to be at sea, by reason of the loss -of the great compass of a controlling dramatic tradition, yet this -is not quite true; because other influences--vague perhaps, yet very -authoritative--supply, in some degree, the place of the older tyrant, -custom. The controlling force of living dramatic practice has died away -in the world, and has become dissipated into a thousand traditions. -But in dying, it has left two influences as its heirs--namely, the -influence of criticism, and the influence of academic training. These -two watch-dogs of the drama tend to keep at least some record of the -past. They organize and classify the new varieties of drama which are -constantly springing up. For it appears that a new kind of drama is not -so very difficult a thing for a community to develop. The oratorio, for -example, and modern opera in all its forms, are even more artificial -than the Greek drama, and require an even greater conventional -sympathy on the part of the audience. Yet they have grown up naturally -among us and are true children of stage life. In quite recent years -Wagner, Ibsen, and Mæterlinck has each developed a personal theatre -of his own. Each has drawn to himself a sort of international public, -held together by ties of education, by taste and by the spirit of the -age--such a public as a novelist might collect, but which one would -never have predicted for a playwright. This could only have happened -in an age when there existed a large reading public made up of persons -who were scattered throughout all the nations. For it must be noted -that the reading of plays is as good as a chorus. It warns the people -of what is to come. Not only the reading of plays but the reading of -pamphlets and of essays is necessary in order that people may be primed -to accept any new departure in the drama. The undeniable genius of -Gluck was not able to establish his lyrical drama without the aid of -many writers, talkers, and promoters. It required a war of pamphlets -and the influence of royalty to make the new opera acceptable. Ibsen -and Wagner have been accompanied by a wagonload of pamphlets and -broadsides, as if they were the forerunners of a new circus. Bernard -Shaw went with every play he gave as an advertising agent, a gladiator -and shouting billman that would get the attention of the public at any -price. It was quieter inside the theatre than outside of it, so people -took refuge within. - -Let no one think that criticism is an unnecessary part of the modern -drama. Criticism to-day is but the articulate utterance of those -conventions, those assumptions, and prejudices which must accompany and -support any drama in the mind of the audience, and which in simpler -ages hardly needed statement, because they were established. They stood -in the public consciousness much as the walls of the theatre stood in -the market-place, while the plays proceeded within them. - -There has always been criticism. Aristotle did not begin it, but he -is the starting-point of that great river of Thought-about-Art which -has accompanied the developments of the arts since Greek times. The -history of criticism is tremendous in volume, in brilliancy, and in -seriousness; and it has a great utility and mission toward the world -at large. If anyone have a curiosity to know what this literature is, -let him glance through Saintsbury’s History of Criticism in three -great tomes of many hundred pages each, in which the great names and -the great theories in criticism are reviewed. This is a part of the -literary history, of the bookish history of the world. From Plato -to Lessing, from Longinus to Santayana there have been acute-minded -individuals who loved the fine arts, poetry, sculpture, music, the -drama, etc., and who busied themselves with speculation upon them. -These men would pluck out the heart of the mystery, they would touch -our quick with their needle, they would satisfy our intellect with -their explanations. And here arises one of the subtlest difficulties -in all psychology; the difficulty of explaining clearly how men of -the greatest intellect may be subject to the grossest self-delusion. -The reasonings of these critics about art are valid as reasonings -of critics about art, so long as they are kept in the arena of the -reasoning of critics about art. But if you try to translate those -reasonings back again into the substance of art itself--if, for -instance, you bid the artist follow the admonition of the critic, you -will find that the artist cannot do this without making a retranslation -of the critic’s ideas into terms which now become incomprehensible -to the critic. In order to take the critic’s advice--to produce the -effects which the critic calls for--the artist must do with his -material things which the critic has not mentioned and does not -conceive of. - -The critic, after all, is a parasite. He lives by illustrating the -brains of the artist. He is an illuminator. He has produced a wonderful -literature--a literature of embroidery--and this literature is very -valuable to the world at large; but has, as it were, no mission as -toward the artist. The reason is that the artist gets his experience of -art by working directly and immediately in the art; and the problems he -works on can neither be stated nor solved except in the terms of his -art. The critic, meanwhile, believes that he himself has stated and -solved those problems; but what he says is folly to the ears of the -artist. The misunderstanding must continue forever, and neither of the -parties is to blame for it. Listen to the most good-natured of artists, -Molière, speaking with the authority of unbounded success, upon the -subject that drives lesser men to helpless rage:-- - - “Vous êtes de plaisantes gens avec vos règles, dont vous - embarrassez les ignorants et nous étourdissez tous les jours. - Il semble, à vous ouïr parler, que ces règles de l’art soient - les plus grands mystères du monde, et cependant ce ne sont que - quelques observations aisées que le bon sens a faites sur ce qui - peut ôter le plaisir que l’on prend à ces sortes de poèmes; et le - même bon sens, qui a fait autrefois ces observations, les fait - aisément tous les jours sans le secours d’Horace et d’Aristote. - Je voudrais bien savoir si la grande règle de toutes les règles - n’est pas de plaire, et si une pièce de théatre qui a attrapé son - but n’a pa suivi un bon chemin. Laissons-nous aller de bonne foi - aux choses qui nous prennent par les entrailles, et ne cherchons - point de raisonnement pour nous empêcher d’avoir du plaisir.”... - -Even Molière is a little harsh to the critics. He seems not to remember -that critics are “seized by the entrails” by a set of psychological -terms, by “the sublime,” by “beauty,” by “contrast,” by the very -idea that there should be laws underlying the mysteries of æsthetic -enjoyment--laws which critics proclaim. The fact is that the sincerity -and enthusiasm of the critic carries all before it. It seems to the -critic as if the artist were a poor fool who does not quite understand -himself. Molière has had his say, but what of that? No critic was -listening. The critic feels too keenly about the matter to catch the -drift of Molière’s remarks. You cannot persuade Ruskin that he does not -understand painting. You cannot make Aristotle believe that he stands -in the position of an outsider toward tragic poetry. He smiles at the -suggestion. He feels himself to be quite on the level of his subject. -Before he spoke, it had not spoken. Leave the critic, then, to his -thesis: and let us confess that for everyone except for the artist, -that thesis has a great and stimulating value. - -The words of the critical, even though they come from outside the -profession, have a value in preserving and in interpreting good -traditions in art. The real power, however, through which these -traditions live is the teaching done inside of the profession. What the -apprentice learns at the bench from the master-craftsman--this is what -controls the future of art. It is through this teaching that the raw -youth is turned into a craftsman. No one who has not passed through the -mill can conceive the depth to which nature must be affected through -training before art is gained. The artist is as much a product of art -as his own works are. To execute the simplest acts of his profession -he must have passed through a severe novitiate. He cannot sound a note -of it till he has been refashioned, as Mrs. Browning sang, from a reed -into a musical instrument. - -There are certain ways of reciting verse and of speaking prose, certain -ways of walking on and off the stage, which are expressive, correct, -and necessary. To drop them is a sign of ignorance and decadence. They -cannot be replaced by something modern that is just as good: they are -a race inheritance. If you lose them you will have to re-discover them -subsequently, just as, if you were to lose the science of harmony, you -would have to discover it again before you could understand the music -of modern times. How is it that these practices and trade secrets of -the arts get preserved during periods of public indifference, when -perhaps the studios might forget them? It is by the institution of -Academies and Lyceums: by the endowment of galleries and theatres. The -nations of Continental Europe long ago resorted to state-supported -schools, galleries, and play-houses as a means of preserving tradition. -On the Continent no one is allowed to forget the old forms. They are -nursed and cultivated. The very nations which need training the least, -because of their natural talent, and of their proximity to the old -Mediterranean seats of culture, get the most of it, because of their -intelligent understanding of what art consists in. Among late-comers -at the table of civilization, and among young people generally, there -prevails an opinion that art is the result of genius, or of natural -temperament, or of race endowment. But the persons who have the -endowment of race, of temperament, and of genius know that art is a -question of training. - -It is a sign that civilization has been spreading to find that in -England and in America, men are beginning to adopt Continental ideas -upon the subject of endowed theatres. The chaotic condition of the -English stage has been very largely due to the fact that it has been -nobody’s business to preserve the old recipes. If the public taste -swings away from lyrical drama for a decade, lyrical drama goes by the -board--the very models and old wig stands are thrown out of the window. -In a few years, only a few old actors and playgoers will remember -the lost delights that went with these trappings. A whole province -of human happiness has been eaten up by the sea of oblivion--by that -all-surrounding, ever-active ocean that gnaws away the outlying realms -of the mind, and will eat us back to mere grunts and a sign language -unless we value our inheritance of articulation. Without the support of -schools of acting the present moment remains continually too important. -Those whole classes of exquisite, beautiful things which go out of -fashion and are thereafter all but irrecoverable, should be held before -the public with as firm a hand as orchestral music has been held before -it, and for the same reasons. We are always being told by theatrical -people that the public taste will or will not support something. Does -anybody inquire whether the American public likes Bach or Beethoven, -or does anybody take advice of the press as to how the works of those -masters shall be played? No. The best traditions are followed, the best -performers obtained, and the effect upon the public mind is awaited -with patience and with certainty. That is the way a State Theatre is -run in Europe, and that is the way that a New Theatre should be run in -America. - -With regard to music, we have adopted the Continental ideas easily, -because we had no music of our own. But with regard to the drama we -have certain crude ideas of our own, rooted in the existence of a -domestic drama, and these ideas impede our progress. We have, for -instance, a belief that because an audience is used to an inferior -thing, therefore it will continue to prefer that thing to something -better and that the reformer should content himself with giving the -public only a taste now and then of something fine, and should keep in -touch with them in the meantime through concessions to popular taste. -This would be sound reasoning in the mouth of the business manager of -an ordinary theatrical venture; but in the mouth of the manager of -an educational theatre, it is blasphemy. The thesis upon which all -education rests is this: give the best, and it will supplant the less -good. - -I doubt if anyone in the country is more grateful than I am to the -managers of the New Theatre. They have begun a great work. The whole -country is in debt to them already. They are showing a spirit which -will make their future work continually improve; and their efforts -have, on the whole, been received with that lack of intelligent -gratitude with which society always receives its benefactors. -Nevertheless their work and their position seem to illustrate so -many points in the subject, that a little incidental criticism of -them is unavoidable. If I find fault with the New Theatre for not -being sufficiently academic, it is only to illustrate how completely -academic standards have been vanishing in America. For instance, the -art of reciting Shakespeare has been all but lost, and the New Theatre -proved this quite unconsciously by a plunge, upon some occasions, into -a sort of household naturalism in its method of reciting romantic -drama. An epoch like the present, in which the current new plays -are naturalistic, will tend to recite Shakespeare in a naturalistic -way. But only the abeyance of good tradition could have led to the -attempt to give Shakespeare’s lines in a conversational manner. We -have forgotten how effective the lines are when conventionally given, -or we should resent this experiment in taking the starch out of them. -Indeed upon certain other occasions the old standards of speech were -last winter brought back in magnificent triumph at the New Theatre. If -it was chiefly to the Englishmen and Englishwomen of the New Theatre -Company that we in America owed this beautiful lesson in speech, let us -none the less be grateful for the lesson and draw from it what profit -we may. - -There are people who believe that verse is merely a decorated sort -of prose; and that in connection with the drama, verse is a foolish -superfluity. The people who think this have not heard verse well -recited. The delivery of metrical language in an elevated manner is -the noblest tradition of the stage. It is a thing at the same time -completely artificial and completely beautiful. It lifts the play into -a region native to great thoughts, where lightnings strike, as in their -element, and music like a natural thunder rolls across the scene. -To-day the secret of this majestic convention of verse is lost to the -stage. Neither in the writing of it by the poet nor in the delivery -of it by the actor, nor in the reception and enjoyment of it by the -audience can the thing come off happily except under rare conditions, -when all are prepared for it and when the right planets are in the -ascendant. We live under an eclipse; yet is not the sun extinguished. -Verse will return to the drama as soon as those themes return which -only verse can carry. - -All these conventions and settings of which we have been speaking are -but the accessories, the servants of the stage; and, like insolent -lackeys, they sometimes thrust themselves vulgarly forward. The -wardrobe of Louis XIV might easily make the claim that the monarchy -could not be carried on without it. And yet, on the stage, it is not -quite so. On the stage, no particular set of accessories is ever so -important as it thinks itself. The multiplicity of the forces at work -saves us from such shameful subjection to detail. We can always, at -a pinch, get on without any of the accessories. Have you ever, when -charades were being acted, seen some talented person enter the room, -wearing an old hat and having a shawl or perhaps a window curtain drawn -across his shoulders? For some brief moments of inspiration he manages -to make you see Hector of Troy, or The Man that broke the Bank at -Monte Carlo. You cannot tell how it was done, it was so rapid. Yet you -have had a glimpse of an idea. You have been transported somehow and -somewhere. Perhaps the actor cannot do it again; for amateurs strike -sparks and call up spirits by accident. Nevertheless, the thing you -have seen is the essence of drama. An idea has been conveyed; and all -the means that conveyed it have been lost--consumed like gunpowder -in the explosion. We can all remember various amateur performances -and revivals of old plays, in which the accessories were of the -simplest; and in which the suppression of scenery and the focusing -of the audience’s whole attention upon the actors had a wonderfully -stimulating effect upon the talents of the actors. The means were at a -minimum; the idea, the thought was at a maximum. In this amateur spark -we have the key to the real theatre. - -The building, the costumes, the incidental music, the blank verse, -all the accessories of a play exist for the purpose of making an -atmosphere of high conductivity, in which that spark of idea may fly -out from the stage, across the footlights, into the audience. During -great moments or great half-hours of a play this same disappearance -of the accessories takes place, and gives us the life of drama. We -are always losing this life, because the accessories have independent -and fluctuating values of their own which attract our attention. -Costume seems to be an advantage in helping to hold the illusion, and -scenery is merely an extension of costume. Either of them may attract -too much attention, and how much this too much is, depends upon the -sensibilities of the auditor. For example, Twelfth Night is injured in -my eyes when it is given with beautiful Italian scenery, no matter how -beautiful. Toby Belch is, in my mind, connected with rural England, and -to see him with Vesuvius in the background shocks me. Nevertheless, -the next man may find in this Italian scenery a gentle stimulus which -heightens his enjoyment of the inner drama. Again, blank verse, when -properly spoken, adds to a play a moving charm like an accompaniment -of music; but when the lines are declaimed with either too much or too -little artifice, they become a nuisance. All the means and vehicles of -expression should fill the mere margin of our attention, ready to step -forward when the mind’s stage is empty and to vanish on the approach of -the dramatic interest. - -The Greek stage came as near to the charade as the theatre has ever -come since. Here was no scenery, and the costume was merely suggestive. -Play of feature was out of the question, because of the mask. The -appeal of the natural voice was out of the question, because of -the megaphone mouth-piece. There was nothing left but gesture and -intonation. What a denudation that seems to us! But are you sure that -the imagination is not heightened by just such devices as this? Are you -sure that Hector or Heracles are not made ten times as real by this -absence of realism as they ever could have been made by naturalistic -treatment? - -A character comes on the Greek stage, and you perceive by his talk that -he is supposed to be walking in a wood. In a few moments he arrives -at an imaginary point of view. Another character walks on the stage, -and you perceive that this second character is supposed to have come -walking up the valley. Your whole attention is on the story, and any -striking scenery would be an unpleasant intrusion, an inartistic -element. Surely the Greeks were very clever at mechanical contrivances -and could have had scenery if they had desired it. What they had was -much better,--imagination. - -It is the same with the French classic stage, whose meagreness of -decoration is almost an offense to the American. The higher the -intelligence of the audience, the less will scenery be valued in plays. -In the case of children’s toys, we all know that a rag doll and a -wooly dog speak a more eloquent language than a mechanical doll and a -realistic dog that walks. But we dare not employ this philosophy in -dressing our stage, because of the lack of imagination in grown people. - -I have no doubt that if you had, say, thirty new plays to produce, each -of them as good as Hamlet, and if your audience were to consist of the -most intelligent people in the world, and if your actors were all and -each as good as David Garrick, I have no doubt, I say, that the most -thrilling way you could produce those plays would be on a stage without -scenery and with just such suggestion of costume as should lift the -characters into the world of idea. Such was the Elizabethan method; at -least it was the practice which the Elizabethans stumbled upon in their -riotous career. - -The world of idea is what you are seeking, no matter how sure you may -be that you want realism. The power of a play comes from this, that -it makes people believe that the action on the stage is not merely a -story, which has happened and is over--but is a thing which is going -on, a truth, a spiritual, inward reality which has to do with the -life and sentiments of the audience. This is what we want, what we -always want, whether we are playing Lear, or Ibsen, or Uncle Tom’s -Cabin. The different kinds of drama use different means of suggesting -spiritual reality. Poetic images are one way, sideboards and furniture -are another way. Now it must be confessed at once that realism does -tend to convey spiritual truth to people who possess a low degree of -reflective power. A reproduction in detail of something seen in real -life--wax-works, for instance--impresses the unimaginative person -more strongly than a sketch of the same thing done by Rembrandt; yet -both the wax-works and the Rembrandt have the same end in view--to -bring home an idea to the beholder. We may, then, measure the life in -people’s fancy by the weight of suggestion which is requisite to awaken -them--a feather of imagery or a cannon ball of actuality--and in this -we shall not be dealing with several kinds of dramatic principle, but -only with several conditions of education in the audience. - -The recent realism seen on our own stage shows a deadness of wit in -our life--the sad unresponsive seriousness of persons who do not -habitually live in the world of imagination. That world seems flat to -them. Nevertheless, the same persons will, with a little encouragement, -begin to enjoy humor, and trust poetry. Put them where they have no -critical responsibility and they will blossom into enjoyment. O blessed -amateurs! I wish someone would write a book and show that the whole -history of art has been but the history of amateurs; and that every -revival of painting, drama, music, architecture, and poetry has been -due to them. They cannot, perhaps, make great music themselves, but -they hand the lyre to Apollo. They have not the training, but they have -the passion that finds talent in others and protects the flame while -it is young. They suspect the secret of a lost art and go in search of -it as for the Golden Fleece. And amateurs, yes the amateurs are the -persons who will keep the drama from ever quite losing all relation to -its ancestor--its good genius--the charade. - -The great aim of any drama is to make all the audience and all the -actors think of the same thing at the same moment during the entire -evening. The “argument,” as they used to call it, is the main thing. -It is astonishing what a good name this is for the exposition of -ideas that takes place in a very good play either ancient or modern. -The argument is what both audience and actors breathlessly follow. -We err only when we begin to define what the argument is. It seems, -in truth, to be something too subtle for analysis. In some plays we -think we find it in the plot, in others in the characters, in others -in the language, and so forth. But there is hardly a definition of it -which some famous example will not instantly confute. There is, for -instance, a charm that comes out of As You Like It, and which for three -hundred years has made audiences consent to sit through its three hours -of happy trifling. That charm is the “argument” of As You Like It. -You cannot state the charm. It is as subtle as the ether and as real -as the power of light that moves across the ether. Our senses are not -at fault, but only our theories. There is a fluctuating mystery about -all that happens in the theatre, and perhaps this indefinable power -is what most attaches us to the place. It is not a place of learning, -nor of scholarship, nor of information or ethics, nor even of such -flights of mind as accurate thought can always follow. It is a place of -enchantment. - - - - -NORWAY. - - -In Norway people live in small houses in which the air is very bad. The -people neither wash nor laugh, and common sense is unknown among them. -Each man or woman is endowed with one idea, and that is sufficient for -each. He is satisfied with it, and he is never seen without it. So that -anyone may always very easily recognize the different characters of -a Norwegian play. One knows that each idea is very significant, very -logical, and very much to be noted. Thus, if a character has the idea -of walking upstairs backward instead of forward, one feels perfectly -satisfied about that person. He is always talking about his mania, -and one knows that, in the end, some terrible and logical calamity is -going to result from the perverse habit with which stepdame nature -has endowed him. For all people in Norway are stepchildren of nature, -and are barely endowed with sufficient complexity of intelligence to -prevent them from swallowing poison, falling down wells, or walking -over precipices. Indeed they do all these things, the moment the well -or the poison or the precipice comes between themselves and their -favorite hobby. - -I saw a very nice play the other day about these people. If was about -a very nice elderly man and his elderly sister, Jake Borg and Elisa -Borg. Jake loved his sister, and his sister loved her cat--a Maltese -cat of the largest variety. Both Jake and Elisa spent an hour or so -each day in talking about the cat, and of how dangerous it was for the -cat to insist upon walking on the back fence during the very hours when -Jake was practising with his flint-lock at a target erected upon the -fence. Jake, it appears, was a member of the village patriotic shooting -society and was the president of it, and his whole heart and soul were -wrapped up in it. The society used flint-locks rather than percussion -caps because the time occupied by the explosion, being quite long with -flint-locks, the nerves of the patriots would be the better steeled -to bear the noise. Thus, during the forenoon, for several years, the -devoted couple discussed the question whether or not the pet cat would -be hit by the pet bullets; and it became alarmingly evident that such -would be the case, unless one or the other of the afflicted persons -should desist from the practice of his hobby. There were various other -people who came in to help the principal characters in the play to -discuss the peril. Neither party in the great conflict would budge -from his principle--the one, for patriotic reasons, the other out of -Christian piety and affection for dumb animals. - -The anguish of the situation became so intense that it was almost a -relief when the cat was shot by the heroic burgher in the very shot by -which he completed a hundred consecutive bull’s-eyes--or would have -completed them, but for the fated animal. Jake’s life was ruined by -this failure; as Elisa’s was ruined by the loss of her companion, and -the village life was ruined because there remained nothing to talk -about thereafter. So, all the inhabitants of that Norwegian hamlet -shut their windows tight, and continued each in the pursuit of his -own serious hobby, neither washing, nor smiling, nor making allowance -for the hobbies of the rest, but only grinding out remorsely the -magnificent tragic material of Norwegian life. - - - - -DR. HOWE. - - -There are men who have great fame during their lives, and then -disappear forever; and there are others who live unknown to their -contemporaries, and then emerge upon posterity, and cast back a -perpetual reproach upon their own times which were not worthy of them. -To neither of these classes does Dr. Howe belong; for he was a hero in -his own day, and has left behind him so many memorials of his mind and -times that he can never become wholly lost to the world. He belongs -rather to that class of reappearing reputations which die through -successive resurrections, and distribute their message to humanity -through many undulations of loss and rediscovery. - -One cannot tell where to set the boundary to such men’s influence, -for while the student writes, the shadow moves. The scribbler who is -assigning values and labels to history becomes an instrument in the -hands of his subject, and something is accomplished through him which -is beyond his own horizon. This is the mechanism through which great -men reach the world. The present age has all but forgotten Dr. Howe: -his name has for some years been on the road to oblivion. For I do not -count as fame the dusty memorials and busts of dead philanthropists -which adorn and disfigure college libraries. Their honored and -obliterated features carry something, but it is not fame. They are like -neglected finger-boards which have fallen by the wayside and are calmly -undergoing unimaginable dissolution through the soft handling of the -elements. Wordsworth might have addressed a sonnet to these men had he -not been so preoccupied with external nature. “Behold, this man was -once the sign-board of classical learning, this of electricity, this of -natural science.” But Wordsworth would have been obliged first to rub -the moss from the inscriptions. - -Some years ago it looked as if Dr. Howe, the great and famous Dr. Howe, -had fallen by the wayside of progress and was to remain forever a dead -finger-post and a reminiscence in the history of the world’s care for -the blind. To-day a new image of him is beginning to form above the -mass of letters, documents, and written reports which his busy life -bequeathed to the garret, and in which his daughter, Laura E. Richards, -has recently quarried for a book of memoirs. She has produced two large -volumes which give us Dr. Howe from the intimate side of his character, -and in a way that no man can be publicly known to his contemporaries. -It is of this new image or _vita nuova_ of Dr. Howe that I mean to -speak. - -There is a variety of interest in his life, which shatters the -picture of a philanthropist and leaves in its place the picture of -an adventurer--an unselfish adventurer; that is to say, a sort of -Theseus or Hercules, an unaccountable person who visits this world from -somewhere else. After all, this is the impression he made upon his -own times. Perhaps we are getting a breeze of the same wind that blew -through him in life: I cannot tell. At any rate, it was not to Laura -Bridgman only that Howe was sent into the world. I confess to a feeling -that he was one of the greatest of Americans and one of the best men -who ever lived. - -Seventy years ago his name was known to everybody in the civilized -world. The part he took in the Greek Revolution (1825-29) had made -him famous while still a very young man, and his success in teaching -the blind deaf-mute, Laura Bridgman, (1837-41) seemed at the time, -and still seems, one of the great triumphs in the history of human -intellect. The world rang with it. The miracle was done in the sight of -all men, and humanity stood on the benches and shouted themselves blind -with applause. This accomplishment, which was the great accomplishment -of his life, will always remain Dr. Howe’s trade-mark and proverbial -significance; but other parts of his life almost equal it in permanent -value. The historical interest of the Greek Revolution, and of the -latter half of the anti-slavery period, are supplemented by the -scientific interest of all Dr. Howe’s philanthropic work and by the -personal interest of an extraordinary and unique character. - -Samuel Gridley Howe was born in Boston in 1801, and was thus just -twenty years old when the Greek Revolution broke out in 1821. In that -year he was graduated at Brown University, Providence, and thereafter -studied medicine for three years in Boston. Byron’s poems had prepared -the youths of Europe and of America for the Greek struggle, and Howe -was one of the young men who responded in person to Byron’s final call -to arms. Howe did not reach Greece till a few months after Byron’s -death at Missolonghi in 1824. Howe spent six years in campaigning with -the Greek patriots. He had enlisted in the capacity of a surgeon; -but the exigencies of the primitive and very severe guerilla warfare -tended to obliterate official rank and to throw the work upon those -who had executive ability. The war was a scramble of patriot banditti -and peasant militia against Mahommetan ruffians. The name of Greece, -the name of Byron, the beauty of the scenery in whose midst the war -proceeded, the heart-rending nature of the struggle and its happy -outcome, all combine to make this the most romantic war in history. It -was one of the last wars before that effective development of steam and -gunpowder which have forever merged the picturesque in the horrible. - -The young Howe kept a journal, which shows a character entirely at -one with his rapturously poetic surroundings. Before I had read this -journal I did not know that the United States had ever produced a man -of this type, the seventeenth century navigator, whose daily life -is made up of hair-breadth escapes and who writes in the style of -Robinson Crusoe.--“Passed a pirate boat, but he saw too many marks of -preparation about us to attack us; in fact, if vessels only knew what -cowards these pirates are they would never be robbed, for the least -resistance will keep them off. Give me a vessel with moderately high -sides, two light guns and twelve resolute men, and I would pledge my -all on sailing about every port of the archipelago and beating off -every vessel which approaches. The pirates always come in long, light, -open boats which pull from sixteen to thirty-six and forty oars. They -sometimes have a gun, and always select calm weather to attack. But how -to get up the sides of a vessel if twelve men with cutlasses were to -oppose them.”... - -“But it was a great fault on the part of commanders of vessels of war -not to have made examples. A few bodies hanging at their yard-arms, -and displayed round among the islands, would have had more effect than -all they have done.”... - -There we have the reality of which Stevenson’s tales are the reflection -and the traditional imitation. Again--“If he challenges, I shall have -my choice of weapons. I am pretty good master of the small sword, and -think I could contrive to disarm him and make him beg on his knees, for -I am sure he is one of the most arrant cowards.”... Again--“They passed -along the beach at full gallop not far from us, and I gave them a rifle -ball which missed them.”... In another place--“But one of them held -his head out long enough for me to take aim at it and level him with a -rifle ball; he fell sprawling upon his face, and I hardly know whether -pleasure or pain predominated in my mind as I witnessed his fall. Said -I ‘A moment more and I may fall in the same way.’”... - -On another occasion--“I plied my rifle as fast as possible, and luckily -was not called to one single wounded man, they being sheltered by the -high sides of the vessel.”... It must be remembered that inasmuch as -Howe was a surgeon he had no right to be fighting at all; but dear me! -we are on the Spanish main in Elizabeth’s time; and, as Howe observed a -few days later, “I had been directed to keep below, but the scene was -too interesting for a young man to lose sight of.”... - -There was a touch of the buccaneer about Howe. His slight tendency -toward lawlessness kept cropping out all through his life. It appears -in an assault which he made on a sentinel at Rome in 1844, and in all -his anti-slavery work--of which later. A great descriptive power is -revealed in this journal, which he kept during the months when he often -slept with his head on a stone and subsisted on fried wasps. As an -example of vivid sketching take the following: - -“On the road I had met bodies of peasantry of the lower class called -Vlachoi (Wallachians), driving before them all their little stock, -perhaps a few dozen sheep, as many goats, a donkey and a half-dozen -fowls, all guarded by a pair of fine-looking mountain dogs and followed -by the father lugging his rough capote, with gun in hand and an old -pistol and knife in his belt, and the mother with her baby lashed to -her back in a bread-trough, a kettle on her head, and sundry articles -of furniture in her hands. A troop of dirty ragged boys and girls, -brought up the rear, each bearing a load of baggage proportionate to -their strength, a little donkey carrying all the rest of the furniture -and farming tools, in fine, all their goods and chattels. Land they -have none; they feed their flocks on the high mountains in summer, -and now on the approach of winter they descend to the warmer valleys, -where they build a wigwam and pass the winter.”... Sieges and battles -on land and sea, assassinations and conspiracies, pictures of natural -scenery and domestic life, of happiness, pathos, humor, heroism,--the -diaries abound in all such things; and the pictures often burn and -glow and sparkle. I cannot tell whether this sparkle is a literary -quality, or a ray from Howe’s character, or an illusion of my own. But -certainly, something remarkable appears in the step and carriage of the -young man. He does not stay in the book, he walks into the room where -you are reading. The substance and setting of these Greek journals at -times remind us of George Borrow’s books; but Howe’s writing is done -without literary intention and therefore speaks from a more unusual -depth. No time has been spent over these jottings, the recorder is -hardly more responsible for them than the pen that writes them down. -The scenes have whirled themselves upon the paper. Howe was always -somewhat wanting in the reverence for letters which obtains in Boston. -He regarded himself as inferior in literary attainment to several of -his friends. He had, however, the descriptive power sometimes found -in condottieri. It is the thrilling stuff they deal in that endows -these men with such talent. I cannot forbear transcribing a passage -from a very different style of adventurer, Trelawney. It does not -concern Howe directly; but it may serve as a sample page from the Greek -revolutionary period. The passage is quoted by Sanborn in his Life of -Howe. - -“On our way from Argos to Corinth, in 1823, we passed through the -defiles of Dervenakia; our road was a mere mule-path for about two -leagues, winding along in the bed of a brook, flanked by rugged -precipices. In this gorge, and a more rugged path above it, a large -Ottoman force, principally cavalry, had been stopped in the previous -autumn, by barricades of rocks and trees, and slaughtered like droves -of cattle by the wild and exasperated Greeks. It was a perfect picture -of the war, and told its own story; the sagacity of the nimble-footed -Greeks and the hopeless stupidity of the Turkish commanders were -palpable. Detached from the heaps of dead we saw the skeletons of some -bold riders, who had attempted to scale the acclivities, still astride -the skeletons of their horses, and in the rear, as if in the attempt to -back out of the fray, the bleached bones of the negroes’ hands still -holding the hair ropes attached to the skulls of the camels--death, -like sleep, is a strange posture-master. There were grouped in a -narrow space 5,000 or more skeletons of men, horses, camels, and -mules; vultures had eaten their flesh, and the sun had bleached their -bones.”... Is not this picture worthy of the prophet Ezekiel? It was -among such scenes as this that the Greek Revolution went forward. - -In 1827-8 Dr. Howe concluded that the best service he could render -the Greeks was to go to America and procure help. He came to America, -and went about holding public meetings and pleading for the starving -Greeks. Great enthusiasm was excited, and money, food, and clothing -was generously contributed. Howe took charge of a vessel laden with -provisions and clothing, and hastening back to Greece, arrived in time -to prevent thousands from starving. “These American contributions,” he -says, “went directly to the people; and their effect was very great, -not only by relieving from hunger and cold, but by inspiring courage -and hope. I made several depots in different places; I freighted small -vessels and ran up the bays with them. The people came trooping from -their hiding places, men, women, children, hungry, cold, ragged and -dirty. They received rations of flour, corn, biscuit, pork, etc., and -were clad in the warm garments made up by American women. It was one of -the happiest sights a man could witness; one of the happiest agencies -he could discharge. They came, sometimes twenty, thirty, forty miles, -on foot, to get rations and clothing. Several vessels followed mine -and distributions were made. - -“An immense number of families from Attica, from Psara, and from other -Islands, had taken refuge in Ægina, and there was the most concentrated -suffering. I established a main depot there, and commenced a systematic -distribution of the provisions and clothing. As the Greeks were all -idle, I concluded it was not best to give alms except to the feeble; -but I commenced a public work on which men, women, and children could -be occupied. The harbor of Ægina was not a natural one, but the work of -the old Greeks. The long walls projecting into the sea for breakwaters -were in pretty good condition, but the land side of the harbor was -nearly ruined from being filled up with débris and washings from the -town. - -“I got some men who had a little ‘gumption’ and built a coffer-dam -across the inner side of the harbor. Then we bailed out the water, -and, digging down to get a foundation, laid a solid wall, which made -a beautiful and substantial quay, which stands to this day, and is -called the American Molos or Mole. In this work as many as five hundred -people, men, women, and children, ordinarily worked; on some days as -many as seven hundred, I think.”... - -Encouraged by the success of his mole, Dr. Howe determined upon a more -ambitious venture.--“I applied to the government, and obtained a large -tract of land upon the Isthmus of Corinth, where I founded a colony -of exiles. We put up cottages, procured seed, cattle, and tools, and -the foundations of a flourishing village were laid. Capo d’Istria had -encouraged me in the plan of the colony, and made some promises of -help. The government granted ten thousand ‘stremmata’ of land to be -free from taxes for five years; but they could not give much practical -help. I was obliged to do everything, and had only the supplies sent -out by the American committees to aid me. The colonists, however, -coöperated, and everything went on finely. We got cattle and tools, -ploughed and prepared the earth, got up a school-house and a church. - -“Everything went on finely, and we extended our domain over to the -neighboring port of Cenchraea, where we had cultivated ground and a -harbor. This was perhaps the happiest part of my life. I was alone -among my colonists, who were all Greeks. They knew I wanted to help -them, and they let me have my own way. I had one civilized companion -for awhile, David Urquhart, the eccentric Englishman, afterward M. P. -and pamphleteer. I had to journey much to and from Corinth, Napoli, -etc., always on horseback, or in boat, and often by night. It was -a time and place where law was not; and sometimes we had to defend -ourselves against armed and desperate stragglers from the bands of -soldiers now breaking up. We had many ‘scrimmages,’ and I had several -narrow escapes with life. - -“In one affair Urquhart showed extraordinary pluck and courage, -actually disarming and taking prisoner two robbers, and marching -them before him into the village. I labored here day and night, in -season and out, and was governor, clerk, constable, and everything but -_patriarch_; for, though I was young, I took to no maiden, nor -ever thought about womankind but once. The government (or rather, Capo -d’Istria, the president) treated the matter liberally--for a Greek--and -did what he could to help me.”... - -In 1844, about seventeen years after the planting of this Corinthian -colony Howe returned to the Isthmus in the course of his wedding -journey. “As he rode through the principal street of the village,” says -Mrs. Howe, “the elder people began to take note of him and to say to -one another ‘This man looks like Howe.’ At length they cried, ‘It must -be Howe himself’! His horse was surrounded and his progress stayed. A -feast was immediately prepared for him in the principal house of the -place, and a throng of friends, old and new, gathered round him, eager -to express their joy in seeing him.” - -So let us leave him for one moment, surrounded by the children of -his adoption, submitting to their gratitude as Hercules might have -submitted, if humanity had recognized him on his return to the scene -of an earthly exploit,--let us leave him, I say, thus posed for the -monument that should express his whole life’s work, while we consider -what manner of man he was. - -At whatever point you examine him, you find a man of remarkable -energy and benevolence, of a practical turn of mind, devoid of -mysticism or philosophic curiosity, a man to whom the word is a very -plain proposition, whose eyes see what they see with the power of -microscopes, and are blind to all else. Dr. Howe’s work in Greece -gives a specimen, a prophetic summary, of his whole life-work, -that is to say, it was _practical aid to those laboring under -disability_. The devastation of Greece at that time was incredible. -The peasants were living in caves and hiding their food under ground -from the guerillas. Dr. Howe goes with his hands full of supplies and -distributes them, turning the starving wretches into human beings -again, through his methods, and through his power of organization. -One is reminded by turns of Benjamin Franklin and of Prometheus, in -reading of the astute shifts of this benevolent despot, who deals with -men as if they were children, coercing them into thrift and decency. Of -course the circumstances were extraordinary, or Howe’s peculiar genius -could not have showed itself so early. A man of genius he was, but -the limitations of this remarkable man’s mind are as clear cut as his -features, which had the accuracy of bronze. - -Within the field of his peculiar activity he is a great genius. Outside -of that field he was not a genius at all--as will appear by his -political course in 1859. His mission was to deal with persons laboring -under a disability, with criminals, paupers, young people--blind or -deaf people, idiots, the maimed in spirit, the defective--the people -who have no chance, no future, no hope. These were the persons to -whom his life was to be devoted: the Greek sufferers were merely the -earliest in the series of persons whom Howe pitied. - -He has left behind voluminous papers and reports, and in them lives -his creed. He can hardly open his mouth without saying something -of universal application to all defective persons in all ages. -From the statement of abstract principles to the details of ward -management--whether he is writing advice to an anxious mother or -addressing the legislature--there is no side of the subject on which -he is not great. His attitude toward defectives and his point of view -about them form a splinter of absolute truth; religion, morality, -practical wisdom, and the divinest longings of the spirit are all -satisfied by it. The sight of any of these persons aroused in him such -a passion of benevolence, such a whirlwind of pity, that he could do -whatever was necessary. He lifted them in his arms and flew away with -them like an angel. It made no difference that the cause was hopeless. -He would labor a year to improve the articulation of an adult idiot, -and rejoice as much over a gain of two vowels as if he had given a new -art to mankind. - -As has been seen, Howe was originally attracted to the Greek cause -through its romantic and historic appeal; but the poetry and the -patriotism of the Greek Revolution were, for him, soon merged in -philanthropy. His work in the Greek cause and the books and papers -and speeches he had written had brought him into the world’s eye. He -returned to America a famous man. He was still under thirty years of -age, an unambitious man, unaware that he was in any way remarkable. -He did not take up the cause of the blind because he felt within him -a deep desire, a God-given calling to help the blind, but because the -cause of the blind was brought to his notice by Dr. John D. Fisher, -and other gentlemen in Boston, who had been studying the methods of -the Abbé Haüy in Paris, and who contemplated founding a school for the -blind in Boston. It was a happy hour in which they met Howe; for he was -a man whose response to any call for help was automatic. - -He was one of those singular men in whom we can trace no course of -development. Such as they are in early manhood, so they remain. It is -interesting to bring together two passages, one from the beginning and -the other from the latter half of his life, to show the identity of -their intellectual content. - -The following is from Howe’s First Report of the Blind Asylum: -“Blindness has been in all ages one of those instruments by which a -mysterious Providence has chosen to afflict man; or rather it has not -seen fit to extend the blessing of sight to every member of the human -family. In every country there exists a large number of human beings, -who are prevented by want of sight from engaging with advantage in the -pursuits of life, and who are thrown upon the charity of their more -favored fellows.”... - -The following is from the monumental justification of his ideas as -put forth in the Second Report to the Massachusetts State Board of -Charities in 1866:-- - -“Finally, they (the board) have dwelt upon the importance of knowing -and obeying all the natural laws, because they are ordained by our -beneficent God and Father, to bind together by bonds of mutual interest -and affection all the children of His great human family; and to -prepare them here, for his good will and pleasure hereafter.” - -The thought in each of these passages is the same. Blindness, -deficiency, in fact evil, are to be accepted as part of the divine -will. This thought, taken in conjunction with the conception of the -unity of human nature, form the whole of Howe’s philosophy. The -conventional language of piety in which Howe generally expresses -himself, may perhaps conceal from some persons the first-hand power of -his nature. He seems only to be saying what everybody knows; but the -difference is that Howe sees the truth as a fact. It is not so much a -philosophic reality or abstraction as a first-hand visual perception, -always new, always reliable. - -The different specific reforms with which Howe is to be credited are -neither deductions from theory, nor the summary of experiments made -by him; but simply things seen in themselves to be true. They can all -of them be grouped under almost any one of Christ’s sayings. I shall -return to this subject after speaking of Laura Bridgman, who has been -waiting too long. - -The early history of the Boston Blind Asylum is like a great mediæval -romance--voluminous, glowing, many-sided. That history is recorded -in multitudinous documents and papers, letters, arguments, reports, -anecdotes--the whole mass of them being illumined by the central -figure of Howe who looms through the story like Launcelot or Parsifal. -Overpowering indeed is this literature, and it ought not to be -condensed. One should wander, and explore and browse in it. If I make a -few extracts from the story, it is not as a summary, but rather as an -advertisement. There are certain events that you cannot summarize, but -only introduce. The texture of them is greater than any condensation -can make it. - -The New England Institution for the Education of the Blind began its -work in 1832. Howe, having neither house nor fortune of his own, -received a few blind children at his father’s house in Boston. Within a -very few years, however, the school was properly housed and supported, -and it remained ever a favorite with the public. It was not until 1837 -that news was brought to Howe of the existence of Laura Bridgman, a -blind deaf-mute aged seven, then living with her parents on a New -Hampshire farm. He made a journey to New Hampshire to visit her, and -through good fortune was accompanied by Longfellow, Rufus Choate, -George Hilliard, and Dr. Samuel Eliot. The friends waited at Hanover -while Howe visited the Bridgman farmhouse in quest of his prize. “He -won it, and came back to the hotel triumphant,” says Dr. Eliot, “I -perfectly recollect his exultation at having secured her, and the -impression he made on me of chivalric benevolence.” - -Laura Bridgman had lost her sight and hearing at the age of two, -through scarlet fever; and when she reached the school in Boston -was blind, deaf, dumb, and “without that distinct consciousness of -individual existence which is developed by the exercise of the senses.” -She was, nevertheless, a very remarkable being, sensitive, passionate, -and highly organized. Upon being transferred to the school “she seemed -quite bewildered at first, but soon grew contented, and began to -explore her new dwelling. Her little hands were continually stretched -out, and her tiny fingers in constant motion, like the feelers of an -insect. She was left for several days to form acquaintance with the -little blind girls, and to become familiar with her new home.” - -Within two months Howe was able to write to Laura’s father--“I have -succeeded in making her understand several words in raised print, and I -am very sanguine in the hope that she will learn to read, and perhaps -to express her wants in writing.”... Such were the beginnings of that -remarkable intimacy which was fraught with so much consequence to the -world. - -The process by which Laura Bridgman was taught the alphabet was in -principle the same as that now often employed in teaching ordinary -children; that is to say, certain words are first given to the child -as unities, and the child is led to discover the letters by thereafter -himself dissolving the words into component letters. “I had to trust, -however, to some chance effort of mine, causing her to perceive the -analogy between the signs which I gave her, and the things for which -they stood.... The first experiments were made by pasting upon several -common articles, such as keys, spoons, knives, and the like, little -paper labels on which the name of the article had been printed in -raised letters. The child sat down with her teachers and was easily led -to feel these labels, and examine them curiously. So keen was the sense -of touch in her tiny fingers that she immediately perceived that the -crooked lines in the word KEY, differed as much in form from -the crooked lines in the word SPOON as one article differed -from the other. - -“Next, similar labels, on detached pieces of paper, were put into her -hands, and now she observed that the raised letters on these labels -resembled those pasted upon the articles.... - -“The next step was to give a knowledge of the component parts of the -complex sign, BOOK, for instance. This was done by cutting up -the labels into four parts, each part having one letter upon it. These -were first arranged in order, b-o-o-k, until she had learned it, then -mingled up together, then rearranged, she feeling her teacher’s hand -all the time, and eager to begin and try to solve a new step in this -strange puzzle. - -“Slowly and patiently, day after day, and week after week, exercises -like these went on, as much time being spent at them as the child could -give without fatigue. Hitherto there had been nothing very encouraging; -not much more success than in teaching a very intelligent dog a variety -of tricks. But we were approaching the moment when the thought would -flash upon her that all these were efforts to establish a means of -communication between her thoughts and ours.”... - -“The poor child had sat in mute amazement, and patiently imitated -everything her teacher did; but now the truth began to flash upon her, -her intellect began to work, she perceived that here was a way by which -she could herself make up a sign of anything that was in her own mind, -and show it to another mind, and at once her countenance lighted up -with a human expression; it was no longer a dog or parrot--it was an -immortal spirit, eagerly seizing upon a new link of union with other -spirits! I could almost fix upon the moment when this truth dawned upon -her mind, and spread its light to her countenance; I saw that the great -obstacle was overcome, and that henceforward nothing but patience and -persevering, plain and straightforward efforts were to be used.”... - -The visit of Laura’s mother to her daughter at the Institution must -be chronicled, not only because of the singular beauty of Dr. Howe’s -description; but because it shows an attitude on his part of welcome -toward the parent, reverence for home influence, which is seldom found -in managers of institutions. The school-teacher and the director in a -reformatory generally regard the parent as their enemy. But with Howe -it was different. He seems really to have been able to shed a domestic -atmosphere through his Institution. He merged his own family life into -the Institution’s life, and yet enriched his own hearth thereby. This -is an accomplishment which can neither be understood nor imitated. It -was a gift. - -“During this year and six months after she had left home, her mother -came to visit her, and the scene of their meeting was an interesting -one. The mother stood some time gazing with overflowing eyes upon her -unfortunate child, who, all unconscious of her presence, was playing -about the room. Presently Laura ran against her, and at once began -feeling of her hands, examining her dress, and trying to find out if -she knew her; but not succeeding in this, she turned away as from a -stranger, and the poor woman could not conceal the pang she felt at -finding that her beloved child did not know her. - -“She then gave Laura a string of beads which she used to wear at home, -which were recognized by the child at once, who, with much joy, put -them around her neck, and sought me eagerly to say she understood the -string was from home. The mother tried to caress her, but poor Laura -repelled her, preferring to be with her acquaintances.”... - -“The distress of the mother was now painful to behold; for, although -she had feared that she should not be recognized, the painful reality -of being treated with cold indifference by a darling child was too much -for woman’s nature to bear. - -“After a while, on the mother taking hold of her again, a vague idea -seemed to flit across Laura’s mind that this could not be a stranger; -she therefore felt of her hands very eagerly, while her countenance -assumed an expression of intense interest. She became very pale, and -then suddenly red; hope seemed struggling with doubt and anxiety, and -never were contending emotions more strongly painted upon the human -face. At this moment of painful uncertainty, the mother drew her close -to her side and kissed her fondly; when at once the truth flashed upon -the child, and all mistrust and anxiety disappeared from her face, as -with an expression of exceeding joy she eagerly nestled to the bosom of -her parent, and yielded herself to her fond embraces.”... - -“I had watched the whole scene with intense interest, being desirous -of learning from it all I could of the workings of her mind; but I -now left them to indulge unobserved those delicious feelings which -those who have known a mother’s love may conceive, but which cannot be -expressed.”... - -Laura’s progress was so rapid that she became a world wonder and took -Howe in her wake into a new province of fame. It must not be thought -that Laura Bridgman was Howe’s only preoccupation. In 1841 Laura formed -a strong friendship with Oliver Caswell, a blind deaf-mute of eight who -was brought to the Asylum. - -“Another important friendship of her childhood,” says Mrs. Richards, -“was that which she formed with Oliver Caswell, a blind deaf-mute boy -whom my father discovered and brought to the Institution in 1841. He -was then eight years old, a comely and healthy child, blind and deaf -from early infancy, and had received no special instruction.”... -“Laura herself,” says Dr. Howe, “took great interest and pleasure in -assisting those who undertook the tedious task of instructing him. She -loved to take his brawny hand with her slender fingers, and show him -how to shape the mysterious signs which were to become to him keys of -knowledge and methods of expressing his wants, his feelings, and his -thoughts.... Patiently, trustingly, without knowing why or wherefore, -he willingly submitted to the strange process. Curiosity, sometimes -amounting to wonder, was depicted on his countenance, over which -smiles would spread ever and anon; and he would laugh heartily as he -comprehended some new fact, or got hold of a new idea. - -“No scene in a long life has left more vivid and pleasant impressions -upon my mind than did that of these two young children of nature -helping each other to work their way through the thick wall which cut -them off from intelligible and sympathetic relations with all their -fellow-creatures. They must have felt as if immured in a dark and -silent cell, through chinks in the wall of which they got a few vague -and incomprehensible signs of the existence of persons like themselves -in form and nature. Would that the picture could be drawn vividly -enough to impress the minds of others as strongly and pleasantly as -it did my own! I seem now to see the two, sitting side by side at -a school desk, with a piece of pasteboard, embossed with tangible -signs representing letters, before them and under their hands. I see -Laura grasping one of Oliver’s stout hands with her long graceful -fingers, and guiding his forefinger along the outline while, with her -other hand, she feels the changes in the features of his face, to -find whether, by any motion of the lips or expanding smile, he shows -any sign of understanding the lesson: while her own handsome and -expressive face is turned eagerly toward his, every feature of her -countenance absolutely radiant with intense emotions, among which -curiosity and hope shine most brightly. Oliver, with his head thrown a -little back, shows curiosity amounting to wonder; and his parted lips -and relaxing facial muscles express keen pleasure, until they beam with -that fun and drollery which always characterize him.”... - -It is Howe, the former buccaneer, who thus sits watching the children. -He is now forty years of age and has still thirty-five years of -incessant activity ahead of him--activity in every field of practical -education. - -The brilliancy of the Laura Bridgman episode has a little dimmed the -rest of his work. The supposed philosophical importance of the thing, -and its picturesque, pathetic aspect made it almost like the discovery -of America or communication with Mars. We can to-day hardly remember -or imagine what emotion the teacher of Laura Bridgman called forth all -over the world. Looked at in retrospect, this brilliant achievement is -enmeshed in a whole life-work of activity for the dependent classes, -much of which is almost as remarkable as the Bridgman episode. -Prison reform, school reform, care of the insane, care of paupers, -reformatories for the young, trade schools for the blind, every -possible effort of a man to help his less fortunate brother--these are -the subjects to which Dr. Howe devoted his life. - -The episodes of conflict, of legislative struggle, of school-board -clash and educational campaign of which that life was made up, all have -the enduring interest that clings to scenes which are lighted up by a -true light--things which have been seen in their passage by the eye -of genius. Not by their own virtue, but by this vision do they live. -Howe’s central thesis is thus given in his own words by Sanborn, being -quoted from a report of the Massachusetts State Board of Charities, -1866:-- - -“The attempt to reduce to its lowest point the number of the dependent, -vicious and criminal classes, and tenderly provide for those who cannot -be lifted out of them, is surely worthy the best effort of a Christian -people. But that the work may be well done, it must be by the people -themselves, directly, and in the spirit of Him who taught that the -poor ye shall always have with you--that is, near you--in your heart -and affections, within your sight and knowledge; and not thrust far -away from you, and always shut up alone by themselves in almshouses, -or reformatories, that they may be kept at the cheapest rate by such a -cold abstraction as a state government. The people cannot be absolved -from these duties of charity which require knowledge of and sympathy -with sufferers; and they should never needlessly delegate the power of -doing good. There can be no vicarious virtue; and true charity is not -done by deputy.”... - -Almost any passage quoted from Howe’s reports has the same quality. -It is written by a Christian missionary, who is also, within his own -field, a scientific man. He is exuberant, he is triumphant, he is -inexhaustible. No matter how familiar be the theme, it is always new -in his hands. Turn almost at random to his letters or papers; “Do not -prevent your blind child from developing, as he grows up, courage, -self-reliance, generosity, and manliness of character, by excessive -indulgence, by sparing him thought and anxiety and hard work, and by -giving him undeserved preference over others. If he lounges in a -rocking-chair or on the sofa cushions, don’t pat him and say, ‘the poor -dear child is tired’; but rout him out and up just as you would do with -any boy who was contracting lazy habits.”... - -The following is from a report upon some cases of arrested development: -“It is true that these children and youth speak and read but little, -and that little very imperfectly compared with others of their age; but -if one brings the case home, and supposes these to be his own children, -it will not seem a small matter that a daughter, who, it was thought, -would never know a letter, can now read a simple story, and a son, -who could not say ‘father,’ can now distinctly repeat a prayer to his -Father in heaven.”... Or take some words from a private letter:-- - -“The great lesson--the hard lesson--your son has first to learn -is--_to be blind_; to live in the world without light; to look -upon what of existence is yet vouchsafed him as a blessing and a trust, -and to resolve to spend it gratefully, cheerfully, and conscientiously, -in the service of his Maker and for the happiness of those about him.” - -It was a matter of accident that the blind should have engrossed -Howe’s attention earlier than the feeble-minded, for whom he began his -labors in 1846, and for whom a State school was, through his efforts, -established in Massachusetts, in 1852. This institution was quite -as exclusively Howe’s creation as was the School for the Blind, and -over it also he extended his domestic influence. “He passed like light -through the rooms. Charley Smith, gentlest of fifty-year-old children, -would leave his wooden horse to run to him. They loved him, the -children whom he had rescued from worse than death. When he died they -grieved for him after their fashion, and among all the tributes to his -memory, none was more touching than theirs: ‘He will take care of the -blind in heaven. Won’t he take care of us too?’” - -It is not because of any one thing that he has done or said that -Howe is important. It is because he was by nature endowed with an -unconscious, spontaneous vision of truth in regard to the defective -classes. When dealing with them, he sees society as a whole and these -classes as parts of it. He saw that the whole of society must be used -in order to work out this problem. The state and the individual, -the influence of Christ and the value of money; in fact all social -factors are, in Howe’s mind, viewed as elements in that solid mesh -and transparent unity of suffering force--humanity. When he deals -with an institution, or a theory of criminal reform, he deals with -it as an agent of the invisible. It is to him no more than a device -or a symbol. Now, when we remember that he was, above all things, -a practical man, a man of means to ends, a man of experience and of -the counting house, we are prepared to realize the magnitude of his -intellect. - -It was, however, only when Howe was thinking and scheming over the fate -of the dependent classes that his mind worked in this transcendent -way. In other matters he was an ordinary man, a man of headaches and -irritability, a man of doubts and errors. - -I know of nothing that so marks the inscrutability of human nature as -does the history of Dr. Howe’s relation to the slavery question. That -question had been in active eruption ever since 1830. Dr. Howe, one of -the most sensitive philanthropists known to history, lived in daily -contact with the question for many years before he became effectively -interested. Here was a dependent class indeed--the slaves: here was -a question of human suffering compared to which the sorrows of his -deaf-mutes and half idiots were trifling accidents, the inevitable -percentage of pain that fringes all civilization. Compared to the -horrors of slavery the evils which excited Dr. Howe’s compassion were -imperceptible. Hardly ever have more telling exhibitions been unrolled -before benevolent people than those which were within the daily -repertory of the abolitionists, after Garrison had begun his work. -Nevertheless, for Dr. Howe the hour had not yet struck. - -At last he became drawn into the slavery question and, in fact, almost -killed himself over it. There remains a great difference, however, -between his slavery work and his other work. When it comes to slavery, -Dr. Howe’s devotion is the same, his labors are the same; but his -genius is not the same. It was not given to any man to understand the -slavery question in the way that Howe understood the cause of the blind -or the idiotic. Indeed, slavery was not a question, but a condition, -an atmosphere, a thing so close and clinging, so inherent and ingrown -that, like the shirt of Nessus, it brought the flesh with it when it -was removed. Poor or great, sinner or saint, every man stood on an -equality before the moral problems of slavery, and underwent either -conversion or corruption when the wave smote him. - -It was not until 1846 that Dr. Howe’s conversion took place. For -seventeen years the abolitionists had been dancing like dervishes -before him; and as late as February 3, 1846, he wrote a note declining -Dr. H. I. Bowditch’s invitation to an anti-slavery meeting, in such -terms of polite deprecation as might have been employed by George -Ticknor:--“My duties at home will prevent my joining you at eleven -o’clock.... - -“I carefully cultivate my few social relations with slave-holders, -because I find I can do so, and yet say to them _undisguisedly_ -that slavery is the great _mistake_, as well as the great -_sin_ of the age. Now, do what they may, they cannot prevent such -words from a friend making some impression upon their hearts, which are -as hard as millstones to denunciations from an enemy. It is not enmity -and force, but love and reason, that are to be used in the coming -strife.”... - -Then comes a sudden illumination, a break, a discovery, a cry of -anguish, and the curse of slavery has leaped like a wild-cat upon the -conscience of Dr. Howe. He runs up and down with pain:--“Indeed, I for -one can say that I would rather be in the place of the victim whom they -are at this moment sending away into bondage--I would rather be in his -place than in theirs! Ay! through the rest of my earthly life I would -rather be a driven slave upon a Louisiana plantation than roll in their -wealth and bear the burden of their guilt.”... “I feel as though I -had swallowed a pepper corn, when I think that no one _dares_ to -be made a martyr of in the cause of humanity.”... “Government must be -regarded as a divine institution! Ay! and so must right and justice be -regarded as divine institutions; older, more sacred, more imperative; -and when they clash, let the first be as the potsherd against the -granite.”... “O! for a man among our leaders who fears neither God, man -nor devil, but loves and trusts the first so much as to fear nothing -but what casts a veil over the face of truth. We must have done with -expediency; we must cease to look into history, into precedents, into -books for rules of action, and look only into the honest and high -purposes of our own hearts; that is, when we are sure we have cast out -the evil passions from them.”... “Would to God I could begin my life -again or even begin a new one from this moment, and go upon the ground -that no fault or error or shortcoming should ever be covered up from my -own eyes or those of others.”... - -His words, just quoted, are the words of a prophet; and yet he -was destined, in practical politics, to become an adherent of -half-measures, and a make-weight for self-seekers. It was as the -result of one of the fugitive slave cases and in the year 1846 that -Dr. Howe became immersed in the anti-slavery cause. He helped to -edit the “Commonwealth,” the organ of the Conscience Whigs: he ran -for office, and he became the head of a vigilance committee, whose -activity continued down to the outbreak of the war. Now, as everyone -knows, vigilance committees are called into being in cases when law -has broken down. The object of such committees is to do things which -are necessary, but illegal; hence their doings are secret. It was -one of the strange features of the life of that period that the most -beautiful natures of the age, the most tender, the most unselfish, the -most romantic, felt called upon to do violent, lawless and bloody work. -To threaten bad men with condign punishment, to organize the rescue of -prisoners, to condone theft, perjury and manslaughter when committed by -their own partisans--such were the duties of a vigilance committee. - -The beginning of this vigilance work was the underground railroad which -existed all over the North, and even to some extent in the border -slave states. To help fugitive slaves on their way to freedom became a -passionate occupation of young and old, however, only after Garrison’s -doctrines had given a religious sanction to the practice. Social -conditions in America, at this time, led to a confusion of moral ideas -and sometimes to a perversion of the moral sense. We are familiar with -the perplexities that distressed tender-hearted people in the border -free states. In the border slave states moral questions were equally -complex. There is a page or two in Huckleberry Finn in which Mark Twain -has depicted the feelings of a boy, living in the border slave state -Missouri, as to the ethics of helping a runaway slave to escape. Surely -the passage is among the greatest pages which that great author ever -penned.... - -I says; “All right; but wait a minute. There’s one more thing--a thing -that nobody don’t know but me. And that is, there’s a nigger here that -I’m trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is Jim--old Miss -Watson’s Jim.” - -He says: “What! Why Jim is--” He stopped and went to studying. - -I says: “I know what you’ll say. You’ll say its dirty, low-down -business; but what if it is? _I’m_ low down; and I’m going to -steal him and I want you to keep mum and not let on. Will you?” - -His eye lit up, and he says: “I’ll _help_ you steal him!” - -Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most -astonishing speech I ever heard--and I’m bound to say Tom Sawyer fell -considerable in my estimation. Only I couldn’t believe it. Tom Sawyer -a _nigger stealer_!... - -Well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that Tom Sawyer was in -earnest, and was actually going to help steal that nigger out of -slavery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy -that was respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose, -and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not -leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant, and not mean, but kind; -and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, -than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his -family a shame, before everybody. I _couldn’t_ understand it no -way at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell -him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right -where he was and save himself. And I _did_ start to tell him; -but he shut me up and says: “Don’t you reckon I know what I’m about?” -“Yes.” “Didn’t I say I’d steal him?” “Yes.” “Well, then.” That’s all he -said and that’s all I said.... - -That the angel-minded Dr. Howe should have headed a vigilance committee -was no more extraordinary than many other strange and terrible things -in that epoch. Dr. Howe was perhaps by nature and early experience -fitted to head such a committee; but nothing could be farther removed -from such work than the twenty years of peaceful work in philanthropy -which had followed his stormy youth; above all, he was no longer young. -At forty-five a man cannot learn a new trade. Howe could not meet -the world on a political basis or express himself through political -agencies--whether through the constitutional vehicles of legislature, -party, and public meeting--or through the improvised vehicles of -vigilance committee and underground railroad. His activity in both of -these fields was splendid, yet lame; it was the work of a man who only -half understood his own function. In his own work, the only realities -for him are metaphysical realities. But in politics, he has the mind of -an ordinary man; his thought creeps from point to point, treats human -institutions with respect, and subordinates itself to the opinions of -other people. It is positively amazing to find Howe, the pioneer, the -fire-brand--or rather the torch-bearer--in one department of thought, -becoming a mere linkboy in another and nearly allied department. - -Howe’s incapacity for leadership in politics was first shown during the -Freesoil movement. The “Coalition” which the Freesoilers made with the -Democrats in Massachusetts, soon after Webster’s defection in 1850, -was one of those political unions which are nowadays called “deals.” -Persons of conflicting principles join together in order to defeat a -common opponent, and, of course, to divide the offices. Some people -object to such deals on the ground that there is always an element -of betrayal, a lie, a debauchery of conscience somewhere and somehow -involved in them. - -The coalition which Dr. Howe’s associates entered into was very -famous at the time and thereafter. I will not attempt to define its -immorality; but I will only say that it was, as Richard H. Dana Jr. -notes in his diary, “an error in moral science.” Dr. Howe did not, in -political matters, understand his own nature sufficiently to keep clear -of this coalition. He plunged into it. He was never happy thereafter. -It violated his conscience and plagued him for years. He could never -forgive the leaders of the Freesoil party, nor forget the treason. He -writes to Sumner in 1852: “I have always had an instinct in me which -I have never been able to body forth clearly--which tells me that all -this manœuvring and political expediency is all wrong, and that each -man should go for the right regardless of others.” - -And again in 1853: “Now every element in my nature rises up indignantly -at the thought of our principles being bartered for considerations of -a personal and selfish nature; and all my feelings bid me do what my -reason forbids--that is, make open war, cause a clean split, appeal to -the Conscience Whigs who formed the nucleus of our party, and march out -of the ranks with a banner of our own.” He makes moan throughout six -years over this coalition. As late as 1857 he still grinds his teeth. -“Not even Sumner’s election was worth the price paid by the coalition.” - -This is all admirable; but it is not enough. Had Howe understood reform -politics as he understood philanthropy, had he had an early training -in reform politics, he would have taken a sledge-hammer and battered -the coalition in public. If the matter had occurred in philanthropy, -Howe would have cleared the air. If, for instance, Dr. Howe had -returned from Europe and found Charles Sumner giving Laura Bridgman -dogmatic religious instruction, he would have stopped it; yes, even -if he had been obliged to placard the town against the Sumner. But in -politics he was helpless. As to the Whigs, he says: “I have done what I -could, for where else can I go? Under what organization can I fight in -this terrible emergency?” - -Alas, there is no banner for a man like Howe to fight under. He must -weave his own banner. For his own philanthropic work, Dr. Howe had done -this; but he could not do it for politics. The anti-slavery problems -came to him on top of his multitudinous activities. He was already -superhumanly active, but he was a man incapable of refusing work which -was offered to him. He took on the abolition duties in addition to -his regular work. His health broke down almost immediately; but there -was no leisure for him to attend to his health. His solution of all -problems was by work, work, work. He was not, it must be remembered, -of a thoughtful nature. His thinking was usually done for him by the -energy of his temperament, which handed him a list of agenda each -morning and at night sent him to the slumbers of fatigue. Thus there -was no very distinct philosophy underlying his course of action in -regard to slavery--no historic point of view, or reasoned theory, no -illumination. - -It is very terrible to see Howe making journeys to Kansas at a time -when he should have been in bed with a sick-nurse beside him. Pegasus -at the plow is good; but this was not exactly the right plow for Howe. -The sight is a sublime one, all the same. The old buccaneer retains -an instinctive belief in force. “Force is not yet eliminated from the -means employed by God, bloodshed is necessary, bloodshed will come. But -when, but how?--Under what circumstances may we resort to it?” This -is the burden of many letters. In the meantime he and his vigilance -committee were getting into deeper water all the time with the fugitive -slave law, and with the still fiercer Kansas-Nebraska problems, until -finally matters were brought to a crisis by John Brown’s raid, of which -I must say a few words here. - -It is wrong to compare John Brown with Joan of Arc, as is so often -done. John Brown’s name is stained with massacre. He is a spirit of -a far lower heaven than Joan of Arc. And yet he is to be classified -under Joan of Arc; because he is an example of the symbolism inherent -in human nature and in human society. Everyone understands both Joan -of Arc and John Brown, but nobody can explain them. It takes an epoch, -it takes the whole of a society, it takes a national and religious -birthpang to produce either Joan of Arc or John Brown. Everyone living -at the time takes some part in the episode; and thereafter, the story -remains as a symbol, an epitome of the national and religious idea, -which was born through the crisis. John Brown and his raid are an -epitome, a popular summary of the history of the United States between -the Missouri Compromise and the Gettysburg celebration. Not a child -has been born in the country since his death to whom John Brown does -not symbolize the thing that happened to the heart and brain of the -American people between 1820 and 1865. He is as big as a myth, and the -story of him is an immortal legend--perhaps the only one in our history. - -The relation which the anti-slavery people bore to the John Brown -episode is that of a chorus: they hailed the coming of the Lord. It is -also that of a client: they backed him with money and arms. They are -the link between the myth and the fact. They lived inside the swirl -of rhapsody which was bearing Brown across the horizon. The progress -of righteous-minded law-breaking, which began as soon as Garrison -had explained the iniquity of the Federal Constitution, was very -rapid after the passage of the fugitive slave law in 1850. To help -fugitive slaves escape was a good training for those who were to supply -anti-slavery swords and guns to the private war in Kansas. Criticism -stands dumb before this situation: no man can tell what he himself -would have done under the circumstances. The anti-slavery scholars and -saints regarded themselves as the representatives of law and order in -fomenting this carnage; and perhaps they were. - -But the mind of John Brown took one more stride, and imagined a holy -war to be begun through a slave insurrection. Nobody could have stopped -Brown: he was wound up: he was going to do the thing. He naturally -came to his Eastern partisans for support, and of course obtained a -different degree of support from each individual to whom his horrifying -scheme was disclosed. The people who would listen sifted themselves -down by natural law to half a dozen, and among this half-dozen was -Dr. Howe. Brown moved about under assumed names, and his accomplices -corresponded in cryptic language, raising money and arms. The natural -power and goodness of the man cast a spell over many who met him. It -was more than a spell, it was the presence and shadow of martyrdom. -And it fell upon the imagination of enthusiasts who had spent years -of their lives in romantic, sacrificial law-breaking. More than -this: John Brown was the living embodiment of an idea with which the -anti-slavery mind was always darkly battling--the idea of atonement, -of vicarious suffering. Howe and his associates somehow felt that they -would be untrue to themselves--false to God--if they did not help John -Brown, even if he were going to do something that would not bear the -telling. John Brown thus fulfilled the dreams of the abolitionists; he -was their man. He portended bloodshed--salvation through bloodshed. -It was to come. Brown himself hardly knew his own significance or he -would have demanded personal service, not money, from his patrons. -Suppose John Brown had said to Gerrit Smith, and to Sanborn and Howe -and Higginson and Stearns: “I do not want your money, but come with me. -And if you will not come now, yet next year you will come--and the year -after--you, and your sons by the thousand. You will follow me and you -will not return, as I shall not return.” - -Brown did not say this, but the truth of it was in the sky already, -and when the raid occurred at Harper’s Ferry men shuddered not only -with horror, but with awe. The raid took place. It took place, not in -Kansas, a long way off, but within a few miles of Washington. Innocent -men were killed. No one could tell whether a slave insurrection was to -follow. A wave of panic swept across the South, and of something not -unlike panic across the North. The keynote was struck. There was no -doubt about that, anywhere. The conspirators, that is to say Brown’s -secret committee, fled to Canada, with the exception of Gerrit Smith -who went into an asylum--and of Higginson who went about his business -as usual. They burnt their papers and look legal advice as to the -law concerning conspiracy and armed rebellion. Dr. Howe, under the -belief that his doing so would somehow shield Brown, published a card -disclaiming knowledge and complicity in the raid. - -It is interesting to note the various reasons which moved the -conspirators to flight, at least to contrast the reasons which they -afterward gave for their several sudden disappearances. Sanborn ran -away because he feared that if the conspirators were arrested, their -personal insignificance might damage the cause. It seemed to him “very -important that the really small extent of any movement should be -concealed and its reach and character exaggerated.” But Howe published -his disclaimer for the very opposite reason. He wished that the -smallness of extent and reach of the movement should be thoroughly well -exposed to the public. This, he thought, would “rather help Brown than -otherwise, because if he were shown to be an isolated individual acting -for himself and not the agent of others, the affair would be less -formidable and the desire for vengeance less strong.” Perhaps anyone -implicated in a terrible crime is apt to discover some reason why his -own temporary disappearance will serve the cause of righteousness. -At any rate, it is too much to expect the humor of the situation to -appear very strongly in the correspondence of the secret committee. -Dr. Howe afterward went to Washington to testify in the investigation -which followed, partly, no doubt, that he might rectify the impression -created by his card, which had led people to believe that he knew less -of Brown’s plans than was the case. - -This momentary concern for their own safety a little tarnishes the -heroic glamor that hangs about the conspirators, and which in another -age would have been quickly restored by their execution. But they were -really safe. All that the South had hoped for was to implicate the -leaders of the Republican party in the raid, and in this it failed. The -panic which seized all the conspirators except Higginson was a natural -reaction in men who were dominated by another man’s idea, sustained -above themselves by another man’s will and thought. They believed they -understood; but they did not understand. When the climax came--a climax -proper to that will and thought--they were thrown to the ground. They -forsook him and fled. This does not mean that when their own hour shall -come these same men will not die cheerfully at the stake or on the -cross. - -One word must be added as to the effect of casuistry upon the intellect -of those enthusiasts who backed Brown while begging him to be gentle. -Dr. Howe writes to Theodore Parker: “And I sent him a draft of fifty -dollars as an earnest of my confidence in him and faith of his adhesion -to what he so often assured me was his purpose--to avoid bloodshed -and servile insurrection.” Now Brown’s previous history and avowed -intentions made bloodshed an integral part of his scheme; and no one -knew this better than the secret committee. But destiny endows each -man with so much blindness as enables him to fulfil his part in the -drama of history. It was necessary for Dr. Howe to support John Brown. -His nature required it of him. In order to do so, it was necessary -for Howe to undergo a slight mental obfuscation; and lo, how easily -it was accomplished! He gives Brown a pistol and begs him not to use -it; he seriously remonstrates with Brown as to the stealing of horses, -even when done in aiding slaves to escape. This is not humbug but -hallucination. - -It should no more be counted against Howe that he could not express -himself through the medium of politics than it is counted against -Goethe that he could not paint. To have mastered one vehicle is enough -for one man in this world. To have seen life from a point of view -which unifies contradictions, merges thought with feeling, identifies -religion and common sense, is enough to give a man a niche in the -temple of humanity--yes, even though this power of vision is accorded -to him only at moments, or when he is dealing with a particular -subject, or when he has a violin or a paint-brush in his hand. - -It is the man that makes this unity--this stained-glass window through -which truth shines. The artists have had a monopoly of logic, and are -the only people who get the credit of being expressive. Yet now and -then a philosopher like Kant draws together a lot of old junk, and -thinks over it, and arranges it till it becomes--to anyone who can -follow the reasoning--a sort of cathedral of logic. Or again, a man who -is the very antipodes of Kant--a man of action who arranges nothing, -but whose thought and conduct are arranged for him by nature--becomes -so polarized and at one with himself that he sheds a sort of glow about -him; but whether this glow comes out of his words or from his conduct -and words taken together we hardly know. The vehicle is nothing; the -man is all. Such unitary natures are rare enough; and Howe, within his -own limitations, and while standing over his own tripod with his own -peculiar lyre in his hand, is one of them. - -The outbreak of the war put an end to all those conditions which had -been turning human nature inside out during the fifties. It was no -longer necessary for idealism to seek its outlet in crime, nor for -half-good men to be turned into devils because they had not in them the -stuff that makes martyrs. When the war came, the average man found the -sacrifice prepared for him in a form which he could understand. He gave -himself freely. He gave all he had. There followed such an outpouring -of virtue and heroism that the crimes of all humanity might seem to -have been wiped out by it; and at the end of the war the United States -resumed her place among modern nations, and took up the conventional -problems of modern life. - -During the war Dr. Howe was a member of the Sanitary Commission; and -during the remainder of his life he continued to be the greatest -authority on everything that concerned organized charity, and probably -the most active individual who had ever taken part in such things in -the United States. - -In this sketch there has not been time to touch upon the international -side of Howe’s life; his relation to the liberals and philanthropists -of Europe, from Lafayette to Kossuth. I omit the picturesque episodes -which that relation gave rise to, as, for instance, Howe’s imprisonment -in Prussia in 1832, and his being chosen, at a later date, as the -depository for the stolen crown jewels of Hungary. “When the jewels -were recovered,” writes Mr. W. J. Stillman in his autobiography, “they -were to be hidden in a box of a conserve for which that vicinity was -noted, and then carried to Constantinople, from which point I was to -take charge of them and deliver them in Boston to Dr. S. G. Howe, the -well-known Philhellene.” The jewels were recovered by the Austrian -Government before they could be transferred to America, and this was, -no doubt, a fortunate outcome for all concerned. Dr. Howe’s liberalism -remained at the same temperature throughout his life. It led him in -1867 to revisit Greece for the last time, as a distributor of supplies -to the insurgent Cretans. It led him in 1871 to favor the Annexation of -Santo Domingo to the United States. - -Howe died in 1876. The rapid cycle of social revolutions in the United -States which followed the Civil War, heightened the contrast between -the veteran and the new age, and strengthened the romance that had -always hung about him. To have taken part in the Greek Revolution -seemed, in 1870, almost the same thing as to have been present at the -siege of Troy. The mantle of Byron and the Isles of Greece never quite -fell from his shoulders. - -Dr. Howe seems to have been one of those nimble, playful, light-footed -natures who are as strong as steel and can be as stern as steel upon -occasion. His physical endurance was so great that it led to his -habitually overtaxing himself. His excitability made him a hard man to -live with; and he was occasionally hasty, harsh, and exacting. This -irritability of Dr. Howe’s is deeply related to his whole mind and -being. He was constitutionally deficient in the power to rest. The -blind headaches which clouded the last third of his life were probably -the convulsions through which outraged nature resumed her functions. -He supposed them to be the residuum of Grecian malaria; but anyone -reading of Howe’s daily life would look for breakdown somewhere. There -is a gleaming elfin precocity about him which the human machine cannot -support forever. He was ever in action: as he so wonderfully says of -himself, “he prayed with his hands and feet.” - -Dr. Howe had that kind of modesty which seems to be confined to the -heroes of romantic adventure: rough soldiers have it, and people whose -courage has been put to the proof a thousand times. - -“I do assure you, my dear Sumner,” he writes in 1846, “the sort of -vulgar notoriety which follows any movement of this kind is a very -great drawback to the pleasure of making it. To the voice of praise -I am sensible, too sensible I know; but I do detest this newspaper -puffing, and I have been put to the blush very often by it.” - -The following is his account of his reception by the peasants on the -Isthmus of Corinth when he was recognized in 1844. - -“The whole village gathered about the house, and to make a long story -short, I went away amid demonstrations of affectionate remembrance and -continued attachment, so earnest and so obvious that they made one of -my companions shed tears, though he understood not a word of the spoken -language. But I must not enlarge on this now, for I have no time; -perhaps I ought not to do so even had I ever so much time; but you will -not, I know, suspect me of vanity in making any communications to you.” - -Charles Sumner is almost the only man to whom he unbosoms himself -on such subjects: “It is quite too bad to keep people under such a -delusion about me. One gentleman, an F. R. S., writes that he wants to -see me more than any other man in Europe. He has published a little -book, with physiological reflections on privation of senses, which -he dedicates “To Dr. Howe, the ingenious and successful teacher of -Laura Bridgman.” The man looks _up_ to me; yet it is evident, -from reading his books, that he has himself tenfold more talent, -acquirement, and merit than I have or ever shall have.”... To Horace -Mann he writes in 1848, “It is absurd for me to reach up from my -littleness to tender counsel to one so high as you; but my love for you -is as great as though we stood face to face.” - -He thus questions Sumner as to whether he himself can learn to be an -editor: “Tell me my best, my almost only friend, is there any reason to -suppose that by any apprenticeship I could, without rashness, enter the -editorial field.” This from a man who had only to touch any cause to -make the world ring with it, is incredible. One cannot hope really to -understand such a character: it reminds one of the meekness of Moses. -There is a rose-leaf girlish quality about this modesty which makes it -one of the most wonderful things in nature. Few of us have ever seen -it; we have only read about it; for people are always writing about it, -and it evokes literature. No sooner does one of these modest people -appear than everyone praises him. I suppose people feel that praise -cannot injure such a nature: there is nothing for praise to stick -to. The bitter lips of malice break into eulogy before this quality, -which shrinks from commendation as most people shrink from censure. -In Dr. Howe’s case this modesty set off not only deeds of physical -prowess, but intellectual accomplishments of a most dazzling kind. -Hence the enormous number of somewhat tedious eulogies upon him. One is -obliged to approach him through a stack of funeral wreaths. - -He was totally without personal thought, personal self-consciousness, -and more like a disembodied spirit than a man. This impersonal quality -gave him the power of telling home truths to people without offending -them. To strangers, to acquaintances, to intimate friends, to proud -spoiled egotists, to bad men with whom he is at odds--he can always -tell the exact truth without conveying any personal ill-feeling. He -flashes in through the walls and turrets of Charles Sumner, or of -Theodore Parker, and puts the house in order with lightning strokes of -wit, and with bold home-thrusts of spontaneous ridicule. He touches his -friend’s soul with celestial surgery, then quickly rubs salve upon the -wounds, and is back again at his desk before the patient has discovered -his visitation. To say that he is the warmest nature that ever came -out of New England would not be expressive. He is the warmest Anglo -Saxon of whom I have ever read or heard tell. Constant expressions -of love and affection flow from him, effusive, demonstrative, -emotional. It is not necessary to cite them. Open the book. The German -romanticists of whom Jean Paul Richter is a type come into one’s mind; -but there was a literary tang to their sentiment. I must, however, -quote two passages illustrative of Howe’s ordinary state of mind:-- - -“My Well-beloved Friend:-- - -“Your note from New York found me last evening, and gave me a feeling -as near akin to pure joy as I ever expect to feel on earth. Why is it -that we men are so shy about manifesting a natural feeling in a natural -way, and letting down the flood-gates of the eye to the flow of tears? -I feared to go and bid you adieu on Wednesday, lest I should not be -able to conceal my emotion, hide my tears. I succeeded, however; I wept -not until I was alone!” - -Dr. Howe’s aged friend, Mr. F. W. Bird, has left an anecdote of their -last meeting which would add a beauty to Homer: - -“As I rose to leave, he followed me into the hall, threw his arms -around my neck and with a beautiful smile said: ‘My dear old fellow, -let me kiss you,’ and gave me a warm kiss. Within two days the thick -curtain fell.” At the time of this parting Bird was sixty-six, and Howe -seventy-five. - -Is it not evident from all that has gone before that Dr. Howe was a -saint? He constantly suggests one or other of the great saints in the -Roman Calendar. And I will predict that the world has rather begun than -finished with its interest in him. His work in charity will never be -superseded. Succeeding penologists will recur to it to save them from -the science of their times. - - - - -JESTERS. - - -It is right to break up old china because it is ugly; but to -destroy the china because you enjoy the sound of the crash is a -little depraved. Bernard Shaw and G. K. Chesterton, _et id omne -genus_--the race of joyous tomboys who dash things about--have a -great charm always. The bored, cultivated, sedentary people in any old -civilization wake up more cheerfully in the morning when there is one -of these fellows at work. A new thrill comes into the journals which -the literati had grown to hate so heartily. “Ah,” cry the leisure -classes, “what has Tommy got to say this morning, I wonder.” - -These two gentlemen, Shaw and Chesterton, are the Max and Moritz of the -present epoch. For this reason I have tried to like them. I have tried -to tolerate them. I have tried to believe that they are serviceable to -mankind from some point of view which is not yet revealed to me. I do -believe this; but I believe it with the head and not with the heart. -The following reflections are, after all, a mere groping toward the -light, and the tapping of the staff of a blind man. - -Any one who has ever passed through London must have been struck -with the competition for notice among all classes of people whose -conspicuousness depends upon their personal activity. In England -there are such masses of any one kind of man or woman that the desire -for identification--in itself a noble desire--leads people to resort -to every expedient for attracting notice to themselves. This is the -explanation of the hyphen in names. Edward B. Jones is a name that no -one can remember; but Edward Burne-Jones is easy. In like manner ladies -turn to lion-hunting, not because they love lions but because it gives -them a status. Indeed, England has always been full of sham lions, who -spring into existence to supply the demand created by these ladies. So -of charity; so of culture; so of politics. - -Now there are often intellectual men--like Beaconsfield, and Oscar -Wilde, and Whistler--who are unwilling to wait for their talents to -lift them into notice, but who resort to artificial notoriety in order -to expedite matters. They stick a feather in their cap and call it -‘maccaroni’. Their times suggest this course to them, and their times -claim them instantly when they have complied with the suggestion. In -literary England there is such an enormous and immediate acclaim for -any new cleverness, that a poor and talented young man is under strong -temptation to become surprising and brilliant in his writing. If he -will only do this he will find himself petted, fed, and proclaimed -almost at once. - -This particular entry into the Temple of Fame, however, exacts a heavy -toll; for a man who has written in order to break the crust of the -public with his pungency, is not allowed ever thereafter to write -without pungency. I believe that the talent of all the men I have named -would have developed more seriously if they had not in early life given -way to the taste of the public for sensation. But they would not wait: -they must sting themselves into notice. - -As for Shaw and Chesterton, they seem to have become partners in a sort -of game of buffoonery--for the world will have its jesters. They are -tumblers on a raft, floating down stream, surrounded by a whole Henley -regatta, an armada of applauding multitudes, on barges, wherries, tugs, -and ferry-boats and river-craft innumerable, whose holiday passengers -shout their admiration to the performers on the raft, and egg on the -favorites to superhuman effort. Shaw shows how far he can stick out his -tongue while continuing to stand on one leg. “Bravo! Huzzah!” roars the -audience. “Did you ever see the like? O Jesu, this is excellent sport! -Faith! How he holds his countenance! He doth it as like one of these -harlotry players as ever I see.” - -Chesterton thereupon puts his wrists on the carpet and lifts his back -like a cat. “Lord save us! This was Ercles’ vein! He hath simply the -best wit of any handy-craftsman in Athens. You have not a man in all -Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he!” - -There is some exaggeration in this picture; but, I think, some truth -also. The loss which Shaw and Chesterton share in common is a loss of -delicacy. They are crude: they are all edge. They are, indeed, a little -vulgar. But this is not the serious objection to them. The serious -objection to Shaw and Chesterton is that they have no intellectual -independence. They are moving with the show. It will pass, and they -with it. - - - - -THE COMIC. - - -I. - -In the caverns of our nature lie hid various emotions, like beasts -in a lair. They are shy to the voice of question or of curiosity, -and they slink and crouch all the more, if we try to lure them out -for inspection. But they come gambolling and roaring forth at the -call of ingenuous human utterance. Any utterance that has in it no -afterthought, but is mere speech that has grown out of a need to speak, -lays a spell upon the wild things within us. Before the echo of it -has died away they are rampant in the open, ignorant of how they came -forth. Let no one then wonder at the difficulties that surround all -study of the human emotions,--blushing giants, vanishing Genii that -they are. - -It is easy for us to-day to see that comedy is in its nature the same -sort of thing as tragedy. They arise out of the same need, convey the -same truth, depend upon the same talent. The English drama interwove -comedy and tragedy in the same play, and Shakespeare’s greatness in -one is of a piece with his greatness in the other. Indeed there are -scenes in Lear, Shylock, and Henry IV where tragedy and comedy are -overlaid--where the same scene is both tragic and comic and we laugh -and cry at the same time. But for a Greek to have seen this identity -is very remarkable; because Greek tragedy and Greek comedy represented -distinct professions and were totally different in their methods of -appeal. A Greek tragedy was a drama of fate, based on a familiar -bit of religious folk-lore. The plot was known, the interest lay in -the treatment. A Greek comedy, however, was a farrago of licentious -nonsense, developed in the course of a fantastic narrative-play: it was -what we should call a musical extravaganza. Greek comedy is gigantesque -buffoonery, interspersed with lyric and choral passages of divine -beauty--the whole, following a traditional model as to its arrangement. - -With this machinery Aristophanes proceeds to shake the stones of the -Greek theatre with inextinguishable laughter. He will do anything to -raise a laugh. He introduces Socrates hung up in a basket and declaring -that he is flying in the air and speculating about the sun. He makes -the god Dionysus--the very god in whose honor the theatre and festival -exist--to leap from the stage in a moment of comic terror, and hide -himself under the long cloak of his own high-priest, whose chair of -state was in the front row of the pit. Is it possible to imagine what -sort of a scene in the theatre this climax must have aroused? There has -been no laughter since Aristophanes. There is something of the same -humor in Rabelais; but Rabelais is a book, and there each man laughs -alone over his book, not in company with his whole city or tribe, as in -the Greek theatre. - -Now what is it they are laughing at? It is sallies of wit, personal -hits, local allusions, indecencies, philosophical cracks, everything -from refined satire to the bludgeons of abuse--and the whole thing is -proceeding in an atmosphere of fun, of wild spirits, of irrepressible -devilry. Compared to Aristophanes, Shakespeare is not funny; he lacks -size. He is a great and thoughtful person, of superabundant genius and -charm, who makes Dutch interiors, drenched in light. But Aristophanes -splits the heavens with a jest, and the rays of truth stream down -from inaccessible solitudes of speculation. He has no epigram, no -cleverness, no derivative humor. He is bald foolery. And yet he conveys -mysticism: he conveys divinity. He alone stands still while the whole -empyrean of Greek life circles about him. - -From what height of suddenly assumed superiority does the race of birds -commiserate mankind: - - [A]“Come now, ye men, in nature darkling, like to the race of - leaves, of little might, figures of clay, shadowy feeble tribes, - wingless creatures of a day, miserable mortals, dream-like men, - give your attention to us the immortals, the ever-existing, the - ethereal, the ageless, who meditate eternal counsels, in order - that when you have heard everything from us accurately about - sublime things, the nature of birds, and the origin of gods and - rivers, of Erebus and Chaos, you may henceforth bid Prodicus from - me go weep, when you know them accurately.” - - [A] Hickie’s translation. - -Into what depth of independent thought did the man dream himself, that -such fancies could take hold of him? When Aristophanes has had his -say, there is nothing left over: there is no frame nor shell: there -is no theatre nor world. Everything is exploded and scattered into -sifting, oscillating, shimmering, slowly-sinking fragments of meaning -and allusion. If anyone should think that I am going to analyze the -intellect of Aristophanes, he is in error. I wish only to make a -remark about it; namely, that his power is somehow rooted in personal -detachment, in philosophical independence. - -It was the genius of Aristophanes which must have suggested to Plato -the idea which he throws out in the last paragraph of the Symposium. -That great artist, Plato, has left many luminous half-thoughts behind -him. He sets each one in a limbo--in a cocoon of its own light--and -leaves it in careless-careful fashion, as if it were hardly worth -investigation. The rascal! The setting has cost him sleepless nights -and much parchment. He has redrawn and arranged it a hundred times. He -is unable to fathom the idea, and yet it fascinates him. The setting in -which Plato has placed his suggestion about the genius of tragedy and -comedy is so very wonderful--both as a picture and as his apology for -not carrying the idea further--that I must quote it, if only as an act -of piety, and for my own pleasure. - - [B]“Agathon arose in order that he might take his place on the - couch by Socrates, when suddenly a band of revellers entered, - and spoiled the order of the banquet. Someone who was going out - having left the door open, they had found their way in, and made - themselves at home; great confusion ensued, and everyone was - compelled to drink large quantities of wine. Aristodemus said - that Eryximachus, Phaedrus and others went away--he himself - fell asleep, and as the nights were long, took a good rest: he - was awakened toward daybreak by a crowing of cocks, and when he - awoke, the others were either asleep or had gone away; there - remained only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon, who were - drinking out of a large goblet which they passed round, and - Socrates was discoursing to them. Aristodemus was only half - awake, and he did not hear the beginning of the discourse; the - chief thing which he remembered was Socrates compelling the other - two to acknowledge that the genius of comedy was the same with - that of tragedy, and that the true artist in tragedy was an - artist in comedy also. To this they were constrained to assent, - being drowsy and not quite following the argument. And first of - all Aristophanes dropped off; then, when the day was already - dawning, Agathon. Socrates, having laid them to sleep, rose - to depart, Aristodemus, as his manner was, following him. At - the Lyceum he took a bath, and passed the day as usual. In the - evening he retired to rest at his own home.” - - [B] Jowett’s translation. - -What can Plato have had in mind, that glimmers to us in the dawn as -a sort of dim, divine intimation, and is almost immediately drowned -by daylight and the market place? I suppose that Plato may have had -in mind certain moments in comedy where the self-deluded isolation of -some character is so perfectly given as to be almost sublime, and thus -to suggest tragedy; or Plato may have had the opposite experience, -and may have found himself almost ready to laugh at the fate of Ajax, -whose weaknesses of character work out so inevitably, so logically, so -beautifully in the tragedy of Sophocles. Perhaps the thought passed -through Plato’s mind: “If this were not tragedy, what wonderful comedy -it would be! If only the climax were less painful, if the mad Ajax, -instead of killing himself should merely be driven to eat grass like an -ox for a season, or put on his clothes hind-side-before--in fact, if -Ajax’s faults could only be punished quite mildly in the outcome, here -would be a comedy indeed!” - -The stuff of which tragedy and comedy are made is the same stuff. The -foibles of mankind work up more easily into comedy than into tragedy; -and this is the chief difference between the two. We readily understand -the Nemesis of temperament, the fatality of character, when it is -exposed upon a small scale. This is the business of comedy; and we do -not here require the labored artifice of gods, mechanical plot, and -pointed allegory to make us realize the moral. - -But in tragedy we have the large scale to deal with. A tragedy is -always the same thing. It is a world of complicated and traditional -stage devices for making us realize the helplessness of mankind -before destiny. We are told from the start to expect the worst: there -is going to be suffering, and the suffering is going to be logical, -inevitable, necessary. There is also an implication to be conveyed that -this suffering is somehow in accord with the moral constitution of the -universe. The aim of the whole thing is to teach us to submit--to fit -us for life. - -There is profound truth at the bottom of these ideas; for whether you -accept this truth in the form of the Christian doctrine of humility, -or in the form of the Pagan doctrine of reverence for the gods, there -is no question that a human being who is in the state of mind of Lear -or of Ajax is in a dangerous state. He is going to be punished: he is -going to punish himself. The complexities of human life, however, make -this truth very difficult to convey upon the grand scale. It is, in -daily existence, obscured by other and more obvious truths. In order -to dig it out and present it and make it seem at all probable, every -historical device and trapping and sign-post of suggestion--every -stage tradition must be used. The aim is so exalted and sombre, and -the machinery is so ponderous that laughter is out of the question: it -is forbidden. The magnitude of the issues oppress us; and we are told -that it would be cruel to the hero and to the actor and to the author -for us to laugh. And yet we are always on the verge of laughter, and -any inattention to the rubric may bring on a fit of it. If a windlass -breaks we really laugh harder than the occasion warrants. - -In reading the Book of Job, where the remoteness of the scene and -certain absurdities in the plot relieve the strain of tragedy, we laugh -inevitably; and the thing that makes us laugh is the very thing that -ought to fill us with awe--the rigor of the logic. - -Thus much for the sunny side of tragedy. But let us recur to the night -side of comedy. Falstaff is a comic figure, is he not? And yet what -thoughtful man is there who has not enough of the Puritan in him to -see the tragedy of such a character as Falstaff? How must Falstaff -have appeared to Bunyan!--every stroke of genius which to us makes -for the comic, adding a phosphor-gleam of hell-fire. And Bunyan is -right: Falstaff is an awful picture; and had Shakespeare punished him -adequately he would appear awful. Let us imagine that Shakespeare had -written a play about the old age of Falstaff, picturing his decay of -intellect, his destitution, his flickering return to humor which is no -longer funny--what could have been more tragic? - - * * * * * - -Was it with such arguments as these that Socrates put Aristophanes -and Agathon to sleep on the famous morning which Plato chronicles? We -cannot tell. Plato has cast the magic of a falling star over the matter -and thus leaves it: his humor, his knack, his destiny compelled him to -treat subjects in this way. Something passes, and after a light has -fallen far off into the sea, we ask “What was it?” Enough for Plato’s -purpose that he has placed Comedy where, perhaps, no philosopher before -or after him ever had the vision to place it--in the heaven of man’s -highest endeavor. - - -II. - -The divine affinities of comedy have thus been established, and we -may make some few stray observations on the nature of the comic, not -hoping to explain laughter, which must remain forever a spontaneous -mystery, but only to point out places where this mystery crosses -the other mysteries and refuses to be merged in them, keeping its -own course and intensifying the darkness of our ignorance by its -corruscations. In the first place the comic is about the most durable -vehicle that truth has ever found. It pretends to deal with momentary -interests in terms of farce and exaggeration; and yet it leaves an -image that strikes deeper and lasts longer than philosophy. - -In our search for truth we are continually getting into vehicles that -break down or turn into something else, even during our transit. Let -us take, for example, the case of Plato’s dialogues. How much we have -enjoyed them, how much trusted them! And yet there comes a time when we -feel about Plato’s work that it is almost too well lighted and managed, -too filled with parlor elegance. He seems more interested in the -effects that can be got by manipulating philosophy than in any serious -truth. There is something superficial about the pictures of Greek life -that you get from Plato. The marble is too white, the philosophers -are too considerate of each other’s feelings, Socrates is too clever, -everything is a little arranged. Greek life was not quite like that, -and the way to convince yourself of this is to read Aristophanes. - -In Aristophanes you have the convincing hurly-burly, the sweating, -mean, talented, scrambling, laughing life of the Mediterranean--that -same life of which you find records in the recent Cretan discoveries, -dating from 2500 B. C., or which you may observe in the market-places -of Naples to-day. Plato’s dialogues do not give this life. They give a -picture of something that never existed, something that sounds like an -enchanted picture, a picture of life as it ought to be for the leisure -classes, but as it never has been and never can be while the world -lasts, even for them. - -The ideas which we carry in our minds criticize each other, despite -all we can do to keep them apart. They attack and mutilate each -other, like the monsters in a drop of muddy water, or the soldiers -of Cadmus when the stone of controversy was thrown among them. It -is as hard to preserve the _entente cordiale_ between hostile -thoughts as between hostile bull-dogs. We have no sooner patted the -head of the courtly and affable Socrates given to us by Plato--the -perfect scholar and sweet gentleman--than the vulgarian Socrates given -to us by Aristophanes--the frowzy all-nighter, the notorious enemy -to bathing--flies at the throat of Plato’s darling and leaves him -rumpled. So far as manners and customs go, nothing can rival good -comic description: it supersedes everything else. You can neither write -nor preach it down, nor put it down by law. Hogarth has depicted the -England of the early Georges in such a way as to convince us. No mortal -vehicle of expression can upset Hogarth. - -When we come to pictures of life which belong to a more serious -species--to poetry, to history, to religion--we find the same conflicts -going on in our minds: one source criticizes another. One belief eats -up the next belief as the acid eats the plate. It is not merely the -outside of Socrates that Aristophanes has demolished. He has a little -damaged the philosophy of Socrates. He undermines Greek thought: he -helps and urges us not to take it seriously. He thus becomes an ally of -the whole world of later Christian thought. If I were to go to Athens -to-morrow, the first man I would seek out would be Aristophanes. He is -a modern: he is a man. - -We have been speaking of Greek thought and Greek life; yet between -that life and ourselves there have intervened some centuries of -Christianity, including the Middle Ages, during which Jewish influence -pervaded and absorbed other thought. The Hebrew ruled and subdued -in philosophy, poetry, and religion. The Hebrew influence is the -most powerful influence ever let loose upon the world. Every book -written since this Hebrew domination is saturated with Hebrew. It -has thus become impossible to see the classics as they were. Between -them and us in an atmosphere of mordant, powerful, Hebraic thought, -which transmutes and fantastically recolors them. How the classics -would have laughed over our conception of them! Virgil was a witch -during the Middle Ages and now he is an acolyte, a person over whom -the modern sentimental school maunders in tears. The classics would -feel toward our notions of them somewhat as a Parisian feels toward a -French vaudeville after it has been prepared for the American stage. -Christianity is to blame. - -I have perhaps spoken as if Christianity has blown over with the -Middle Ages; but it has not. The Middle Ages have blown over; but -Christianity seems, in some ways, never to have been understood before -the nineteenth century. It is upon us, sevenfold strong. Its mysteries -supersede the other mysteries; its rod threatens to eat up the rods -of the other magicians. These tigers of Christian criticism within -us attack the classics. The half-formed objections to Plato which I -have mentioned are seriously reinforced by the Hebrew dispensation, -which somehow reduces the philosophic speculations of Greece to the -status of favors at a cotillion. It is senseless to contrast Christ -with Socrates; it is unfair and even absurd to review Greek life -and thought by the light of Hebrew life and thought. But to do so is -inevitable. We are three parts Hebrew in our nature and we see the -Mediterranean culture with Hebrew eyes. The attempts of such persons -as Swinburne and Pater to writhe themselves free from the Hebrew -domination always betray that profound seriousness which comes from -the Jew. These men make a break for freedom--they will be joyous, -antique, and irresponsible. Alas, they are sadder than the Puritans and -shallower than Columbine. - -It has become forever and perpetually impossible for any one to treat -Greek thought on a Greek basis: the basis is gone. As I wrote the -words a page or two back about “Comedy having been placed by Plato in -the heaven of man’s highest endeavor,” I thought to myself, “Perhaps -I ought to say highest _artistic_ endeavor.” There spoke the Jew -monitor which dogs our classical studies, sniffing at them and hinting -that they are trivial. In the eye of that monitor there is no room for -the comic in the whole universe: there is no such thing as the comic. -The comic is something outside of the Jewish dispensation, a kind of -irreducible unreason, a skeptical or satanic element. - -One would conclude from their records that the Jews were people who -never laughed except ironically. To be sure, Michal laughed at -David’s dancing, and Sara laughed at the idea of having a child, and -various people in the New Testament laughed others “to scorn.” But -nobody seems to have laughed heartily and innocently. One gets the -impression of a race devoid of humor. This is partly because it is not -the province of religious writings to record humor; but it is mainly -because Jewish thought condemns humor. Wherever humor arises in a -Christian civilization--as in the popular Gothic humor--it is a local -race-element, an unsubdued bit of something foreign to Judah. Where the -Bible triumphs utterly, as in Dante and Calvin, there is no humor. - -And yet the comic survives in us. It eludes the criticism of -Christianity as the sunlight eludes the net. Yes, not only our own -laughter survives, but the old classic comedy still seems comic--and -more truly comic than the old lyric poetry seems poetic or the drama -dramatic. Ancient poesy must always be humored and nursed a little; but -when the comic strikes home, it is our own comic; no allowances need be -made for it. - -There is a kind of laughter that makes the whole universe throb. It -has in it the immediate flash of the power of God. We can no more -understand it than we can understand other religious truth. It reminds -us that we are not wholly Jew. There is light in the world that does -not come from Israel; nevertheless, that this is a part of the same -light that shines through Israel we surely know. - -I have not tried to analyze laughter; but only to show the mystery -that surrounds its origin. Now a certain mystery surrounds all human -expression. The profoundest truths can only be expressed through the -mystery of paradox--as philosophers, poets, prophets, and moralists -have agreed since the dawn of time. This saying sounds hard; but its -meaning is easy. The meaning is that Truth can never be exactly stated; -every statement is a misfit. But truth can be alluded to. A paradox -says frankly, “What I say here is not a statement of the truth, but -is a mere allusion to the truth.” The comic vehicle does the same. -It pretends only to allude to the truth, and by this method makes a -directer appeal to experience than any attempted statement of truth can -make. - -There is, no doubt, some reason at the back of this strange fact, -that our most expressive language is a mere series of hints and -gestures--that we can only hope, whether by word or chisel, to give, as -it were, a side reference to truth. To fathom this reason would be to -understand the nature of life and mind. - -I have often thought that the fact that life does not originate in -us, but is a thing supplied to us from moment to moment--as the power -of the electric current is supplied to the light--accounts for the -paradoxical nature of our minds and souls. It is a commonplace that -the poet is inspired--that Orpheus was carried away by the god. So -also it is a commonplace that the religious person is absorbed in -the will of God--as St. Paul said, his own strength was due to his -weakness. So also it is a commonplace of modern scientific psychology -that unconsciousness accompanies high intellectual activity. Sir Isaac -Newton solved his problems by the art he had of putting them off his -mind--of committing them to the unconscious. - -All these are but different aspects of the same truth, and we must -regard consciousness as resistance to the current of life. If this be -true, it is clear that any wilful attempt to tell the truth must _pro -tanto_ defeat itself, for it is only by the surrender of our will -that truth becomes effective. This idea, being a universal idea, is -illustrated by everything; and the less you try to understand it, the -more fully will you understand it. In fact one great difficulty that a -child or a man has in learning anything, comes from his trying too hard -to understand. - -Once imagine that our understanding of a thing comes from our ceasing -to prevent ourselves from understanding it, and we have the problem -in its true form. Accept once for all that all will is illusion, and -that the expressive power is something that acts most fully when -least impeded by will, and there remains no paradox anywhere. The -things we called paradoxes become deductions. Of course St. Paul’s -weakness was the foundation of his strength; of course Orpheus was -irresponsible; of course the maximum of intellectual power will be -the maximum of unimpeded, unconscious activity. And as for our Comic, -of course--whatever laughter may be in itself--laughter will be most -strongly called forth by anything that merely calls and vanishes. Such -things are jokes, burlesques, humor. They state nothing: they assume -inaccuracy: they cry aloud and vanish, leaving the hearer to become -awakened to his own thoughts. They are mere stimuli--mere gesture and -motion, and hence the very truest, very strongest form of human appeal. - - - - -THE UNITY OF HUMAN NATURE.[C] - - [C] This was an address delivered before the graduating class at - Hobart College in 1900. - - -If one could stand on the edge of the moon and look down through a -couple of thousand years on human politics, it would be apparent -that everything that happened on the earth was directly dependent on -everything else that happened there. Whether the Italian peasant shall -eat salt with his bread, depends upon Bismarck. Whether the prison -system of Russia shall be improved, depends upon the ministry of Great -Britain. If Lord Beaconsfield is in power, there is no leisure in -Russia for domestic reform. The lash is everywhere lifted in a security -furnished by the concurrence of all the influences upon the globe that -favor coercion. In like manner, the good things that happen are each -the product of all extant conditions. Constitutional government in -England qualifies the whole of western Europe. Our slaves were not set -free without the assistance of every liberal mind in Europe; and the -thoughts which we think in our closet affect the fate of the Boer in -South Africa. That Tolstoy is to-day living unmolested upon his farm -instead of serving in a Siberian mine, that Dreyfus is alive and not -dead, is due directly to the people in this audience and to others like -them scattered over Europe and America. - -The effect of enlightenment on tyranny is not merely to make the -tyrant afraid to be cruel, it makes him not want to be cruel. It makes -him see what cruelty is. And reciprocally the effect of cruelty on -enlightenment is to make that enlightenment grow dim. It prevents men -from seeing what cruelty is. - -The Czar of Russia cannot get rid of your influence, nor you of his. -Every ukase he signs makes allowance for you, and, on the other hand, -the whole philosophy of your life is tinged by him. You believe that -the abuses under the Russian government are inscrutably different -from and worse than our own; whereas both sets of atrocities are -identical in principle, and are more alike in fact, in taste and smell -and substance than your prejudice is willing to admit. The existence -of Russia narrows America’s philosophy, and misconduct by a European -power may be seen reflected in the moral tone of your clergyman on -the following day. More Americans have abandoned their faith in free -government since England began to play the tyrant in South Africa than -there were colonists in the country in 1776. - -Europe is all one family, and speaks, one might say, the same language. -The life that has been transplanted to North America during the last -three centuries, is European life. From your position on the moon -you would not be able to understand what the supposed differences -were between European and American things, that the Americans make so -much fuss over. You would say, “I see only one people, splashed over -different continents. The problems they talk about, the houses they -live in, the clothes they wear, seem much alike. Their education and -catchwords are identical. They are the children of the Classics, of -Christianity, and of the Revival of Learning. They are homogeneous, and -they are growing more homogeneous.” - -The subtle influences that modern nations exert over one another -illustrate the unity of life on the globe. But if we turn to ancient -history we find in its bare outlines staggering proof of the -interdependence of nations. The Greeks were wiped out. They could not -escape their contemporaries any more than we can escape the existence -of the Malays. Israel could not escape Assyria, nor Assyria Persia, nor -Persia Macedonia, nor Macedonia Rome, nor Rome the Goths. Life is not -a boarding-school where a bad boy can be dismissed for the benefit of -the rest. He remains. He must be dealt with. He is as much here as we -are ourselves. The whole of Europe and Asia and South America and every -Malay and every Chinaman, Hindoo, Tartar, and Tagal--of such is our -civilization. - -Let us for the moment put aside every dictate of religion and -political philosophy. Let us discard all prejudice and all love. Let -us regard nothing except facts. Does not the coldest conclusion of -science announce the fact that the world is peopled, and that every -individual of that population has an influence as certain and far more -discoverable than the influence of the weight of his body upon the -solar system? - -A Chinaman lands in San Francisco. The Constitution of the United -States begins to rock and tremble. What shall we do with him? The -deepest minds of the past must be ransacked to the bottom to find an -answer. Every one of seventy million Americans must pass through a -throe of thought that leaves him a modified man. The same thing is true -when the American lands in China. These creatures have thus begun to -think of each other. It is unimaginable that they should not hereafter -incessantly and never-endingly continue to think of each other. And out -of their thoughts grows the destiny of mankind. - -We have an inherited and stupid notion that the East does not change. -If Japan goes through a transformation scene under our eyes, we still -hold to our prejudice as to the immutability of the Chinese. If our -own people and the European nations seem to be meeting and surging and -reappearing in unaccustomed rôles every ten years, till modern history -looks like a fancy ball, we still go on muttering some old ignorant -shibboleth about East and West, Magna Charta, the Indian Mutiny, and -Mahomet. The chances are that England will be dead-letter, and Russia -progressive before we have done talking. Of a truth, when we consider -the rapidity of visible change and the amplitude of time--for there is -plenty of time--we need not despair of progress. - -The true starting-point for the world’s progress will never be reached -by any nation as a whole. It exists and has been reached in the past as -it will in the future by individuals scattered here and there in every -nation. It is reached by those minds which insist on seeing conditions -as they are, and which cannot confine their thoughts to their own -kitchen, or to their own creed, or to their own nation. You will think -I have in mind poets and philosophers, for these men take humanity as -their subject, and deal in the general stuff of human nature. But the -narrow spirit in which they often do this cuts down their influence -to parish limits. I mean rather those men who in private life act out -their thoughts and feelings as to the unity of human life; those same -thoughts which the poets and philosophers have expressed in their -plays, their sayings, and their visions. There have always been men -who in their daily life have fulfilled those intimations and instincts -which, if reduced to a statement, receive the names of poetry and -religion. These men are the cart-horses of progress, they devote their -lives to doing things which can only be justified or explained by the -highest philosophy. They proceed as if all men were their brothers. -These practical philanthropists go plodding on through each century -and leave the bones of their character mingled with the soil of their -civilization. - -See how large the labors of such men look when seen in historic -perspective. They have changed the world’s public opinion. They have -moulded the world’s institutions into forms expressive of their will. I -ask your attention to one of their achievements. We have one province -of conduct in which the visions of the poets have been reduced to -practice--yes, erected into a department of government--through the -labors of the philanthropists. They have established the hospital and -the reformatory; and these visible bastions of philosophy hold now a -more unchallenged place in our civilization than the Sermon on the -Mount on which they comment. - -The truth which the philanthropists of all ages have felt is that -the human family was a unit; and this truth, being as deep as human -nature, can be expressed in every philosophy--even in the inverted -utilitarianism now in vogue. The problem of how to treat insane people -and criminals has been solved to this extent, that everyone agrees that -nothing must be done to them which injures the survivors. That is the -reason we do not kill them. It is unpleasant to have them about, and -this unpleasantness can be cured only by our devotion to them. We must -either help the wretched or we ourselves become degenerate. They have -thus become a positive means of civilizing the modern world; for the -instinct of self-preservation has led men to deal with this problem in -the only practical way. - -Put a Chinaman into your hospital and he will be cared for. You may lie -awake at night drawing up reasons for doing something different with -this disgusting Chinaman--who, somehow, is in the world and is thrown -into your care, your hospital, your thought--but the machinery of your -own being is so constructed that if you take any other course with -him than that which you take with your own people, your institution -will instantly lose its meaning; you would not have the face to beg -money for its continuance in the following year. The logic of this, -which, if you like, is the logic of self-protection under the illusion -of self-sacrifice, is the logic which is at the bottom of all human -progress. I dislike to express this idea in its meanest form; but I -know there are some professors of political economy here, and I wish -to be understood. The utility of hospitals is not to cure the sick. -It is to teach mercy. The veneration for hospitals is not accorded to -them because they cure the sick, but because they stand for love, and -responsibility. - -The appeal of physical suffering makes the strongest attack on our -common humanity. Even zealots and sectaries are touched. The practice -and custom of this kind of mercy have therefore become established, -while other kinds of mercy which require more imagination are still in -their infancy. But at the bottom of every fight for principle you will -find the same sentiment of mercy. If you take a slate and pencil and -follow out the precise reasons and consequences of the thing, you will -always find that a practical and effective love for mankind is working -out a practical self-sacrifice. The average man cannot do the sum, -he does not follow the reasoning, but he knows the answer. The deed -strikes into his soul with a mathematical impact, and he responds like -a tuning-fork when its note is struck. - -Everyone knows that self-sacrifice is a virtue. The child takes his -nourishment from the tale of heroism as naturally as he takes milk. -He feels that the deed was done for his sake. He adopts it: it is his -own. The nations have always stolen their myths from one another, and -claimed each other’s heroes. It has required all the world’s heroes -to make the world’s ear sensitive to new statements, illustrations -and applications of the logic of progress. Yet their work has been so -well done that all of us respond to the old truths in however new a -form. Not France alone but all modern society owes a debt of gratitude -to Zola for his rescue of Dreyfus. The whole world would have been -degraded and set back, the whole world made less decent and habitable, -but for those few Frenchmen who took their stand against corruption. - -Now the future of civil society upon the earth depends upon the -application to international politics of this familiar idea, which -we see prefigured in our mythology, and monumentalized in our -hospitals--the principle that what is done for one is done for all. -When you say a thing is “right,” you appeal to mankind. What you mean -is that everyone is at stake. Your attack upon wrong amounts to saying -that some one has been left out in the calculation. Both at home and -abroad you are always pleading for mercy, and the plea gains such a -wide response that some tyranny begins to totter, and its engines are -turned upon you to get you to stop. This outcry against you is the -measure of your effectiveness. If you imitate Zola and attack some -nuisance in this town to-morrow, you will bring on every symptom and -have every experience of the Dreyfus affair. The cost is the same, -for cold looks are worse than imprisonment. The emancipation of the -reformer is the same, for if a man can resist the influences of his -townsfolk, if he can cut free from the tyranny of neighborhood gossip, -the world has no terrors for him; there is no second inquisition. -The public influence is the same, for every citizen of that town can -thereafter look a town officer in the face with more self-respect. -But not to townsmen, nor to neighboring towns, nor to Parisians is -this force confined. It goes out in all directions, continuously. The -man is in communication with the world. This impulse of communication -with all men is at the bottom of every ambition. The injustice, -cruelty, oppression in the world are all different forms of the same -non-conductor, that prevents utterances, that stops messages, that -strikes dumb the speaker and deafens the listener. You will find -that it makes no difference whether the non-conductor be a selfish -oligarchy, a military autocracy, or a commercial ring. The voice of -humanity is stifled by corruption: and corruption is only an evil -because it stifles men. - -Try to raise a voice that shall be heard from here to Albany and watch -what it is that comes forward to shut off the sound. It is not a German -sergeant, nor a Russian officer of the precinct. It is a note from a -friend of your father’s offering you a place in his office. This is -your warning from the secret police. Why, if any of you young gentlemen -have a mind to make himself heard a mile off, you must make a bonfire -of your reputations and a close enemy of most men who wish you well. - -And what will you get in return? Well, if I must for the benefit of -the economist, charge you with some selfish gain, I will say that you -get the satisfaction of having been heard, and that this is the whole -possible scope of human ambition. - -When I was asked to make this address I wondered what I had to say -to you boys who are graduating. And I think I have one thing to say. -If you wish to be useful, never take a course that will silence you. -Refuse to learn anything that you cannot proclaim. Refuse to accept -anything that implies collusion, whether it be a clerkship or a curacy, -a legal fee or a post in a university. Retain the power of speech, -no matter what other power you lose. If you can take this course, -and in so far as you take it, you will bless this country. In so far -as you depart from this course you become dampers, mutes, and hooded -executioners. As for your own private character it will be preserved by -such a course. Crime you cannot commit, for crime gags you. Collusion -with any abuse gags you. As a practical matter a mere failure to speak -out upon occasions where no opinion is asked or expected of you, and -when the utterance of an uncalled-for suspicion is odious, will often -hold you to a concurrence in palpable iniquity. It will bind and gag -you and lay you dumb and in shackles like the veriest serf in Russia. -I give you this one rule of conduct. Do what you will, but speak out -always. Be shunned, be hated, be ridiculed, be scared, be in doubt, but -don’t be gagged. - -The choice of Hercules was made when Hercules was a lad. It cannot be -made late in life. It will perhaps come for each one of you within -the next eighteen months. I have seen ten years of young men who rush -out into the world with their messages, and when they find how deaf -the world is, they think they must save their strength and wait. They -believe that after a while they will be able to get up on some little -eminence from which they can make themselves heard. “In a few years,” -reasons one of them, “I shall have gained a standing, and then I -will use my power for good.” Next year comes and with it a strange -discovery. The man has lost his horizon of thought. His ambition has -evaporated; he has nothing to say. The great occasion that was to have -let him loose on society was some little occasion that nobody saw, some -moment in which he decided to obtain a standing. The great battle of a -lifetime has been fought and lost over a silent scruple. But for this, -the man might, within a few years, have spoken to the nation with the -voice of an archangel. What was he waiting for? Did he think that the -laws of nature were to be changed for him? Did he think that a “notice -of trial” would be served on him? Or that some spirit would stand at -his elbow and say, “Now’s your time?” The time of trial is always. Now -is the appointed time. And the compensation for beginning at once is -that your voice carries at once. You do not need a standing. It would -not help you. Within less time than you can see it, you will have -been heard. The air is filled with sounding-boards and the echoes are -flying. It is ten to one that you have but to lift your voice to be -heard in California, and that from where you stand. A bold plunge will -teach you that the visions of the unity of human nature which the poets -have sung, were not the fictions of their imagination, but a record -of what they saw. Deal with the world, and you will discover their -reality. Speak to the world, and you will hear their echo. - -Social and business prominence look like advantages, and so they are if -you want money. But if you want moral influence you may bless God you -have not got them. They are the payment with which the world subsidizes -men to keep quiet, and there is no subtilty or cunning by which you -can get them without paying in silence. This is the great law of -humanity, that has existed since history began, and will last while man -lasts--evil, selfishness, and silence are one thing. - -The world is learning, largely through American experience that freedom -in the form of government is no guarantee against abuse, tyranny, -cruelty, and greed. The old sufferings, the old passions are in full -blast among us. What, then, are the advantages of self-government? The -chief advantage is that self-government enables a man in his youth, -in his own town, within the radius of his first public interests, to -fight the important battle of his life while his powers are at their -strongest, and the powers of oppression are at their weakest. If a man -acquires the power of speech here, if he says what he means now, if -he makes his point and dominates his surroundings at once, his voice -will, as a matter of fact, be heard instantly in a very wide radius. -And so he walks up into a new sphere and begins to accomplish greater -things. He does this through the very force of his insistence on the -importance of small things. The reason for his graduation is not far -to seek. A man cannot reach the hearts of his townsfolks, without -using the whole apparatus of the world of thought. He cannot tell -or act the truth in his own town without enlisting every power for -truth, and setting in vibration the cords that knit that town into the -world’s history. He is forced to find and strike the same note which -he would use on some great occasion when speaking for all mankind. A -man who has won a town-fight is a veteran, and our country to-day is -full of these young men. To-morrow their force will show in national -politics, and in that moment the fate of the Malay, the food of the -Russian prisoner, the civilization of South Africa, and the future of -Japan will be seen to have been in issue. These world problems are now -being settled in the contest over the town-pump in a western village. I -think it likely that the next thirty years will reveal the recuperative -power of American institutions. One of you young men may easily become -a reform President, and be carried into office and held in office by -the force of that private opinion which is now being sown broadcast -throughout the country by just such men as yourselves. You will concede -the utility of such a President. Yet it would not be the man but the -masses behind him that did his work. - -Democracy thus lets character loose upon society and shows us that in -the realm of natural law there is nothing either small or great: and -this is the chief value of democracy. In America the young man meets -the struggle between good and evil in the easiest form in which it was -ever laid before men. The cruelties of interest and of custom have -with us no artificial assistance from caste, creed, race prejudice. -Our frame of government is drawn in close accordance with the laws of -nature. By our documents we are dedicated to mankind; and hence it is -that we can so easily feel the pulse of the world and lay our hand on -the living organism of humanity. - - - - -THE DOCTRINE OF NON-RESISTANCE.[D] - - [D] This was an address which I delivered before the International - Metaphysical League eight or nine years ago. - - -A dogma is a phrase that condenses much thought. It is a short way of -stating a great truth, and is supposed to recall that truth to the -mind. Like a talisman it is to be repeated. Open sesame--and some great -mystery of life is unlocked. - -A dogma is like a key to a map, a thread to a labyrinth. It is all that -some man has brought back from a spiritual exaltation in which he has -had a vision of how the world is made; and he repeats it and teaches -it as a digest of his vision, a short and handy summary and elixir by -which he, and as he thinks anyone else, can go back into his exaltation -and see the truth. To him the words seem universally true--true at -all times and in any aspect. Indeed, all experience, all thought, all -conduct seem to him to be made up of mere illustrations, proofs, and -reminiscences of the dogma. - -It is probable that all the dogmas were originally shots at the same -truth, nets cast over the same truth, digests of the same vision. -There is no other way of accounting for their power. If the doctrine of -the Trinity signified no more than what I can see in it, it would never -have been regarded as important. Unless the words “Salvation by Grace” -had at one time stood for the most powerful conviction of the most -holy minds, we should never have heard the phrase. Our nearest way to -come at the meaning of such things is to guess that the dogmas are the -dress our own thought might have worn, had we lived in times when they -arose. We must translate our best selves back into the past in order to -understand the phrases. - -Of course, these dogmas, like our own dogmas, are no sooner uttered -than they change. Somebody traduces them, or expounds them, or founds -a sect or a prosecution upon them. Then comes a new vision and a new -digest. And so the controversy goes rolling down through the centuries, -changing its forms but not its substance. And it has rolled down to -us, and we are asking the question, “What is truth?” as eagerly, as -sincerely, and as patiently as we may. - -Truth is a state of mind. All of us have known it and have known the -loss of it. We enter it unconsciously; we pass out of it before we are -aware. It comes and goes like a searchlight from an unknown source. -At one moment we see all things clearly, at the next we are fighting -a fog. At one moment we are as weak as rags, at the next we are in -contact with some explaining power that courses through us, making us -feel like electrical conductors, or the agents of universal will. In -the language of Christ these latter feelings are moments of “faith”; -and faith is one of the very few words which he used a great many times -in just the same sense, as a name for a certain kind of experience. -He did not define the word, but he seems to have given it a specific -meaning. - -The state of mind in which Christ lived is the truth he taught. How -he reached that state of mind we do not know; how he maintained it, -and what it is, he spent the last two years of his life in expressing. -Whatever he was saying or doing, he was always conveying the same -truth--the whole of it. It was never twice alike and yet it was always -the same; even when he spoke very few words, as to Pilate “Thou sayest -it,” or to Peter “Feed my sheep”; or when he said nothing, but wrote -on the ground. He not only expressed this truth because he could not -help expressing it, but because he wished and strove to express it. His -teaching, his parables, his sayings showed that he spared no pains to -think of illustrations and suggestions; he used every device of speech -to make his thought carry. - -Take his directest words: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God”; “Love -your enemies.” One might call these things descriptions of his own -state of mind. Or take his philosophical remarks. They are not merely -statements as to what truth is; but hints as to how it must be sought, -how the state of mind can be entered into and in what it consists. -“Whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it.” “That which cometh -out of the mouth, this defileth a man.” Or more prosaically still. “If -any man shall do his will, he shall know of the doctrine.” To this -class belongs the expression “Resist not evil.” - -The parables are little anecdotes which serve to remind the hearer -of his own moments of tenderness and self-sacrifice. The Lost Sheep, -the Prodigal Son, the Good Samaritan, the Repentant Sinner, are -illustrations of Christ’s way of feeling toward human nature. They are -less powerful than his words and acts, because no constructed thing has -the power of a real thing. The reply of the Greek woman who besought -Christ to cure her daughter, “Yes, Lord, yet the dogs under the table -eat of the children’s crumbs,” is one of the most affecting things in -the New Testament. It is more powerful than the tale of the Prodigal -Son. But you will see that if the Prodigal’s father had been a real -father, and the Greek mother had been a personage in a parable, the -power would have been the other way. - -And so it is that Christ’s most powerful means of conveying his thought -was neither by his preaching nor by his parables; but by what he -himself said and did incidentally. This expressed his doctrine because -his state of feeling was his doctrine. The things Christ did by himself -and the words he said to himself, these things are Christianity--his -washing the disciples’ feet, “Forgive them, for they know not what they -do,” his crucifixion. - -I have recalled all these sayings and acts of Christ almost at -random. They seem to me to be equivalent one to another as a thousand -is equivalent to a thousand. They are all messages sent out by the -same man in the same state of feeling. If he had lived longer, there -would have been more of them. If you should summarize them all into a -philosophy and then reduce that philosophy to a phrase, you would have -another dogma. - -The reason I called this lecture Non-resistance instead of using -some more general religious title, is that I happened to be led into -re-examining the meaning of Christ’s sayings through his phrase “Resist -not evil; but overcome evil with good.” It came about in the course of -many struggles over practical reforms. I had not the smallest religious -or theoretical bias in entering the field of politics. Here were -certain actual cruelties, injurious things done by particular men, in -plain sight. They ought to be stopped. - -The question is how to do it. First you go to the wrongdoers and -beg them to stop, and they will not stop. Then to the officials in -authority over them, with the same result. “Remove these officials” -is now your conclusion, and you go and join the party that keeps them -in power; for you intend to induce that party to change them. You now -engage in infinitely long, exhausting struggles with the elements -of wickedness, which seem to be the real cause and support of those -injuries which you are trying to stop. You make no headway; you find -you are wasting force; you are fighting at a disadvantage; all your -energies are exhausted in antagonism. It occurs to you to join the -other party, and induce that party to advocate a positive good, whereby -the people may be appealed to and the iniquities voted down. But your -trouble here begins afresh, for it seems as hard to induce the “outs” -to make a square attack on the evil as it is to get the “ins” to desist -from doing the evil. Your struggle, your antagonism, your waste of -energy continues. At last you leave the outs and form a new party, a -reform party of your own. Merciful heavens! neither will this new party -attack wickedness. Your mind, your thought, your time is still taken -up in resisting the influences which your old enemies are bringing to -bear upon your new friends. - -I had got as far as this in the experience and had come to see plainly -that there was somewhere a mistake in my method. It was a mistake to -try to induce others to act. The thing to do was to act myself, alone -and directly, without waiting for help. I should thus at least be able -to do what I knew to be right; and perhaps this was the strongest -appeal I could make to anyone. The thing to do was to run independent -candidates and ask the public to support good men. Then there occurred -to me the phrase, “Resist not evil,” and the phrase seemed to explain -the experience. - -What had I been doing all these years but wrangling over evil? I had a -system that pitted me in a ring against certain agencies of corruption -and led to unending antagonism. The phrase not only explained what -was wrong with the whole system, but what was wrong with every human -contact that occurred under it. The more you thought of it, the truer -it seemed. It was not merely true of politics, it was true of all -human intercourse. The politics of New York bore the same sort of -relation to this truth that a kodak does to the laws of optics. Our -politics were a mere illustration of it. The phrase seemed to explain -everything either wrong or mistaken that I had ever done in my life. -To meet selfishness with selfishness, anger with anger, irritation -with irritation, that was the harm. But the saying was not exhausted -yet. The phrase passed over into physiology and showed how to cure a -cramp in a muscle or stop a headache. It was true as religion, true as -pathology, and true as to everything between them. I felt as a modern -mathematician might feel, who should find inscribed in an Egyptian -temple a mathematical formula which not only included all he knew, but -showed that all he knew was a mere stumbling comment on the ancient -science. - -What mind was it that walked the earth and put the sum of wisdom into -three words? By what process was it done? The impersonal precision -and calm of the statement give it the quality of geometry, and yet it -expresses nothing but human feeling. I suppose that Christ arrived -at the remark by simple introspection. The impulse which he felt in -himself to oppose evil with evil--he puts his finger on that impulse as -the crucial danger. There is in the phrase an extreme care, as if he -were explaining a mechanism. He seems to be saying “If you wish to open -the door, you must lift the latch before you pull the handle. If you -wish to do good, you must resist evil with good, not with evil.” - -It is the same with his other sayings. They are almost dry, they are -so accurate. “Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath -committed adultery with her already in his heart”; the analysis of -emotion could hardly be carried farther. “How hard it is for them that -trust in riches to enter into the Kingdom of God”; here is neither -exaggeration nor epigram. “Thy faith hath made thee whole”; a statement -of fact. “Knock and it shall be opened unto you”; this is the summary -of Christ’s whole life down to the time his teaching began. He had -knocked and it had been opened to him. He had wished to make men -better, and inasmuch as he wished it harder than anyone else before or -since has wished it, he got farther than anyone toward an understanding -of how to do it. The effectiveness of his thought has been due to -its coherence. He was able to draw the sky together over any subject -till all the light fell on one point. Then he said what he saw. Every -question was shown to break up into the same crystals if subjected to -the same pressure. Nor does his influence upon the world present any -anomaly. It is entirely due to ordinary causes. Every man’s influence -depends upon the depth of his will; for this determines his power of -concentration. The controlled force that could contract Christ’s own -mind to so small a focus, brings down to the same focus other minds -of less coherence than his. This is will; this is leadership; this is -power. - -Yet in spite of his will there were plenty of things that Christ -himself could not do, as, for instance, change the world at once, or -change it at all except through the slow process of personal influence. -He could not heal people who had no faith, or get followers except by -going into the highways and hedges after them. And his whole life is -as valuable in showing what cannot be done, as in showing what can be -done. If you love your fellow-men and wish to benefit them, you will -find that the ways in which it is possible to do this are not many. You -can do harm in many ways, good only in one. - -The world is full of people who want to do good, and men are constantly -re-discovering Christ. This intelligence, superior to our own, -possesses and utilizes us. There is always more danger of his influence -being perverted than of its dying out; for as men begin to discover -the scope and horizon of his thought they are tempted to becloud it -with commentary. They wish to say what he meant, whereas he has said it -himself. We think to explain something whose value is that it explains -us. If we understood him, very likely we should say nothing. - -The mistake Christians make is that they strive to follow Christ as -a gnat follows a candle. No man ought to follow Christ in this way. A -man ought to follow truth, and when he does this, he will find that, -as he gropes his way through life, most of the light that falls on the -path in front of him, and moves as he moves, comes from the mind of -Christ. But if one is to learn from that mind one must take it as a -lens through which to view truth; not as truth itself. We do not look -at a lens, but through it. - -There are moments in each of our lives when all the things that Christ -said seem clear, sensible, relevant. The use of his sayings is to -remind us of these moments and carry us back into them. The danger of -his sayings is lest we rely upon them as final truth. They are no more -truth than the chemical equivalents for food are food, or than certain -symbols of dynamics are the power of Niagara. At those moments when -the real Niagara is upon us we must keep our minds bent on how to do -good to our fellow-men; not the partial good of material benevolence, -but the highest good we know. The thoughts and habits we thus form and -work out, painfully plotting over them, revising, renewing, remodeling -them, become our personal church. This is our own religion, this is our -clue to truth, this is the avenue through which we may pass back to -truth and possess it. No other cord will hold except the one a man has -woven himself. No other key will serve except the one a man has forged -himself. - -Christ was able to hold a prism perfectly still in his hand so as to -dissolve a ray of light into its elements. Every time he speaks, he -splits open humanity, as a man might crack a nut and show the kernel. -The force of human feeling behind these sayings can be measured only -by their accomplishments. They have been re-arranging and overturning -human society ever since. By this most unlikely means of quiet -demonstration in word and deed, did he unlock this gigantic power. -The bare fragments of his talk open the sluices of our minds; they -overwhelm and re-create. That was his method. The truth which he -conveyed with such metaphysical accuracy lives now in the living. Very -likely we cannot express it in dogmas, for such intellect as it takes -to utter a dogma is not in us. But we need have no fear for our power -of expressing it. It is enough for us to see truth; for if we see it, -everything we do will express it. - - - - -CLIMATE. - - -The influence of the planets, of deities good and bad, of spells and -incantations--of fatal or beneficial forces suddenly unlocked and, as -it were, let loose upon innocent men--as though one had walked into -a trap--all these myths and symbols were invented in past ages, by -discerning, deep-seeing men to express the impotence which they saw -about them, to express the fact that all men are walking in their -dreams and their dreams control them. What we see is illusion: what we -say is illusion. The reality is behind all; and we neither see it, nor -say it, but only feel it. - -So also of those mysterious planes of identity which lie between soul -and soul, forming a continuous country and habitable world, between men -apparently sundered from one another by every human condition--sundered -by age, sex, epoch, language, occupation, religion--and yet undergoing -the same experience, valuing the same idea, twinned by the fact that -across time and space something in them is identical. Some wheel in -each of them is being turned by the same power at the same rate, and -makes these creatures cognate. They are one thing; they are portions -of a continuous, indestructible reality which conditions them both. - -The experience comes to almost everyone at some time or moment in his -life, that he is nothing in himself, but only a part of something else. -It is a consciousness of the process of life, a consciousness of what -is happening. Whether through the touch of sickness or through intense -concentration, or through absolute abstraction, most men have felt the -prick of this thought, though the leisure and the impulse to record it -have been denied to them. - -When European cattle are taken to Egypt, their forms begin to change -in one or two generations. Their backs and horns seem to be imitating -the cattle in the bas-reliefs of the rock tombs, which were carved -twenty-five centuries before Christ. So too, when American parents -settle in Rome, their children resemble Romans. It is not merely in -the expression of the face, or in the cut of the hair. It is in the -bones of the forehead and in the way the hair grows out of the skin -that these youngsters resemble the modern inhabitants of ancient Rome. -Professor Boaz has found by measurement that the skulls of children -born in America to foreign parents assume the American type. There -is something in the air here, or under the earth, that is at work -upon the immigrant child even before it is born. On the ship they are -remodeled, and in the womb they are shaped by the power that fashions -the skull to such dimensions as it is provided we shall wear to-day in -America. If you should steer the ship toward New Zealand or Japan, the -form of the infant’s cranium would vary and be modified accordingly. -The force that accompanied the ship would arrive with you, and be -present at your landing. The child would grow up in some sort of -unthinkable relation to the continent or island on which it landed. It -would be as one of the children of that land--nearer to them perhaps -than to its parents. We may call this influence climate, but if we do -so we must be sure to remember that perhaps the influence is really -due to soil, to electrical, magnetic, or even to sidereal influences. -As the influence is impalpable and tremendous, so it is unknown and -perhaps cannot be known. - -I see the immigrant land and toil and push his fortunes. I see the -professor, with his calipers and his microscope, measuring the -immigrant’s brain. And above the professor, bending over him as he -looks into his microscope, I see the formative power modeling the -professor’s skull as he measures the skull of the immigrant--assigning -him what he shall see in it, apportioning to him what he shall believe -and tell other men about it--leading him on, yes, leading him as a -child is led by a butterfly. And all this vision of mine ranks itself -as a thing that has happened long ago, and is always happening. It is a -part of universal experience. I that suffer it am but feeling what man -has always felt, and shall feel forever--the power of God behind his -own illusion, modeling his thoughts--letting its influence be shut off -by his opacity, or else flash through him to its own ends in directions -which he cannot comprehend. - - - - -THE INFLUENCE OF SCHOOLS. - - -We are obliged to approach any church school through our own personal -religious sentiments. We do all of us approach it in this way. Any -religious institution is a tiny sample of the great question; and -whatever we say of it is a little voice in the great chorus of -humanity. We cannot isolate our subject: it is a part of the great -subject, religion. We have no achromatic lens through which to view -life. All that we see is colored by our own past, and surely, for any -man to believe that in describing his youth or his school-days he can -clear his mind of error, would be the greatest error and delusion of -all. It seems safer, then, in dealing with such a tremulous matter, to -lay it out as simply as one may, leaving others to be the judge of its -value. - -Some years ago I had a long illness; and during those periods of mental -fixity which illness brings with it, my mind used to dwell in strange -places. It would pause over some spot in the world--some room or field -that I had seen, however casually, in former years--and would refuse to -move on. It would choose its exact position so that the perspective -of the place should be accurately seen, and there it would rest. -Sometimes for days at a time it would remain as carefully placed as a -camera, giving no reason for its choice, yet deriving some mysterious -assistance from the scene. The places were always empty--never a -person in them. There was, for example, a particular nook by a country -roadside--a barred gate with elm trees bending above it and a meadow -beyond--which I had passed by on the way to a child’s funeral some -years before. This place opened itself up out of the picture-book of my -memory, and for some weeks I lived within its influence--for there was -no question that life streamed out of it to me. - -Under these circumstances it was natural enough that I should sometimes -have found myself back as St. Paul’s School, in Concord, New Hampshire, -and should have wandered once more in the dreamland of boyhood. Indeed, -during many months of convalescence, I lived in my imagination at -St. Paul’s, always alone with the place, suffering it to move itself -through me and present the most forgotten aspects, angles, and bits of -scenery with silent, friendly precision. Immense sadness everywhere; -immense power. - -Now my connection with the school had been very short and quite -unsatisfactory. I was sent there as a very small boy, remained less -than three years, and then went home sick. I had, in fact, an acute -attack of pneumonia which carried away with it a nervous breakdown from -which I had been suffering; and it was several years before my health -became fully re-established. In consequence of this experience my views -about the school were thereafter quite gloomy. I regarded the place -as a religious forcing-house, a very dangerous sort of place for any -boy to go, especially if he were inclined by nature toward religion. I -habitually abused the school, and I even took the trouble to go back -there and have a quarrel with Dr. Coit about something he had said or -done which seemed to me to deserve the reprobation of all just men. -I poured over him a few vitriolic letters; and I still believe that -the right was on my side in the matter, though perhaps I was wrong to -assume the rôle of the Angel of Retribution. - -It was at a date about twenty years after my leaving the school, and -at the age of forty-odd, and through the medium of another and very -severe illness, that my nature began to take up again the threads of -St. Paul’s School influence, and to receive the ideas which Dr. Coit -had been striving to convey, though in forms that would have been -incomprehensible to himself. The school had somehow been carrying on -its work within me through all these years. - -Youth is a game of blindman’s buff, a romp and struggle in which we -hold on fiercely and shout loudly, but know less as to whom we are -holding or who is holding us than we shall ever know again. As we -grow older we get true glimpses of things far away; and recognize at -a distance what we could never understand so long as we were at close -quarters with it. Middle age draws some curtains down, but lifts -others; and of all the new visions that come when youth is past, there -is none more thrilling than that new vision of the familiar past -which shows us what unsuspected powers were at play within us. This -experience is necessary and useful to us; and only thus can we come to -understand the incredible subtlety of human influence. - -Not long ago there was a St. Paul’s School dinner at which two hundred -and fifty men met to hear speeches in praise of their school and of -its influence. Among other proceedings there was a speech by one (not -an alumnus) who was a prospective headmaster of the school. Now this -speech was a religious appeal, and ended by a sort of burst of feeling, -only a word or two long, to the effect that the world was “God’s -World.” I cannot tell what it was that startled me in the reception of -the speech by the audience; but I think it was the unexpected sincerity -of the applause. It seemed as if all these men had been waiting all -their lives to hear this thing said, and now gave a great triumphant, -unconscious sigh and roar of relief to hear someone say it. I glanced -critically about the room. The diners looked like any other set of -diners. Why should they be so much moved by the mention of the works of -God?--For they were not applauding the school, they were applauding the -Creation. I looked and pondered, and presently I remembered that most -of the men at the dinner had lived under the personal influence of Dr. -Coit during their early and sensitive years. The fibres of their being -had been searched and softened by contact with a nature whose depth -made up for its every other deficiency. - -“I myself,” I reflected, “am one of them. Perhaps my experience with -the place is more typical than I had supposed. Perhaps each of these -men was offered something at St. Paul’s School which he could not -receive at the time, and therefore rejected, but which in later life he -found again for himself in a new form, and thereafter accepted as part -of his intimate nature.” - -Inasmuch as the whole nature of St. Paul’s School resulted from the -manner of its formation, we may begin by a glance at its early days. -The inception of the place was as unheralded as any event could well -be. Dr. Coit, being a man with a mission and a message, retired in -1856 to a farm in New Hampshire, and opened a school, having four -or five pupils to start with. He would neither appeal to the public -for funds nor advertise for scholars.[E] The school was, at first, a -mere extension of his family circle and of himself; and as it grew, -it remained a mere extension of himself. Persons became attached -to this family circle one by one; and, whether they were boys or -masters or servants, they thus, one by one, became members of a sort -of invisible and visible church, or brotherhood--a society of the -sanctuary. No opposing or critical influence could enter that circle. -It rejected criticism as the jet of a fountain rejects a dried leaf. -The whole system at St. Paul’s was really no system at all, but only -the unconscious working out of one man’s nature in the formation of a -school community. Perhaps the important part of any school is always no -more than that. - - [E] The land and funds were, during the early years, supplied by Dr. - George C. Shattuck, of Boston, who had, I believe, long harbored - the idea of founding a school, and who gave his county house and - farm to the purpose. - -Dr. Coit was a tall man in a long black coat; and, as he moved and -walked about the paths and corridors, he remained always within an -invisible tower of isolation, so that you could not be sure that his -feet rested on quite the same ground as your own. Half the time he -was in an abstraction, but this did not prevent him from seeing and -observing everything and everybody, especially the individualities -of boys, about whom he acquired a preternatural astuteness. He -lived within that solitude which a great purpose and constant prayer -sometimes cast about a man. There was a chasm between him and the rest -of mankind which could not be bridged by trivial intercourse. Neither -he nor the rest of mankind were at fault for the difference in tension -between them. He was so charged with moral passion that many people -could not receive the delivery of it. - -I was never able to establish a relation with him, either as a boy of -thirteen or subsequently. His low, vibrant voice, and his hand laid -gently upon one’s shoulder caused such a strong physical, moral, and -galvanic appeal to my sensibilities that I invariably burst into tears. -I think I never got through an interview with him without weeping. The -appeal which his nature made was the appeal of enormous human feeling, -penned up in a narrow language, restricted by a narrow experience. This -temperamental isolation was, of course, intensified by his becoming -a school-master. How strongly the influence of such a man must have -affected the little family circle of the early school may be imagined. -He lived habitually in a state of such vivid religious feeling that -his face was ablaze with zeal; and he settled down to teach school in -a farmhouse, knowing all the while, seeing with his mind’s eye all the -while, the future of the enterprise. We can imagine the fervor of the -tiny community, and the awe in which it must have stood toward the -great man. - -And yet all of his austerity, all of his closely confined, ebullient -vitality was no more than a love of men. Down to his last days Dr. Coit -never took his solitary drives about the countryside without stopping -to bestow upon his poorer neighbors small offerings of food from his -own table. It was done furtively and almost as an indulgence of those -warm personal feelings toward all humanity, of which his mission denied -him the expression. Behind his towering zeal there was a suffering, -benevolent, and humble person. - -Dr. Coit had, as it were, no secular side to his human intercourse, -and the social side of St. Paul’s School was, in consequence, always a -little stiff and ecclesiastical. On the other hand, his romantic and -spontaneous feelings were permitted the outlet of secular literature, -both ancient and modern; and he inspired his school with a love of -letters. You were somehow made welcome to the joys of reading. The -old-fashioned family education and atmosphere of a gentleman’s home -qualified the boarding-school book-shelf. An interest in cultivation -often goes with high-pitched, ecclesiastical natures; witness the -outburst of literature in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and -all that profound thought which makes that epoch in some ways outshine -the Renaissance. Not only did Dr. Coit enjoy romantic literature, but -he was himself like some character in mediæval romance--like Arthur, or -Merlin; and the power of his personality was so great that whenever I -am at St. Paul’s, I still feel as if the old Doctor were, somehow, not -far away. I should hardly be surprised to see him step out from behind -a clump of bushes on the margin of the stream, or to come across his -rapt figure, on the athletic field, standing as I have seen him stand -to watch the games, shading his eyes with his hand. - -Dr. Coit was one of those saints who come into the world determined to -found something: they are predestinate founders. They make and occupy -the thing they found, repelling all the world beside, fleeing from -all the world except this; and they generally become tyrants within -the boundaries of their own creation. The tyrant founder-saint is a -well-known figure in the Middle Ages; St. Bernard is a typical example; -and Dr. Coit would have been more readily understood in any previous -age of the world than he was in his own. He was in himself a piece of -the Middle Ages, and to have known him is to have come in contact with -all the piety, the romanticism, the mystery, the beauty, the depth and -power of human emotion which flamed over Europe in Mediæval times, -and which have been temporarily forgotten. To-day these provinces of -human existence are abandoned to the art critic, to the moralist, and -to the sentimental writer--to the very classes of persons who are the -least likely to understand them. If we except the German philosophic -historian, I suppose that no person in the world is so cut off by -nature from an understanding of St. Francis or of Thomas Aquinas as is -the modern æsthetic person, who cultivates a sympathetic interest in -religion. The only hope of understanding the Middle Ages is through a -living personal belief in Christianity. - -It is only for convenience that I refer to the Middle Ages in order to -explain Dr. Coit. His right to exist as a modern is incontestible: he -was as modern as anyone else. He merely belonged to a type which, for -the time being, has become rare. To us to-day, the tyrant founder-saint -of the Middle Ages appears like a person not wholly a Christian. Judged -by the standards of the New Testament, these men seem to be only half -converted, or three-quarters converted, to Christianity, the rest of -them remaining Tartar. The non-converted fraction of them makes them -autocrats who trust no one but themselves, men of unfaith who rely on -bolts and bars, on ordinances and arrangements. - -At the worst, these enthusiasts are schemers, unscrupulous, crafty, and -cruel. At the best they are merely opinionated, arbitrary, and lonely -men. Their weakness is seen only in the fact that they have a slightly -blind side, a side on which walk the favorites and hypocrites who have -been formed in the shadow of their tyranny. The same parasites which -grow upon autocracy in the great world seem often to appear in the -miniature kingdom of a school. - -That Christianity should have given rise to this peculiar kind of -tyrant has often thrown me into wonderment. It seems as if any -formulation of spiritual truth, uttered by a higher intelligence, were -apt to act as an astringent upon the lower intelligence. The bread of -life poisons many men. The formula means more than the neophyte is -able to understand; and this overplus of meaning stimulates him to -fierceness. The phenomenon may be observed on a small scale by anyone -who will contrast the teachings of Froebel with the methods often found -in kindergartens. Each mind in the world is capable of a different -degree of abstraction; and when a mind is stretched to its widest and -you give it still something more, you arouse passion. At any rate, the -fact remains that Christ’s gentlest words have, as he predicted, become -fire and sword in the world, and that through this fire and sword -truth spreads. Men like Dr. Coit, for all their fury and for all their -narrowness, leave peace in their wake, and bequeath to their followers -not only gentleness, but breadth of view. Their unselfishness--their -powerlessness to be other than they are--touches the heart of the -world. Christ has been in their dungeons all the while. - -I do not know whether it was the result of Dr. Coit’s own prophetic -nature or the result of a more reasoned theory about the education -of boys; but the fact remains that at St. Paul’s School you were -encouraged to dream. You were permitted to wander alone in the woods. -You were left much to yourself; and the fact that you were a thoughtful -child, slow in development and perhaps backward in your studies was -allowed for. They understood the need of letting God attend the child, -and of not being too much worried about the outcome. There is a -divergence of feeling among modern school-masters as to how much boys -should be left to themselves. The freedom accorded to us at St. Paul’s -resulted, no doubt, from the original domestic, non-institutional -atmosphere of the place. A boy who is living at home in the country -always has a good deal of time to himself. The school was at first -a mere country home in which a clergyman conducted the education -of boys--appending it to his own family life; and the traditions of -boyhood-in-the-country survived as the school grew to more serious -proportions. The place itself, moreover, was an example of independence -and natural growth rather than of watched assistance. It was not the -child of riches, receiving all that money and thought could give even -from its birth onward; but was rather the child of hunger and thirst, -thriving upon neglect, and gaining in character and in vigor throughout -a youth of hardy loneliness. - -To my mind the isolation of St. Paul’s is its strongest feature, its -rarest influence. The founding of institutions is done to-day by the -circulation of petitions, by the calling of friends into a circle and -the issuing of stock or advertisements. Hardly any other method is -deemed possible by practical men. The institutions thus founded are in -very close touch with their public. They rely upon their patrons, and -are controlled by their clients. They become the creatures of the age -they live in. But St. Paul’s School was not the creature of any age. -It was the child of one man who planted his house upon a hill. As it -has owed nothing to the age, so it has remained inaccessible to the -influences of the age. It is not in competition with other schools; -it is not affected by the fluctuating and journalistic currents of -contemporary thought; it has, one might say, no relation to the -superficial influences in America. The place seems not to be a part -of modern American life. We know, of course, that the school is in -reality a part of that life, and relies, as every school must, on the -community at large into which its roots extend. The apparent isolation -of St. Paul’s comes from the fact that it represents few influences. -These influences are everywhere prevalent, but they are not everywhere -visible. The school seems to live to itself; but in reality it draws -its life from those deep and invisible sources of religious feeling -which exist, but which do not come to the surface in contemporary life. - -That there should be a spot in the United States having the atmosphere -of another world, that is the valuable and wonderful part of St. Paul’s -School. To plunge a boy even for the fraction of a year into this -pool is to give him a new outlook upon humanity. What is it that we -lack in America? Why, we lack variety. Our interests and pleasures, -our occupations in social, in commercial, in religious life are all -so stamped with the identical pattern--each of them is so like the -rest--our views and feelings are so narrow--that to put an American -youth to school in Central Asia for a year or two, under the Grand -Llama, would be apt to make a man of him. We need to give our boys an -insight into some species of life that belongs to the great world, -the historic world, the empire of the soul. We cannot snatch this -life from Europe without running the danger of that expatriation -which makes men shallow. We must find and create centres of it upon -our own shores--centres of social life devoted to unworldly aims. Not -only for our children, but for ourselves have we felt this need. New -well-springs in our heart and intelligence are unlocked by living for -some period of our lives in such a community; and the earlier in life -we can receive this experience the richer will it leave us. - -A school is far more than the school community which gives it a name. -A school is the whole body of graduates, friends, and fosterers, whose -affections are attached to the place, whose memories go back to it, -whose character has been formed by it. These people, though they exist -dispersedly, have an influence in common. They belong to a club. They -are united by one of the strongest ties that can bind men together. -This club is as much a part of the school as the school itself. The -stream of boys flowing from the club to the school constitutes a sort -of river of time, a perpetual current of the ideas of the founder, -an immortality of influence. This stream must change, of course, but -it changes slowly--so great is the conservatism of boys at school, -and of old boys sending their sons to a school. I suppose that of -all human institutions a boys’ school is, by its nature, the most -traditional and old-fashioned. The boys regard themselves as the -school, and regard the masters as necessary figureheads; and in any -large school, where the mass and volume of young life rolls on without -much possible interference from above, there is a good deal of truth in -the conception. - -When one hears other people talking about their pet school there is -a personal ring to the conversation which does not always please us. -The truth is that the foundation of a school is a matter of personal -magnetism, and that any school becomes a sort of clan or clique. It -is no accident that certain particular boys are sent to a certain -particular school. They go there as the needle swings to the pole. They -flow there as the ants flow to their native hill. The matter is settled -by personal affinity. - -This is a fact about all leadership; only it receives very visible -proof in the case of school-masters. Every man’s followers are given -to him by destiny; and a leader of men may see himself in this -looking-glass if he have a mind to do so. It will give him a truer -picture of his own soul than he will find elsewhere in the world. -The followers of any man resemble each other, and, of course, they -also resemble their leader; though their resemblance to the leader is -not always apparent, but belongs rather to the category of spiritual -mysteries. - -Dr. Coit himself was an ecclesiastic, rustling with dogma and vestment -and having ritual and anathema in his very being. And yet, as a matter -of fact, he did attract to himself persons who at first sight do not -seem to resemble him at all. The parents who sent their boys to the -school were, as a rule, a somewhat commonplace and very valuable sort -of people. They were good, straight-forward, God-fearing burghers, who -wished their sons to become honorable men, and were rather deficient -in business and social ambition for their children. These people, -quite often, did not like Dr. Coit, nor understand him; but they felt -that he would do for their sons what they wished done. They were warm -people: he was a hot person. Their quiet natures responded to his great -religious faith by an act of personal trust; and that was enough for -Dr. Coit, for he wanted the boys. - -After the death of the first Doctor there followed a mitigation of -religious discipline at the school and a relaxation in the social -atmosphere. The quality of the place, however, remained the same. -The volume of life rolled with its old momentum. The characteristic -charm of the place remained unchanged. In the practical working of the -organization there ensued, I believe, great disturbances; but they did -not affect the spirit of the place so far as an alumnus could observe. -The same magic wave was over all as before. Indeed, for my own part, I -never could thoroughly enjoy St. Paul’s School while the old Doctor was -alive. His peace came to me only after he had departed; and whenever -I am at Concord it seems to roll through the fields and to overspread -the grounds like a mist. In returning to St. Paul’s, or in taking leave -of it, my imagination is always haunted by the idea of the place as it -must have been in its infancy--the farmhouse, the family group, and the -intense soul of the Doctor. When I think of that passionate fountain -of life, rising and bubbling in the remote New Hampshire wilderness, -in a solitude as complete as that of Abraham on the plains of Mamre, I -cannot but be moved. Here was faith indeed! A project all aim and no -means. If a strange quietude lies over the acres of St. Paul’s School -to-day, and steeps in a perpetual peace the little community which -this fiery soul left behind him, it is because in this place a man -once wrestled with invisible antagonists and saw ladders going up into -heaven, with the angels ascending and descending upon them. The school -is a monument to this vision--a heap of stones cast there, one by one, -by followers and by witnesses. - -The fiftieth anniversary of the school brought together all its -adherents and fosterers and old boys, and peopled Concord for a day -with the race of gentle burghers that had followed the Doctor. It was -a touching assemblage; because here in these people was to be found -the peace of which he had all his life preached so much and felt so -little. He had attained it in others. He had left it as a dower and an -inheritance to the institution that he loved almost too passionately. -Out of the strong had come forth sweetness. - - - - -THE ÆSTHETIC. - - -There are two distinct functions of the mind with regard to art: -first, the creative function; second, the enjoying function. The first -is the rôle of the artist, the second, the rôle of the public. The -difference between these two rôles is that in the artist’s rôle the -active part--the part that counts, the part that makes the beholder -have sensations--is unconscious. The artist should be wholly creator, -and not at all spectator. If, while he works, there is anything in him -that applauds and enjoys as a spectator might do, this part will leave -a touch of virtuosity, of self-consciousness, of exaggeration, in his -work. If the matter be humorous, this exaggeration will perhaps appear -in the form of smartness; if the matter be serious, as sentimentality -or melodrama. - -The artist must not try to enjoy his own work by foretaste, or he -will injure it. His æsthetic sense must not be active during the -hours of creation; it must be consumed in the furnace of unconscious -intellectual effort. The _reductio ad absurdum_ of the view here -suggested would be somewhat as follows:--The supremely great artist -would be indifferent to the fate of his own works, because he would -not know they were great. The whole creature would have become so -unconscious during the act of creation that there would be nothing left -over which should return to mankind and say, “See this great work!” -This seems to have happened in the case of Shakespeare. - -It must be confessed that there are very great artists in whose work we -find a self-conscious, self-appreciatory note. There is, at times, such -a note in Dante, and in Goethe. And it seems to me that even here the -note a little deflects our attention from the matter in hand. Not by -reason of this element, but in spite of it, does their work prevail. - -The practical lesson for any artist to draw from such an analysis -as the present is the lesson of detachment, almost of indifference. -An artist must trust his material. The stuff in hand is serious, -delicate, self-determined and non-emotional. The organic, inner logic -of the thing done may reach points of complexity, points of climax, -which--except in the outcome--are incomprehensible. They must not be -appreciated in the interim, but only obeyed. In the final review, and -at a distance they are to justify themselves, but not in the making. - -The question of whether or not an artist has succeeded, whether or -not he has made something that speaks, is one which it is generally -impossible for the artist himself to answer. He cares too much, and -he stands too near the material. Sometimes a man having immense -experience, and having acquired that sort of indifference which grows -out of a supernal success, can make a just estimate of one of his -own later works; but, in general, the artist must stand mum and bite -his nails if he wishes to find out what there was in him. Let him be -perfectly assured that the truth of the matter will get to him, if -he will only do nothing except desire the truth. Someone will say -something not intended for his ears, which will reveal the whole -matter. This is the hard, heroic course which wisdom dictates to all -artists, except, perhaps, to those very gifted persons who by their -endowment are already among the elect. Most men are obliged to mine in -their endowment and draw it to the surface through years of hard labor. -The pretty good artist has need of the fortitude and self-effacement of -a saint. - -Thus much of the creative side of art. Our conceptions of the subject, -however, are colored by the emotional view proper to the grand public. -The receptive function, the enjoying function, the æsthetic sense, -as it is often called, is very generally supposed to be art itself. -Almost all writing on art has been done by men who knew only the -æsthetic side of the matter. Now the enjoyment of art is a very common, -very conscious, very intense experience; and yet it is not a very -serious affair compared to the creation of art. It does not affect the -recipient to any such depths of his nature, as one might expect it -to do, from the vividness of his feelings during the experience. It -leaves in him, as a general rule, no knowledge about the art itself, no -understanding of the rod he has been lashed with, no suspicion of the -intellectual nature of the vehicle. - -Æsthetic appreciation gives a man the illusion that he is being -spiritually made over and enlarged; and yet that appreciation is -capable of an absolute divorcement from the intellect. It is--to take -the extreme case--very strong in sleep. Dr. Holmes has recorded, in -his own felicitous way, the experience, common to sensitive people, of -writing down a dream-poem at midnight and discovering in its place at -dawn a few lines of incomprehensible rubbish. The æsthetic sense is -easily intensified by stimulants, by tea, coffee and tobacco. Anything -that excites the heart or stimulates the emotions--praise, happiness, -success, change of scene, any relief from mental tension--is apt to -give a man new, and sudden entry into unexplored worlds of art. He -thinks himself a new man. And yet this man stands, perhaps, in as -great danger of loss as he does in hope of gain. It is not through -receptivity, but through activity, that men are really changed. - -How trivial men become who live solely in the appreciation of the fine -arts all of us know. The American who lives abroad is an intensely -receptive being; but he has divorced himself from the struggles of -a normal social existence, from communal life and duty. His love of -the fine arts does not save him, but seems rather to enfeeble him the -more. No European can effect a similar divorce in his own life; for -the European is living at home: his social and political obligations -make a man of him. Besides this, the fine arts are an old story to -the European; and he does not go mad about them, as the American -Indian goes mad about whiskey. The European is immune to the æsthetic; -and neither a fine wainscot nor a beautiful doorknob can have the -same power over him that it may have over that zealous, high-strung, -new discoverer of the old world, the American who begins to realize -what good decoration really means. Let anyone who thinks that this -impoverishment is a purely American disease read the description -of the Stanhope family in Trollope’s “Barchester Towers.” Here is -the beefiest kind of a British county family, reduced to anemia -by residence in Italy. Prolonged exile, and mere receptivity have -withdrawn the energy from the organs of these people. - -It will be noticed that in those cases where art is an enfeebling -influence there is always a hiatus between the public and the artist. -Let us consider the case of the folk-song as sung by the peasants of -Suabia. Such songs are written by one peasant and sung by the next. -The author and the singer and the hearer are all one. To the audience -the song is life and emotion, social intercourse, love, friendship, -the landscape, philosophy, prayer, natural happiness. You can hardly -differentiate, in this case, between the artist and the public: both -are unconscious. But if you take that song and sing it in a London -drawing-room, or on a ranch in Colorado, it will perform a very -different function in the audience. To these foreigners the song is a -pleasing opiate. They hold it like a warm animal to their breast. The -Oxford pundit who raves over a Greek coin, the cold-hearted business -magnate in New York who enjoys the opera--these people live in so -remote a relation to the human causes, impulses, and conditions behind -the arts they love, that their enjoyment is exotic: it is more purely -receptive, more remote from personal experience than the enjoyment of -any living and native art could be. - -A certain sickness follows the indulgence in art that is remote from -the admirer’s environment. This slightly morbid side of æstheticism -has been caricatured to the heart’s content. The dilettante and the -critic are well-known types. To a superficial view these men seem like -enemies of the living artist. They are always standing ready to eat -up his works as soon as they shall be born. Goethe thought criticism -and satire the two natural enemies to all liberty, and to all poetry -proceeding from a spontaneous impulse. And surely the massive authority -of learned critics who know everything, and are yet ignorant of the -first principles of their subject, hangs like an avalanche above the -head of every young creator. We cannot, however, to-day proceed as if -we were early Greeks, stepping forward in roseate unconsciousness. The -critics and their hurdy-gurdy are a part of our life, and have been so -for centuries. - -The brighter side of the matter is that the æsthetic person, even -when morbid, is often engaged in introducing new and valuable arts to -his countrymen. The dilettante who brings home china and violins and -Japanese bronzes is the precursor of the domestic artist. - -We must now return to the two functions of art, and endeavor to bring -them into some sort of common focus. We cannot hope to understand or to -reconcile them perfectly. We cannot hope to know what art is. Art is -life, and any expression of art becomes a new form of life. A merchant -in Boston in 1850 travels in Italy, and brings home a Murillo. Some -years later a highly educated dilettante discovers the Murillo in -Boston, and writes his dithyrambs about it. Some years later still, -there arises a young painter, who perhaps does not paint very well, and -yet he is nearer to the mystery than the other two. All these men are -parts of the same movement, and are essential to each other; though -the contempt they feel for each other might conceal this from us, as -it does from themselves. All of them are held together by an invisible -attraction and are servants of the same force. This force it is which, -in the future, may weld together a few enthusiasts into a sort of -secret society, or may even single out some one man, and see and speak -through him. Then, as the force passes, it will leave itself reflected -in pictures, which remain as the record of its flight. - - - - -Transcriber’s Note: - -Hyphenation has been retained as published in the original publication. - - Page 7 - free-masonary of artistic craft _changed to_ - freemasonry of artistic craft - - Page 9 - of old metapor _changed to_ - of old metaphor - - Page 15 - prevailed under the the old monarchy _changed to_ - prevailed under the old monarchy - - Page 22 - the whole race, we fear, way relapse _changed to_ - the whole race, we fear, may relapse - - Page 27 - university training, Nothing else _changed to_ - university training. Nothing else - - Page 33 - in the community that the department _changed to_ - in the community than the department - - Page 59 - canot escape them _changed to_ - cannot escape them - - Page 65 - stated and solved those proplems _changed to_ - stated and solved those problems - - Page 89 - DR. HOWE _changed to_ - DR. HOWE. - - Page 101 - was immediately propared for him _changed to_ - was immediately prepared for him - - Page 112 - New paragraph added before - “The distress of the mother was now painful - - Page 115 - feature of her contenance _changed to_ - feature of her countenance - - Page 123 - “We must have done with expediency; _changed to_ - We must have done with expediency; - - Page 125 - Tow Sawyer _changed to_ - Tom Sawyer - - Page 143 - only deeds of physical prowness _changed to_ - only deeds of physical prowess - - Page 169 - But noboby seems to have laughed _changed to_ - But nobody seems to have laughed - - Page 219 - early school may he imagined _changed to_ - early school may be imagined - - Page 225 - To my mind the insolation of _changed to_ - To my mind the isolation of - - Page 228 - institutions a boy’s school is _changed to_ - institutions a boys’ school is - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEARNING AND OTHER ESSAYS *** - -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> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Learning and Other Essays</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: John Jay Chapman</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 11, 2021 [eBook #66522]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEARNING AND OTHER ESSAYS ***</div> - -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<h1>LEARNING<br /> -<span><small>AND</small><br /> -OTHER ESSAYS</span></h1> -<hr class="divider2 x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> -<div class="figcenter width500" id="cover"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="663" height="1000" alt="Cover" /> -</div> -</div> - - - -<div class="section"> -<hr class="divider2 x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<p class="center lh3"><span class="p180">LEARNING</span><br /> -<small>AND</small><br /> -<span class="p130">OTHER ESSAYS</span></p> - -<p class="center mt3 lh2"><small>BY</small><br /> -<span class="p130">JOHN JAY CHAPMAN</span></p> - -<p class="center mt3 lh2">NEW YORK<br /> -MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY<br /> -1910</p> -</div> - - - -<div class="section"> -<hr class="divider2 x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<p class="center smcap">Copyright, 1910<br /> -By John Jay Chapman</p> - -<p class="center mt3"><i>Electrotyped by<br /> -The Maple Press<br /> -York, Pa.</i></p> -</div> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_v"></a>v</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="contents">CONTENTS</h2> - -<table summary=""> -<tr> -<th class="tdl"></th> -<th class="tdr">PAGES</th> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">Learning</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#learning">1</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">Professorial Ethics</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#ethics">39</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">The Drama</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#drama">53</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">Norway</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#norway">83</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">Doctor Howe</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#howe">89</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">Jesters</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#jesters">149</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">The Comic</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#comic">155</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">The Unity of Human Nature</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#unity">175</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">The Doctrine of Non-resistance</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#doctrine">193</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">Climate</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#climate">207</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">The Influence of Schools</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#influence">213</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl smcap">The Æsthetic</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#aesthetic">235</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>3</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="learning">LEARNING.</h2> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">An</span> expert on Greek Art chanced to describe in my hearing one of the -engraved gems in the Metropolitan Museum. He spoke of it as ‘certainly -one of the great gems of the world,’ and there was something in his -tone that was even more thrilling than his words. He might have been -describing the Parthenon or Beethoven’s Mass,—such was the passion of -reverence that flowed out of him as he spoke. I went to see the gem -afterwards. It was badly placed, and for all artistic purposes was -invisible. I suppose that even if I had had a good look at it, I should -not have been able to appreciate its full merit. Who could?—save the -handful of adepts in the world, the little group of gem-readers, by -whom the mighty music of this tiny score could be read at sight.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless it was a satisfaction to me to have seen the stone. I knew -that through its surface there poured the power of the Greek world; -that not without Phidias and Aristotle, and not without the Parthenon, -could it have come into existence. It carried in its bosom a digest -of the visual laws of spiritual force, and was as wonderful and as -sacred as any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>4</span> stone could well be. Its value to mankind was not to be -measured by my comprehension of it, but was inestimable. As Petrarch -felt toward the Greek manuscript of Homer which he owned but could not -read, so did I feel toward the gem.</p> - -<p>What is Education? What are Art and Religion and all those higher -interests in civilization which are always vaguely held up to us as -being the most important things in life? These things elude definition. -They cannot be put into words except through the interposition of -what the Germans call ‘a metaphysic.’ Before you can introduce them -into discourse, you must step aside for a moment and create a theory -of the universe; and by the time you have done this, you have perhaps -befogged yourself and exhausted your readers. Let us be content with -a more modest ambition. It is possible to take a general view of -the externals of these subjects without losing reverence for their -realities. It is possible to consider the forms under which art and -religion appear,—the algebra and notation by which they have expressed -themselves in the past,—and to draw some general conclusion as to the -nature of the subject, without becoming entangled in the subject itself.</p> - -<p>We may deal with the influence of the gem without striving exactly to -translate its meaning into speech. We all concede its importance.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>5</span> We -know, for instance, that the admiration of my friend the expert was no -accident. He found in the design and workmanship of the intaglio the -same ideas which he had been at work on all his life. Greek culture -long ago had become a part of this man’s brain, and its hieroglyphs -expressed what to him was religion. So of all monuments, languages, -and arts which descend to us out of the past. The peoples are dead, -but the documents remain; and these documents themselves are part of -a living and intimate tradition which also descends to us out of the -past,—a tradition so familiar and native to the brain that we forget -its origin. We almost believe that our feeling for art is original with -us. We are tempted to think there is some personal and logical reason -at the back of all grammar, whether it be the grammar of speech or the -grammar of architecture,—so strong is the appeal to our taste made -by traditional usage. Yet the great reason of the power of art is the -historic reason. ‘In this manner have these things been expressed: in -similar manner must they continue to be said.’ So speaks our artistic -instinct.</p> - -<p>Good usage has its sanction, like religion or government. We transmit -the usage without pausing to think why we do so. We instinctively -correct a child, without pausing to reflect that the fathers of the -race are speaking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>6</span> through us. When the child says, ‘Give me a apple,’ -we correct him—“You must say, ‘An apple.’” What the child really -means, in fact, is an apple.</p> - -<p>All teaching is merely a way of acquainting the learner with the body -of existing tradition. If the child is ever to have anything to say -of his own, he has need of every bit of this expressive medium to -help him do it. The reason is, that, so far as expressiveness goes, -only one language exists. Every experiment and usage of the past is a -part of this language. A phrase or an idea rises in the Hebrew, and -filters through the Greek or Latin and French down to our own time. -The practitioners who scribble and dream in words from their childhood -up,—into whose habit of thought language is kneaded through a thousand -reveries,—these are the men who receive, reshape, and transmit it. -Language is their portion, they are the priests of language.</p> - -<p>The same thing holds true of the other vehicles of idea, of painting, -architecture, religion, etc., but since we have been speaking of -language, let us continue to speak of language. Expressiveness follows -literacy. The poets have been tremendous readers always. Petrarch, -Dante, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe, Byron, Keats—those of -them who possessed not much of the foreign languages had a passion -for translations.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>7</span> It is amazing how little of a foreign language you -need if you have a passion for the thing written in it. We think of -Shakespeare as of a lightly-lettered person; but he was ransacking -books all day to find plots and language for his plays. He reeks with -mythology, he swims in classical metaphor: and, if he knew the Latin -poets only in translation, he knew them with that famished intensity -of interest which can draw the meaning through the walls of a bad -text. Deprive Shakespeare of his sources, and he could not have been -Shakespeare.</p> - -<p>Good poetry is the echoing of shadowy tongues, the recovery of -forgotten talent, the garment put up with perfumes. There is a passage -in the Tempest which illustrates the -<a id="freemasonry"></a><ins title="Original has 'free-masonary'">freemasonry</ins> -of artistic craft, and how the weak sometimes hand the torch to -the mighty. Prospero’s apostrophe to the spirits is, surely, as -Shakespearian as anything in Shakespeare and as beautiful as anything -in imaginative poetry.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse outdent">“Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And ye, that in the sands with printless foot</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By moonshine do the sour ringlets make,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is to make midnight mushrooms that rejoice</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>8</span> - <div class="verse indent0">To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid</div> - <div class="verse indent0">(Weak masters though ye be) I have bedimmed</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak</div> - <div class="verse indent0">With his own bolt: the strong-bas’d promontory</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Have I made shake; and by the spurs pluck’d up</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The pine and cedar: graves at my command</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Have waked their sleepers; oped and let them forth</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By my so potent art.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Shakespeare borrowed this speech from Medea’s speech in Ovid, which -he knew in the translation of Arthur Golding; and really Shakespeare -seems almost to have held the book in his hand while penning Prospero’s -speech. The following is from Golding’s translation, published in 1567:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse outdent">“Ye Ayres and windes; ye Elves of Hilles and Brooks, of Woods alone,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of standing Lakes and of the Night approach ye every chone.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Through helpe of whom (the crooked banks much wondering at the thing)</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I have compelled streams to run clean backward to their spring.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By charmes I make the calm seas rough, and make the rough Seas plaine.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And cover all the Skie with Clouds and chase them thence again.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>9</span> - <div class="verse indent0">By charmes I raise and lay the windes, and burst the Viper’s jaw.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And from the bowels of the Earth both stones and trees doe draw.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Whole woods and Forestes I remove: I make the Mountains shake,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And even the Earth it selfe to grone and fearfully to quake.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I call up dead men from their graves: and thee O lightsome Moone</div> - <div class="verse indent0">I darken oft, though beaten brasse abate thy perill soone.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Our Sorcerie dims the Morning faire, and darkes the Sun at Noone.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The flaming breath of fierie Bulles ye quenched for my sake.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And caused their unwieldie neck the bended yokes to take.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Among the Earthbred brothers you a mortell war did set</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And brought a sleepe the Dragon fell whose eyes were never shut.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>There is, and is to be, no end of this reappearance of old -<a id="metaphor"></a><ins title="Original has 'metapor'">metaphor</ins>, -old trade secret, old usage of art. No sooner has -a masterpiece appeared, that summarizes all knowledge, than men get up -eagerly the next morning with chisel and brush, and try again. Nothing -done satisfies. It is all in the making that the inspiration lies; and -this endeavor renews itself with the ages, and grows by devouring its -own offspring.</p> - -<p>The technique of any art is the whole body of experimental knowledge -through which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>10</span> the art speaks. The glazes of pottery become forgotten -and have to be hit upon over again. The knack of Venetian glass, the -principle of effect in tiles, in lettering, in the sonnet, in the -fugue, in the tower,—all the prestidigitation of art that is too -subtle to be named or thought of, must yet be acquired and kept up by -practice, held to by constant experiment.</p> - -<p>Good artistic expression is thus not only a thing done: it is a way -of life, a habit of breathing, a mode of unconsciousness, a world of -being which records itself as it unrolls. We call this world Art for -want of a better name; but the thing that we value is the life within, -not the shell of the creature. This shell is what is left behind in the -passage of time, to puzzle our after-study and make us wonder how it -was made, how such complex delicacy and power ever came to co-exist. I -have often wondered over the <cite>Merchant of Venice</cite> as one wonders -over a full-blown transparent poppy that sheds light and blushes like a -cloud. Neither the poppy nor the play were exactly hewn out: they grew, -they expanded and bloomed by a sort of inward power,—unconscious, -transcendent. The fine arts blossom from the old stock,—from the -poppy-seed of the world.</p> - -<p>I am here thinking of the whole body of the arts, the vehicles through -which the spirit of man has been expressed. I am thinking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>11</span> also of -the sciences,—whose refractory, belligerent worshipers are even less -satisfied with any past expression than the artists are, for their -mission is to destroy and to rearrange. They would leave nothing -alive but themselves. Nevertheless, science has always been obliged -to make use of written language in recording her ideas. The sciences -are as much a part of recorded language as are the arts. No matter how -revolutionary scientific thought may be, it must resort to metaphysics -when it begins to formulate its ultimate meanings. Now when you -approach metaphysics, the Greek and the Hebrew have been there before -you: you are very near to matters which perhaps you never intended to -approach. You are back at the beginning of all things. In fact, human -thought does not advance, it only recurs. Every tone and semi-tone in -the scale is a keynote; and every point in the Universe is the centre -of the Universe; and every man is the centre and focus of the cosmos, -and through him passes the whole of all force, as it exists and has -existed from eternity; hence the significance which may at any moment -radiate out of anything.</p> - -<p>The different arts and devices that time hands to us are like our -organs. They are the veins and arteries of humanity. You cannot -rearrange them or begin anew. Your verse-forms and your architecture -are chosen<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>12</span> for you, like your complexion and your temperament. The -thing you desire to express is in them already. Your labors do no more -than enable you to find your own soul in them. If you will begin any -piece of artistic work in an empirical spirit and slave over it until -it suits you, you will find yourself obliged to solve all the problems -which the artists have been engaged on since the dawn of history. Be as -independent as you like, you will find that you have been anticipated -at every point: you are a slave to precedent, because precedent has -done what you are trying to do, and, ah, how much better! In the -first place, the limitations, the horrible limitations of artistic -possibility, will begin to present themselves; few things can be done: -they have all been tried: they have all been worked to death: they have -all been developed by immortal genius and thereafter avoided by lesser -minds,—left to await more immortal genius. The field of endeavor -narrows itself in proportion to the greatness of the intellect that is -at work. In ages of great art everyone knows what the problem is and -how much is at stake. Masaccio died at the age of twenty-seven, after -having painted half a dozen pictures which influenced all subsequent -art, because they showed to Raphael the best solution of certain -technical questions. The Greeks of the best period<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>13</span> were so very -knowing that everything appeared to them ugly except the few attitudes, -the few arrangements, which were capable of being carried to perfection.</p> - -<p>Anyone who has something to say is thus found to be in one sense a -slave, but a rich slave who has inherited the whole earth. If you can -only obey the laws of your slavery, you become an emperor: you are only -a slave in so far as you do not understand how to use your wealth. -If you have but the gift of submission, you conquer. Many tongues, -many hands, many minds, a traditional state of feeling, traditional -symbols,—the whole passed through the eyes and soul of a single -man,—such is art, such is human expression in all its million-sided -variety.</p> - - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p class="noi">I have thrown together these remarks in an elliptical and haphazard -way, hoping to show what sort of thing education is, and as a prologue -to a few reflections upon the educational conditions in the United -States.</p> - -<p>It is easy to think of reasons why the standards of general education -should be low in America. Almost every influence which is hostile -to the development of deep thought and clear feeling has been at -the maximum of destructive power in the United States. We are a new -society, made of a Babel of conflicting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>14</span> European elements, engaged in -exploiting the wealth of a new continent, under conditions of climate -which involve a nervous reorganization to Europeans who come to live -with us. Our history has been a history of quiet colonial beginnings, -followed by a national life which, from its inception, has been one of -social unrest. And all this has happened during the great epoch of the -expansion of commerce, the thought-destroying epoch of the world.</p> - -<p>Let us take a rapid glance at our own past. In the beginning we were -settlers. Now the settlement of any new continent plays havoc with -the arts and crafts. Let us imagine that among the Mayflower pilgrims -there had been a few expert wood-carvers, a violin player or two, and a -master architect. These men, upon landing in the colony, must have been -at a loss for employment. They would have to turn into backwoodsmen. -Their accomplishments would in time have been forgotten. Within a -generation after the landing of the pilgrims there must have followed -a decline in the fine arts, in scholarship, and in certain kinds of -social refinement. This decline was, to some extent, counteracted in -our colonial era by the existence of wealth in the Colonies and by the -constant intercourse with Europe, from which the newest models were -imported by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>15</span> every vessel. Nevertheless, it is hard for a colony to -make up for its initial loss; and we have recently seen the United -States government making efforts on a large scale to give to the -American farmer those practices of intensive cultivation of the soil -which he lost by becoming a backwoodsman and has never since had time -to recover for himself.</p> - -<p>The American Revolution was our second serious set-back in education. -So hostile to culture is war that the artisans of France have never -been able to attain to the standards of workmanship which prevailed -under <a id="the"></a><ins title="Original has 'the the'">the</ins> -old monarchy. Our national culture -started with the handicap of a seven years’ war, and was always a -little behindhand. During the nineteenth century the American citizen -has been buffeting the waves of new development. His daily life has -been an experiment. His moral, social, political interests and duties -have been indeterminate; nothing has been settled for him by society. -Is a man to have an opinion? Then he must make it himself. This demands -a more serious labor than if he were obliged to manufacture his own -shoes and candlesticks. No such draught upon individual intellect is -made in an old country. You cannot get a European to understand this -distressing overtaxing of the intelligence in America. Nothing like it -has occurred before, because in old<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>16</span> countries opinion is part of caste -and condition: opinion is the shadow of interest and of social status.</p> - -<p>But in America the individual is not protected against society at -large by the bulwark of his class. He stands by himself. It is a noble -idea that a man should stand by himself, and the conditions which -force a man to do so have occasionally created magnificent types of -heroic manhood in America. Lincoln, Garrison, Emerson, and many lesser -athletes are the fruits of these very conditions which isolate the -individual in America and force him to think for himself. Yet their -effect upon general cultivation has been injurious. It seems as if -character were always within the reach of every human soul; but men -must have become homogeneous before they can produce art.</p> - -<p>We have thus reviewed a few of the causes of our American loss -of culture. Behind all these causes, however, was the true and -overmastering cause, namely, that sudden creation of wealth for which -the nineteenth century is noted, the rise all over the world of new -and uneducated classes. We came into being as a part of that world -movement which has perceptibly retarded culture, even in Europe. How, -then, could we in America hope to resist it? Whether this movement is -the result of democratic ideas, or of mechanical<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>17</span> inventions, or of -scientific discovery, no one can say. The elements that go to make -up the movement cannot be unraveled. We only know that the world has -changed: the old order has vanished with all its charm, with all its -experience, with all its refinement. In its place we have a crude -world, indifferent to everything except physical well-being. In the -place of the fine arts and the crafts we have business and science.</p> - -<p>Business is, of course, devoted to the increase of physical well-being; -but what is Science? Now, in one sense, science is anything that -true scientific men of the moment happen to be studying. In one -decade, science means the discussion of spontaneous generation, or -spontaneous variation, in the next of plasm, in the next of germs, -or of electrodes. Whatever the scientific world takes up as a study -becomes “science.” It is impossible to deny the truth of this rather -self-destructive definition. In a more serious sense, however, science -is the whole body of organized knowledge; and a distinction is -sometimes made between “pure” science and “applied” science; the first -being concerned solely with the ascertainment of truth, the second, -with practical matters.</p> - -<p>In these higher regions, in which science is synonymous with the search -for truth, science partakes of the nature of religion. It purifies<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>18</span> -its votaries; it speaks to them in cryptic language, revealing certain -exalted realities not unrelated to the realities of music, or of -poetry and religion. The men through whom this enthusiasm for pure -science passes are surely, each in his degree, transmitters of heroic -influence; and, in their own way, they form a kind of priesthood. It -must be confessed, too, that this priesthood is peculiarly the product -of the nineteenth century.</p> - -<p>The Brotherhood of Science is a new order, a new Dispensation. It -would seem to me impossible to divide one’s feeling toward science -according to the divisions “pure” and “applied”; because many men in -whom the tide of true enthusiasm runs the strongest deal in applied -science, as, for instance, surgeons, bacteriologists, etc. Nor ought we -to forget those great men of science who have an attitude of sympathy -toward all human excellence, and a reverence for things which cannot -be approached through science. Such men resemble those saints who have -also, incidentally, been kings and popes. Their personal magnitude -obliterates our interest in their position in the hierarchy. We think -of them as men, not as popes, kings or scientists. In the end we must -admit that there are as many kinds of science as there are of men -engaged in scientific pursuits. The word science legitimately means -an immense<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>19</span> variety of things, loosely connected together, some of -them deserving of strong reprobation. I shall use the term with such -accuracy as I am able to command, and leave it to the candid reader to -make allowance for whatever injustice this course may entail.</p> - -<p>To begin with, we must find fault with the Brotherhood of Science on -much the same ground that we fought the old religions, upon grounds -of tyranny and narrowness, of dogmatism and presumption. In the next -place, it is evident that, in so far as science is not hallowed by -the spirit of religion, it is a mere extension of business. It is the -essence of world-business, race-business, cosmic-business. It saves -time, saves lives, and dominates the air and the sea; but all these -things may be accomplished, for ought we know, in the course of the -extinction of the better nature of mankind. Science is not directly -interested in the expression of spiritual truth; her notation cannot -include anything so fluctuating, so indeterminate, as the language of -feeling. Science neither sings nor jokes; neither prays nor rejoices; -neither loves nor hates. This is not her fault; but her limitation. Her -fault is that, as a rule, she respects only her own language and puts -trust only in what is in her own shop window.</p> - -<p>I deprecate the contempt which science expresses for anything that -does not happen to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>20</span> be called science. Imperial and haughty science -proclaims its occupancy of the whole province of human thought; yet, -as a matter of fact, science deals in a language of its own, in a set -of formulae and conceptions which cannot cover the most important -interests of humanity. It does not understand the value of the fine -arts and is always at loggerheads with philosophy. Is it not clear that -science, in order to make good her claim to universality, must adopt a -conception of her own function that shall leave to the fine arts and -to religion their languages? She cannot hope to compete with these -languages, nor to translate or expound them. She must accept them. At -present she tramples upon them.</p> - -<p>There are, then, in the modern world these two influences which are -hostile to education,—the influence of business and the influence of -uninspired science. In Europe these influences are qualified by the -vigor of the old learning. In America they dominate remorselessly, and -make the path of education doubly hard. Consider how they meet us in -ordinary social life. We have all heard men bemoan the time they have -spent over Latin and Greek on the ground that these studies did not -fit them for business,—as if a thing must be worthless if it can be -neither eaten nor drunk. It is hard to explain the value of education -to men who have forgotten the meaning of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>21</span> education: its symbols convey -nothing to them.</p> - -<p>The situation is very similar in dealing with scientific men,—at least -with that large class of them who have little learning and no religion, -and who are thus obliged to use the formulae of modern science as their -only vehicle of thought. These men regard humanity as something which -started up in Darwin’s time. They do not listen when the humanities -are mentioned; and if they did they would not understand. When Darwin -confessed that poetry had no meaning for him, and that nothing -significant was left to him in the whole artistic life of the past, -he did not know how many of his brethren his words were destined to -describe.</p> - -<p>We can forgive the business man for the loss of his birthright: he -knows no better. But we have it against a scientist if he undervalues -education. Surely, the Latin classics are as valuable a deposit as the -crustacean fossils, or the implements of the Stone Age. When science -shall have assumed her true relation to the field of human culture we -shall all be happier. To-day science knows that the silkworm must be -fed on the leaves of the mulberry tree, but does not know that the -soul of man must be fed on the Bible and the Greek classics. Science -knows that a queen bee can be produced by care and feeding, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>22</span> does -not as yet know that every man who has had a little Greek and Latin -in his youth belongs to a different species from the ignorant man. No -matter how little it may have been, it reclassifies him. There is more -kinship between that man and a great scholar than there is between the -same man and some one who has had no classics at all: he breathes from -a different part of his anatomy. Drop the classics from education? Ask -rather, Why not drop education? For the classics are education. We -cannot draw a line and say, ‘Here we start.’ The facts are the other -way. We started long ago, and our very life depends upon keeping alive -all that we have thought and felt during our history. If the continuity -is taken from us, we shall relapse.</p> - -<p>When we discover that these two tremendous interests—business and -commercial science have arisen in the modern world and are muffling -the voice of man, we tremble for the future. If these giants shall -continue their subjugation of the gods, the whole race, we fear, -<a id="may"></a><ins title="Original has 'way'">may</ins> -relapse into dumbness. By good fortune, however, there are -other powers at work. The race is emotionally too rich and too much -attached to the past to allow its faculties to be lost through disuse. -New and spontaneous crops will soon be growing upon the mould of our -own stubbly, thistle-bearing epoch.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>23</span></p> - -<p>In the meantime we in America must do the best we can. It is no secret -that our standards of education are below those of Europe. Our art, -our historical knowledge, our music and general conversation, show a -stiffness and lack of exuberance—a lack of vitality and of unconscious -force—the faults of beginners in all walks of life. During the last -twenty-five years much improvement has been made in those branches -of cultivation which depend directly upon wealth. Since the Civil -War there seems to have been a decline in the higher literature, -accompanied by an advance in the plastic arts. And more recently -still there has been a literary reawakening, perhaps not of the most -important kind, yet signifying a new era. If I may employ an obvious -simile, I would liken America to a just-grown man of good impulses -who has lacked early advantages. He feels that cultivation belongs -to him; and yet he cannot catch it nor hold it. He feels the impulse -of expression, and yet he can neither read nor write. He feels that -he is fitted for general society, and yet he has no current ideas or -conversation. And, of course—I say it with regret, but it is a part of -the situation—of course he is heady and proud of himself.</p> - -<p>What do we all desire for this ingenuous youth on whom the postponed -expectation of the world, as Emerson called it, has waited so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>24</span> long? -We desire only to furnish him with true advantages. Let us take a -simultaneous survey of the two extremities of the youth’s education, -namely, of nursery training and of the higher education. The two -are more intimately dependent upon each other than is generally -suspected. With regard to the nursery, early advantages are the key -to education. The focus of all cultivation is the fireside. Learning -is a stove plant that lives in the cottage and thrives during the -long winter in domestic warmth. Unless it be borne into children in -their earliest years, there is little hope for it. The whole future -of civilization depends upon what is read to children before they can -read to themselves. The world is powerless to reconvey itself through -any mind that it has not lived in from the beginning,—so hard is the -language of symbols, whether in music, or in poetry, or in painting. -The art must expand with the heart, as a hot rod of glass is touched by -the gold-leaf, and is afterwards blown into dusty stars and rainbows of -mantling irradiation. If the glass expand before it has been touched by -the metal, there is no means of ever getting the metal into it.</p> - -<p>The age of machinery has peopled this continent with promoters and -millionaires, and the work of a thousand years has been done in a -century. The thing has, however, been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>25</span> accomplished at some cost. An -ignorant man makes a fortune and demands the higher education for his -children. But it is too late: he should have given it to them when he -was in his shirt sleeves. All that they are able to receive now is -something very different from education. In receiving it they drag down -the old standards. School and college are filled with illiterates. The -whole land must patiently wait till Learning has warmed back to life -her chilled and starved descendants. Perhaps the child or grandchild of -the fortune-builder will teach the children on his knee what he himself -learned too late in life to stead him much.</p> - -<p>Hunger and thirst for learning is a passion that comes, as it were, -out of the ground; now in an age of wealth, now in an age of poverty. -Young men are born whom nothing will satisfy except the arts and the -sciences. They seek out some scholar at a university and aim at him -from boyhood. They persuade their parents to send them to college. -They are bored and fatigued by everything that life offers except this -thing. Now, society does not create this hunger. All that society can -do is to provide nourishment of the right kind, good instruction, true -learning, the best scholarship which history has left behind. I believe -that to-day there is a spirit of learning abroad in America—here and -there, in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>26</span> young—the old insatiable passion. I feel as if men -were arising—most of them still handicapped by the lack of early -training—to whom life has no meaning except as a search for truth. -This exalted famine of the young scholar is the hope of the world. -It is religion and art and science in the chrysalis. The thing which -society must beware of doing is of interposing between the young -learner and his natural food some mechanical product or patent food -of its own. Good culture means the whole of culture in its original -sources; bad culture is any substitute for this.</p> - -<p>Let us now examine the higher departments of education, the university, -the graduate school, the museum,—the learned world in America. -There is one function of learned men which is the same in every age, -namely, the production of text-books. Learned men shed text-books as -the oak sheds acorns, and by their fruits ye shall know them. Open -almost any primary text-book or school book in America, and you will, -on almost every page of it, find inelegancies of usage, roughnesses, -inaccuracies, and occasional errors of grammar. The book has been -written by an incompetent hand. Now, what has the writer lacked? Is -it grammar? Is it acquaintance with English literature, with good -models, with the Bible, with history? It is all these things, and more -than all. No school-room teaching can make<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>27</span> a man write good English. -No school teaching ever made an educated man, or a man who could -write a good primary text-book. It requires a home of early culture, -supplemented by the whole curriculum of scholarship and of university -<a id="training"></a><ins title="Original has comma">training.</ins> -Nothing else but this great engine will produce that -little book.</p> - -<p>The same conditions prevail in music. If you employ the nearest -excellent young lady music teacher to teach your boys to play the -piano, she will bring into the house certain child’s music written -by American composers, in which the rules of harmony are violated -and of which the sentiment is vulgar. The books have been written by -incompetent people. There is a demand for such books and they are -produced. They are the best the times afford: let us be glad that they -exist at all and that they are no worse. But note this: it will require -the whole musical impulse of the age, from the oratorio society and the -musical college down to the street organ, to correct the grammar of -that child’s music book. Ten or twenty years from now a like book will -perhaps be brought into your home, filled with better harmony and with -truer musical feeling; and the change will have been wrought through -the influence of Sebastian Bach, of Beethoven,—of the masters of music.</p> - -<p>It is the same with all things. The higher culture must hang over the -cradle, over the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>28</span> professional school, over the community. If you read -the lives of the painters of Italy or of the musicians of Germany, you -will find that, no matter where a child of genius was born, there was -always an educated man to be found in the nearest village—a priest or -a schoolmaster—who gave the child the rudiments himself, and became -the means of sending him to the university. Without this indigent -scholar, where would have been the great master?</p> - -<p>It is familiarity with greatness that we need—an early and first-hand -acquaintance with the thinkers of the world, whether their mode of -thought was music or marble or canvas or language. Their meaning is not -easy to come at, but in so far as it reaches us it will transform us. A -strange thing has occurred in America. I am not sure that it has ever -occurred before. The teachers wish to make learning easy. They desire -to prepare and peptonize and sweeten the food. Their little books -are soft biscuit for weak teeth, easy reading on great subjects; but -these books are filled with a pervading error: they contain a subtle -perversion of education.</p> - -<p>Learning is not easy, but hard; culture is severe. The steps to -Parnassus are steep and terribly arduous. This truth is often -forgotten among us; and yet there are fields of work in which it is -not forgotten, and in such fields art<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>29</span> springs up. Let us remember -the accomplishments of our country. The art in which we now most -excel is architecture. America has in it many beautiful buildings and -some learned architects. And how has this come about? Through severe -and conscientious study of the monuments of art, through humble, -old-fashioned training. The architects have had firstrate text-books, -generally written by Europeans, the non-peptonized, gritty, serious -language of masters in the craft. Our painters have done something of -the same sort. They have gone to Europe, and are conversant with what -is being done in Europe. If they are developing their art here, they do -it not ignorantly, but with experience, with consciousness of the past.</p> - -<p>I do not recommend subserviency to Europe, but subserviency to -intellect. Recourse to Europe we must have: our scholars must absorb -Europe without themselves becoming absorbed. It is a curious thing -that the American who comes in contact with the old world exhibits two -opposite faults: he is often too much impressed and loses stamina, or -he is too little impressed and remains a barbarian. Contact with the -past and hard work are the cure for both tendencies. Europe is merely -an incidental factor in the problem of our education, and this is very -well shown in our conduct of our law schools. The Socratic method of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>30</span> -instruction in law schools was first introduced at Harvard, and since -then it has spread to many parts of the world. This is undoubtedly -one of our best achievements in scholarship; and Europe had, so far -as I know, no hand in it. The method consists in the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">viva voce</i> -discussion of leading cases, text-books being used merely as an -auxiliary: the student thus attacks the sources themselves. Here we -have American scholarship at its best, and it is precisely the same -thing as the European article: it is simply scholarship.</p> - -<p>If we can exhibit this spirit in one branch of learning, why not in -all? The Promethean fire is one single element. A spark of this fire -is all that is needed to kindle this flame. The glance of a child -of genius at an Etruscan vase leaves the child a new being. That is -why museums exist: not only for the million who get something from -them, but for the one young person of intelligence to whom they mean -everything.</p> - -<p>Our American universities exhibit very vividly all the signs of -retardation in culture, which are traceable in other parts of our -social life. A university is always a stronghold of the past, and is -therefore one of the last places to be captured by new influence. -Commerce has been our ruler for many years; and yet it is only quite -recently that the philosophy of commerce can be seen in our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>31</span> colleges. -The business man is not a monster; but he is a person who desires to -advance his own interests. This is his occupation and, as it were, -his religion. The advancement of material interests constitutes -civilization to him. He unconsciously infuses the ideas and methods -of business into anything that he touches. It has thus come about in -America that our universities are beginning to be run as business -colleges. They advertise, they compete with each other, they pretend -to give good value to their customers. They desire to increase their -trade, they offer social advantages and business openings to their -patrons. In some cases they boldly conduct intelligence offices, and -guarantee that no hard work done by the student shall be done in -vain: a record of work is kept during the student’s college life, and -the college undertakes to furnish him at any time thereafter with -references and a character which shall help him in the struggle for -life.</p> - -<p>This miscarriage of education has been developed and is being conducted -by some of our greatest educators, through a perfectly unconscious -adaptation of their own souls to the spirit of the age. The underlying -philosophy of these men might be stated as follows: “There is nothing -in life nobler than for a man to improve his condition and the -condition of his children. Learning is a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>32</span> means to this end.” Such is -the current American conception of education. How far we have departed -from the idea of education as a search for truth, or as the vehicle -of spiritual expression, may be seen herein. The change of creeds has -come about innocently, and the consequences involved in it are, as yet, -perceived by hardly anyone. The scepticism inherent in the new creed is -concealed by its benevolence. You wish to help the American youth. This -unfortunate, benighted, ignorant boy, who has from his cradle heard -of nothing but business success as the one goal of all human effort, -turns to you for instruction. He comes to you in a trusting spirit, -with reverence in his heart, and you answer his hope in this wise: -‘Business and social success are the best things that life affords. -Come to us, my dear fellow, and we will help you toward them.’ Your -son asks you for bread and you give him a stone, for fish and you give -him a serpent. It would have been better for that boy if he had never -come to your college, for in that case he might have retained a belief -that somewhere in the world there existed ideas, art, enthusiasm, -unselfishness, inspiring activity.</p> - -<p>In so far as our universities have been turning into business agencies, -they have naturally lost their imaginative importance. Our professors -seem to be of little more consequence<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>33</span> in the community -<a id="than"></a><ins title="Original has 'that'">than</ins> -the department managers of other large shops. If learning is a useful -commodity which is to be distributed for the personal advantage of the -recipients, it is a thing to be paid for rather than to be worshiped. -To be sure, the whole of past history cannot be swept away in a day, -and we have not wholly discarded a certain conventional and rhetorical -reverence for learning. A dash and varnish of education are thought to -be desirable,—the wash that is growing every year more thin.</p> - -<p>Now, the truth is that the higher education does not advance a man’s -personal interests except under special circumstances. What it gives -a man is the power of expression; but the ability to express himself -has kept many a man poor. Let no one imagine that society is likely to -reward him for self-expression in any walk of life. He is much more -likely to be punished for it. The question of a man’s success in life -depends upon society at large. The more highly an age is educated, -the more highly it rewards education in the individual. In an age of -indifference to learning, the educated man is at a disadvantage. Thus -the thesis that education advances self-interest—that thesis upon -which many of our colleges are now being conducted—is substantially -false. The little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>34</span> scraps and snatches of true education which a man -now gets at college often embarrass his career. Our people are finding -this out year by year, and as they do so, they naturally throw the true -conception of the higher education overboard. If education is to break -down as a commercial asset, what excuse have they for retaining it at -all? They will force the colleges to live up to the advertisements and -to furnish the kind of education that pays its way. It is clear that if -the colleges persist in the utilitarian view, the higher learning will -disappear. It has been disappearing very rapidly, and can be restored -only through the birth of a new spirit and of a new philosophic -attitude in our university life.</p> - -<p>There are ages when the scholar receives recognition during his -lifetime and when the paths which lead to his lecture-room are filled -with men drawn there by his fame. This situation arises in any epoch -when human intellect surges up and asserts itself against tyranny and -ignorance. In the past the tyrannies have been political tyrannies, and -these have become well understood through the struggles of intellect -in the past; but the present commercial tyranny is a new thing and -as yet little understood. It lies like a heavy fog of intellectual -depression over the whole kingdom of Mammon, and is fed by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>35</span> the smoke -from a million factories. The artist works in it, the thinker thinks -in it. Even the saint is born in it. The rain of ashes from the -nineteenth-century Vesuvius of business seems to be burying all our -landscape.</p> - -<p>And yet this is not true. We shall emerge: even we who are in America -and suffer most. The important points to be watched are our university -class-rooms. If our colleges will but allow something unselfish, -something that is true for its own sake, something that is part of the -history of the human heart and intellect, to live in their class-rooms, -the boys will find their way to it. The museum holds the precious -urn, to preserve it. The university, in like manner, stands to house -the alphabets of civilization—the historic instruments and agencies -of intellect. They are all akin to each other as the very name and -function of the place imply. The presidents and professors who sit -beside the fountains of knowledge bear different labels and teach -subjects that are called by various names. But the thing which carries -the label is no more than the shell. The life you cannot label; and -it is to foster this life that universities exist. Enthusiasm comes -out of the world and goes into the university. Toward this point flow -the currents of new talent that bubble up in society: here is the -meeting-place<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>36</span> of mind. All that a university does is to give the -poppy-seed to the soil, the oil to the lamp, the gold to the rod of -glass before it cools. A university brings the spirit in touch with its -own language, that language through which it has spoken in former days -and through which alone it shall speak again.</p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>39</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="ethics">PROFESSORIAL ETHICS.</h2> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">When</span> I was at a university as an undergraduate—I will not say how many -years ago—I received one morning a visit from a friend who was an -upper classman; for, as I remember it, I was a freshman at the time. -My friend brought a petition, and wished to interest me in the case -of a tutor or assistant professor, a great favorite with the college -boys, who was about to be summarily dismissed. There were, to be sure, -vague charges against him of incompetence and insubordination; but of -the basis of these charges his partisans knew little. They only felt -that one of the bright spots in undergraduate life surrounded this -same tutor; they liked him and they valued his teaching. I remember no -more about this episode, nor do I even remember whether I signed the -petition or not. The only thing I very clearly recall is the outcome: -the tutor was dismissed.</p> - -<p>Twice or thrice again during my undergraduate life, did the same -thing happen—a flurry among the students, a remonstrance much too -late, against a deed of apparent injustice, a cry in the night, and -then silence.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>40</span> Now, had I known more about the world, I should have -understood that these nocturnal disturbances were signs of the times, -that what we had heard in all these cases was the operation of the -guillotine which exists in every American institution of learning, and -runs fast or slow according to the progress of the times. The thing -that a little astonished the undergraduate at the time was that in -almost every case of summary decapitation the victim was an educated -gentleman. And this was not because no other kind of man could be found -in the faculty. It seemed as if some whimsical fatality hung over the -professorial career of any ingenuous gentleman who was by nature a -scholar of the charming, old-fashioned kind.</p> - -<p>Youth grieves not long over mysterious injustice, and it never occurred -to me till many years afterward that there was any logical connection -between one and another of all these judicial murders which used to -claim a passing tear from the undergraduate at Harvard. It is only -since giving some thought to recent educational conditions in America, -that I have understood what was then happening, and why it was that a -scholar could hardly live in an American University.</p> - -<p>In America, society has been reorganized since 1870; the old -universities have been totally changed and many new ones founded. The -money to do this has come from the business<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>41</span> world. The men chosen to -do the work have been chosen by the business world. Of a truth, it -must needs be that offenses come; but woe be unto him through whom the -offense cometh. As the Boss has been the tool of the business man in -politics, so the College president has been his agent in education. -The colleges during this epoch have each had a “policy” and a -directorate. They have been manned and commissioned for a certain kind -of service, as you might man a fishing-smack to catch herring. There -has been so much necessary business—the business of expanding and -planning, of adapting and remodeling—that there has been no time for -education. Some big deal has always been pending in each college—some -consolidation of departments, some annexation of a new world—something -so momentous as to make private opinion a nuisance. In this regard -the colleges have resembled everything else in America. The colleges -have simply not been different from the rest of American life. Let a -man express an opinion at a party caucus, or at a railroad directors’ -meeting, or at a college faculty meeting, and he will find that he is -speaking against a predetermined force. What shall we do with such a -fellow? Well, if he is old and distinguished, you may suffer him to -have his say, and then override him. But if he is young, energetic, and -likely to give more<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>42</span> trouble, you must eject him with as little fuss as -the circumstances will permit.</p> - -<p>The educated man has been the grain of sand in the college machine. He -has had a horizon of what “ought to be,” and he could not help putting -in a word and an idea in the wrong place; and so he was thrown out -of education in America exactly as he was thrown out of politics in -America. I am here speaking about the great general trend of influences -since 1870, influences which have been checked in recent years, checked -in politics, checked in education, but which it is necessary to -understand if we would understand present conditions in education. The -men who, during this era, have been chosen to become college presidents -have, as a rule, begun life with the ambition of scholars; but their -talents for affairs have been developed at the expense of their taste -for learning, and they have become hard men. As toward their faculties -they have been autocrats, because the age has demanded autocracy here; -as toward the millionaire they have been sycophants, because the age -has demanded sycophancy here. Meanwhile these same college presidents -represent learning to the imagination of the millionaire and to the -imagination of the great public. The ignorant millionaire must trust -somebody; and whom he trusts he rules. Now if we go one step further -in the reasoning, and discover that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>43</span> the millionaire himself has a -somewhat exaggerated reverence for the opinions of the great public, -we shall see that this whole matter is a coil of influence emanating -from the great public, and winding up—and generally winding up very -tight—about the necks of our college faculties and professional -scholars. The millionaire and the college president are simply middle -men, who transmit the pressure from the average citizen to the learned -classes. What the average citizen desires to have done in education -gets itself accomplished, though the process should involve the -extinction of the race of educated gentlemen. The problem before us in -America is the unwinding of this “knot intrinsicate” into which our -education has become tied, the unwinding of this boa-constrictor of -ignorant public opinion which has been strangling and, to some extent, -is still strangling our scholars.</p> - -<p>I have no categorical solution of the problem, nor do I, to tell the -truth, put an absolute faith in any analysis of social forces, even -of my own. If I point out one of the strands in the knot as the best -strand to begin work on, it is with the consciousness that there are -other effectual ways of working, other ways of feeling about the matter -that are more profound.</p> - -<p>The natural custodians of education in any age are the learned men -of the land, including the professors and schoolmasters. Now these<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>44</span> -men have, at the present time, in America no conception of their -responsibility. They are docile under the rule of the promoting college -president, and they have a theory of their own function which debars -them from militant activity. The average professor in an American -college will look on at an act of injustice done to a brother professor -by their college president, with the same unconcern as the rabbit who -is not attacked watches the ferret pursue his brother up and down -through the warren, to predestinate and horrible death. We know, -of course, that it would cost the non-attacked rabbit his place to -express sympathy for the martyr; and the non-attacked is poor, and has -offspring, and hopes of advancement. The non-attacked rabbit would, -of course, become a suspect, and a marked man the moment he lifted up -his voice in defense of rabbit-rights. Such personal sacrifice seems -to be the price paid in this world for doing good of any kind. I am -not, however, here raising the question of general ethics; I refer to -the philosophical belief, to the special theory of <em>professorial</em> -ethics, which forbids a professor to protect his colleague. I invite -controversy on this subject; for I should like to know what the -professors of the country have to say on it. It seems to me that -there exists a special prohibitory code, which prevents the college -professor from using his reason and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>45</span> his pen as actively as he ought in -protecting himself, in pushing his interests, and in enlightening the -community about our educational abuses. The professor in America seems -to think that self-respect requires silence and discretion on his part. -He is too great to descend into the arena. He thinks that by nursing -this gigantic reverence for the idea of professordom, such reverence -will, somehow, be extended all over society, till the professor becomes -a creature of power, of public notoriety, of independent reputation -as he is in Germany. In the meantime, the professor is trampled upon, -his interests are ignored, he is overworked and underpaid, he is of -small social consequence, he is kept at menial employments, and the -leisure to do good work is denied him. A change is certainly needed in -all of these aspects of the American professor’s life. My own opinion -is that this change can only come about through the enlightenment of -the great public. The public must be appealed to by the professor -himself in all ways and upon all occasions. The professor must teach -the nation to respect learning and to understand the function and the -rights of the learned classes. He must do this through a willingness to -speak and to fight for himself. In Germany there is a great public of -highly educated, nay of deeply and variously learned people, whose very -existence secures pay, protection, and reverence for<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>46</span> the scholar. The -same is true in France, England, and Italy.</p> - -<p>It is the public that protects the professor in Europe. The public -alone can protect the professor in America. The proof of this is that -any individual learned man in America who becomes known to the public -through his books or his discoveries, or his activity in any field of -learning or research, is comparatively safe from the guillotine. His -position has at least some security, his word some authority. This man -has educated the public that trusts him, and he can now protect his -more defenseless brethren, if he will. I have often wondered, when -listening to the sickening tale of some brutality done by a practical -college president to a young instructor, how it had been possible for -the eminent men upon the faculty to sit through the operation without a -protest. A word from any one of them would have stopped the sacrifice, -and protected learning from the oppressor. But no, these eminent men -harbored ethical conceptions which kept them from interfering with -the practical running of the college. Merciful heavens! who is to run -a college if not learned men? Our colleges have been handled by men -whose ideals were as remote from scholarship as the ideals of the New -York theatrical managers are remote from poetry. In the meanwhile, the -scholars have been dumb and reticent.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>47</span></p> - -<p>At the back of all these phenomena we have, as I have said, the general -atmospheric ignorance of the great public in America. We are so used to -this public, so immersed in it, so much a part of it ourselves, that -we are hardly able to gain any conception of what that atmospheric -ignorance is like. I will give an illustration which would perhaps -never have occurred to my mind except through the accident of actual -experience. If you desire a clue to the American in the matter of the -higher education, you may find one in becoming a school trustee in -any country district where the children taught are the children of -farmers. The contract with any country school-teacher provides that he -shall teach for so many weeks, upon such and such conditions. Now let -us suppose a teacher of genius to obtain the post. He not only teaches -admirably, but he institutes school gardens for the children; he takes -long walks with the boys, and gives them the rudiments of geology. He -is in himself an uplifting moral influence, and introduces the children -into a whole new world of idea and of feeling. The parents are pleased. -I will not say that they are grateful; but they are not ungrateful. It -is true that they secretly believe all this botany and moral influence -to be rubbish; but they tolerate it. Now, let us suppose that before -the year is out the teacher falls sick, and loses two weeks of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>48</span> school -time through absence. You will find that the trustees insist upon his -making up this lost time; the contract calls for it. This seems like a -mean and petty exaction for these parents to impose upon a saint who -has blessed their children, unto the third and fourth generation, by -his presence among them. But let us not judge hastily. This strange -exaction does not result so much from the meanness of the parents, as -from their intellectual limitations. To these parents the hours passed -in school are schooling; the rest does not count. The rest may be -pleasant and valuable, but it is not education.</p> - -<p>In the same way, the professional and business classes in America do -not see any point in paying salaries to professors who are to make -researches, or write books, or think beautiful thoughts. The influence -which an eminent man sheds about him by his very existence, the change -in tone that comes over a rude person through his once seeing the face -of a scholar, the illumination of a young character through contact -with its own ideals—such things are beyond the ken of the average -American citizen to-day. To him, they are fables, to him they are -foolishness. The parent of our college lad is a farmer compared to the -parent of the European lad.</p> - -<p>The American parent regards himself as an enlightened being—yet he -has not, in these<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>49</span> matters, an inkling of what enlightenment is. Now, -the intelligence of that parent must be reached; and the learned -classes must do the work of reaching it. The Fathers of the Christian -church made war with book and speech on Paganism. The leaders of the -Reformation went out among the people and made converts. The patriots -of the American Revolution—nay, the fathers of modern science, Tyndal, -Huxley, Louis Agaziz, Helmholtz—wrote popular books and sought to -interest and educate the public by direct contact. Then let the -later-coming followers in learning imitate this popular activity of the -old leaders: we need a host of battlers for the cause.</p> - -<p>For whom do these universities exist, after all? Is it not for the -people at large? Are not the people the ultimate beneficiaries? Then -why should the people not be immediately instructed in such manner as -will lead to their supporting true universities? It is hard to say why -our professors are so timid. Perhaps too great a specialization in -their own education has left them helpless, as all-around fighters. But -the deeper reason seems to be a moral one; they think such activity is -beneath them. It is not beneath them. Whatever be a man’s calling, it -is not beneath him to make a fight for the truth. As for a professor’s -belonging to a mystic guild, no man’s spiritual force is either -increased or diminished by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>50</span> name he calls his profession. Learning -is their cause, and every honest means to promote learning should be -within their duty. Nor does duty alone make this call for publicity. -Ambition joins in it; the legitimate personal ambition of making one’s -mind and character felt in the world. This blow once struck means -honor, and security of tenure in office, it means public power.</p> - -<p>In fine, the scholars should take the public into their confidence -and dominate the business men on our college boards. This will be -found more easy than at first appears, because the money element, the -millionaire element, is very sensitive to public feeling, and once the -millionaire succumbs, the college president will succumb also. The step -beyond this would consist in the scholars’ taking charge of the college -themselves, merely making use of certain business men on their boards -for purposes of financial administration.</p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>53</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="drama">THE DRAMA.</h2> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">When</span> a subject is too complex and too subtle to admit of any adequate -analysis, people dogmatize about it. They believe that they are thus -recurring to first principles. But what are the principles? That -is just what no one can state. The drama is one of those difficult -subjects which lure the writer on and draw him out. It is a subject -upon which ideas flow easily, theories form of themselves, and -convictions deepen in the very act of improvisation. The writer who -will trust his own inspiration can hardly fail to end by saying -something very true about the drama. That is the trouble with the -drama: so many things are true of it. It is scarcely less confusing -than human life itself. The difficult thing is to strike some balance -between all these interlocking and oscillating truths.</p> - -<p>Consider, for example, how many and illusive are the influences that -go to make up a good dramatic performance. The elements are interwoven -in our consciousness, mingled and flowing together like motes in the -sunbeam, rising, falling, fading, changing, glowing, and ever suffering -transformation and re-birth,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>54</span> like the dream-things that they are. No -matter what you say about a performance you can hardly be sure that -you have hit upon the right explanation. Let us suppose that there -has been an evening of inspiring success. Some golden lead of the -imagination has sprung up and overshot one performance—paused, passed -and vanished—leaving audience and actors, and even critics, to account -for it as they may. You think you have a clue to the situation; but -you have barely time to rejoice over your discovery, when, on the next -evening, disaster follows from the same apparent causes as led to the -first success. The fact is that some unseen power has been at work upon -one evening and not upon the next. The weather, or the composition of -the audience, or the mood of the actors has changed. The fact is that -no two occasions are really alike; but they differ in so many ways that -one can scarcely catalogue their divergencies.</p> - -<p>There is no ill-considered thing that an author may write, or an actor -do on the stage, no mistake or violation of common sense and good -art, that may not be counterbalanced by some happiness which carries -the play in spite of it. And conversely, there is no well-reasoned, -profound, and true theory of play-writing or stage management which, -if logically carried out, may not prove the very vehicle of damnation. -The reason is that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>55</span> your theories are mere nets waved in the air some -miles below the stars which they seem to imprison. Your true theories -are true only to theory; the conditions always upset them. It is, -therefore, not without some trepidation that I tread the paths of this -subject. I almost fear the sound of my own voice and the conclusions -of my own reason. This fear shall be my compass, this the silken -thread, unwinding as I walk, which shall lead me back again out of the -labyrinth and into the daylight.</p> - -<p>The aim of any dramatic performance is to have something happen on a -stage that shall hold people’s attention for two hours and a half or -three hours. Anything that does this is a good drama; and there are as -many kinds of good drama as there are flowers in the meadow. All of -these species are closely related to each other. They are modifications -that spring up from the roots of old tradition, like shoots in an -asparagus bed.</p> - -<p>The different great divisions and species of drama depend on the size -and shape of the theatre used, more than on any other one thing. -For the great theatre you must have slow speech, or, at any rate, -a concentration of theme. For a small modern theatre you must have -quicker motion and more variety. Not only the actor but the playwright -must have some special size of theatre in his mind as he plans a play, -and must adapt his whole<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>56</span> art to that size, as he fashions his work. -You might call this the first canon of the drama.</p> - -<p>Now, we have, at present, no controlling conventions, no overmastering -habits of thought about stage matters, and this leads us to forget -the original force, not to say tyranny, of convention in other ages. -England has had no controlling convention in stage matters since -Charles II’s time; and the English stage has thus become a free, wild -sort of place where anything is permitted. It is like the exhibition of -the “Independents” in Paris, where anyone may hire space and hang what -pictures he please, leaving the public to reward or punish him for his -temerity.</p> - -<p>The disadvantage of this condition of things is that the public -does not know what to expect, and therefore fine things may be -misunderstood. The playwright is not sufficiently supported by the -crutch of tradition. He has lost his task-master; but he has lost -also the key to expression. A well-developed, formal tradition is -as necessary to any powerful spiritual deliverance as a system of -punctuation is to writing. It was not until Haydn and Mozart had -developed the form of the symphony and sonata that Beethoven’s work -became possible. The same holds true of all the arts; the great artist -who finds no harness ready-made for his ideas must set<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>57</span> to work like -Giotto to painfully create a makeshift of his own.</p> - -<p>If we have to-day no great tyrant of contemporary convention in any -of the arts, we have a hundred fashions. The age is eclectic; the -conventional side of art is at a discount. Now in the drama, the -conventional side of art is of peculiar importance. The more you -surprise an audience, the less you will please it. The thing that -entertains and relaxes people is to have something unmistakable and -easy unrolled before them; something in which the problems are plainly -stated and solved beyond the possibility of a doubt. The good man and -bad man must be labeled; and so must the different sorts of plays -receive labels—as, Comedy, Tragedy, Farce, Problem-play, Tank-drama, -etc.; otherwise a great part of the attention of the audience will be -exhausted in finding the right humor. The modern playwright has thus a -problem that is new to the stage, the problem of giving the grand cue -to the audience as to which kind of play is coming.</p> - -<p>After all, the condition of the contemporary stage is very much -like the condition of contemporary painting. Any good historical -gallery contains samples from the whole history of art. There are -as well-defined classes of pictures as there are of dramas: <abbr title="for example">e. g.</abbr>, -the religious picture, the genre picture,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>58</span> the portrait, the -landscape, etc.; and within each of these classes there exists a world -of half-defined traditions in which educated persons are learned, -and by which all artists are somewhat controlled. Now each of these -classes was originally the product of an age devoted to it. But to-day -the artist is eclectic. He is eclectic in spite of himself because he -is not forced by universal expectation to do a particular thing: he -must choose. Whether he be painter or dramatist, the artist in Western -Europe to-day is born into an epoch of miscellaneous experiment. Let -him choose. The spread of international education has brought about -this state of things: art is becoming an international commodity.</p> - -<p>Let us return to the drama, and seize upon some convenient model of -a conventional play—for instance, the old-fashioned melodrama. What -a relief it is to find in the opening act of a play that we are upon -familiar ground, that we know very well what is coming and can enjoy -the elaboration of it. We must have a taste for the whole species or -we can never either like or understand the particular example. And -so also in judging of any drama of another age we must positively -bring the whole of the epoch to bear upon it or we are lost. The -Elizabethans before Shakespeare’s time had developed a drama of -horrors, or running-mad play, in which the audience knew<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>59</span> from the -outset that someone was to be dogged and tortured and dragged through -a living Inferno before being thrown on the dung-hill. The audience -expected to be moved to awe and to a certain sort of solemn horror by -the tragedy. The play was to be in blank verse, a narrative play full -of incident—with a host of characters and many changes of imaginary -scene. The story was to be new to the audience and as exciting as -possible. Very often it had, to our modern thinking, no plot; but was -a helter-skelter of delirious cruelty, accompanied by torrents of -passionately excited words which sometimes broke into great poetry -and more often soared in a cloudland of divine bombast. The people -loved this language. They reveled in the rhetoric of the dialogue, and -wallowed in the boldness of the action. The first line, or even the -very name of a horror-play in Elizabeth’s time, was enough to throw the -audience into the proper mood. How mistaken is it for one of us to-day -to read any old play without conjuring up something of its epoch.</p> - -<p>Now let us remember the Greeks, since we -<a id="cannot"></a><ins title="Original has 'canot'">cannot</ins> escape them. -The cultivated, conventional, logical, and over-civilized Greek wished -his tragedy to be elegant and in a just measure solemn, not to say -awe-inspiring. He expected this, much as we expect coffee after dinner -when we dine out. It was to be done<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>60</span> through the means of one of the -old Greek myths, a thing half history, half fable in its complexion.</p> - -<p>In the days of Æschylus the Athenian audience was made up of -God-fearing, conservative people who could be moved to awe by the -contemplation of religious ideas, and by pictures of lofty moral -sufferings. But as time went on, the people became bored by the old -Greek religion, and it required more highly colored pictures to satisfy -them. In the days of Sophocles there is a certain amount of religious -feeling left in the people, though one feels that Sophocles is making -use of it for artistic purposes. In Euripides’ day, however, everything -has been used up in the way of big moral ideas, and the emphasis is -laid on the suffering. Mental agony is manipulated by a skilled hand. -The taste is refined, the logic is perfect, the art is wonderful; but -the dramas of Euripides were felt in his own day and thereafter to -be a little corrupt. People blame Euripides instead of blaming the -insensibility of the Athenian theatre-goer who required this sort of -enginery to make him weep delicious tears. The thing to be noted in -both of these instances—from the English and the Greek stage—is the -part played by the audience. It is only through a tacit consent on all -hands that a certain game shall be played, that very highly-finished, -complex and perfect<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>61</span> works of art are produced. There is so much -to be conveyed by a drama that unless the audience will agree to -take nine-tenths of it for granted, the project is hopeless. The -conventions! These are the precious symbols which have been developed -by centuries of toil. They possess such telling value that by their aid -even mediocrity can do good things, and genius, miracles. How shall we -preserve them?</p> - -<p>The world of drama appears to-day to be at sea, by reason of the loss -of the great compass of a controlling dramatic tradition, yet this -is not quite true; because other influences—vague perhaps, yet very -authoritative—supply, in some degree, the place of the older tyrant, -custom. The controlling force of living dramatic practice has died away -in the world, and has become dissipated into a thousand traditions. -But in dying, it has left two influences as its heirs—namely, the -influence of criticism, and the influence of academic training. These -two watch-dogs of the drama tend to keep at least some record of the -past. They organize and classify the new varieties of drama which are -constantly springing up. For it appears that a new kind of drama is not -so very difficult a thing for a community to develop. The oratorio, for -example, and modern opera in all its forms, are even more artificial -than the Greek drama, and require<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>62</span> an even greater conventional -sympathy on the part of the audience. Yet they have grown up naturally -among us and are true children of stage life. In quite recent years -Wagner, Ibsen, and Mæterlinck has each developed a personal theatre -of his own. Each has drawn to himself a sort of international public, -held together by ties of education, by taste and by the spirit of the -age—such a public as a novelist might collect, but which one would -never have predicted for a playwright. This could only have happened -in an age when there existed a large reading public made up of persons -who were scattered throughout all the nations. For it must be noted -that the reading of plays is as good as a chorus. It warns the people -of what is to come. Not only the reading of plays but the reading of -pamphlets and of essays is necessary in order that people may be primed -to accept any new departure in the drama. The undeniable genius of -Gluck was not able to establish his lyrical drama without the aid of -many writers, talkers, and promoters. It required a war of pamphlets -and the influence of royalty to make the new opera acceptable. Ibsen -and Wagner have been accompanied by a wagonload of pamphlets and -broadsides, as if they were the forerunners of a new circus. Bernard -Shaw went with every play he gave as an advertising agent, a gladiator -and shouting billman that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>63</span> would get the attention of the public at any -price. It was quieter inside the theatre than outside of it, so people -took refuge within.</p> - -<p>Let no one think that criticism is an unnecessary part of the modern -drama. Criticism to-day is but the articulate utterance of those -conventions, those assumptions, and prejudices which must accompany and -support any drama in the mind of the audience, and which in simpler -ages hardly needed statement, because they were established. They stood -in the public consciousness much as the walls of the theatre stood in -the market-place, while the plays proceeded within them.</p> - -<p>There has always been criticism. Aristotle did not begin it, but he -is the starting-point of that great river of Thought-about-Art which -has accompanied the developments of the arts since Greek times. The -history of criticism is tremendous in volume, in brilliancy, and in -seriousness; and it has a great utility and mission toward the world -at large. If anyone have a curiosity to know what this literature is, -let him glance through Saintsbury’s History of Criticism in three -great tomes of many hundred pages each, in which the great names and -the great theories in criticism are reviewed. This is a part of the -literary history, of the bookish history of the world. From Plato -to Lessing, from Longinus to Santayana there have been acute-minded -individuals who loved the fine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>64</span> arts, poetry, sculpture, music, the -drama, etc., and who busied themselves with speculation upon them. -These men would pluck out the heart of the mystery, they would touch -our quick with their needle, they would satisfy our intellect with -their explanations. And here arises one of the subtlest difficulties -in all psychology; the difficulty of explaining clearly how men of -the greatest intellect may be subject to the grossest self-delusion. -The reasonings of these critics about art are valid as reasonings -of critics about art, so long as they are kept in the arena of the -reasoning of critics about art. But if you try to translate those -reasonings back again into the substance of art itself—if, for -instance, you bid the artist follow the admonition of the critic, you -will find that the artist cannot do this without making a retranslation -of the critic’s ideas into terms which now become incomprehensible -to the critic. In order to take the critic’s advice—to produce the -effects which the critic calls for—the artist must do with his -material things which the critic has not mentioned and does not -conceive of.</p> - -<p>The critic, after all, is a parasite. He lives by illustrating the -brains of the artist. He is an illuminator. He has produced a wonderful -literature—a literature of embroidery—and this literature is very -valuable to the world at large; but has, as it were, no<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>65</span> mission as -toward the artist. The reason is that the artist gets his experience of -art by working directly and immediately in the art; and the problems -he works on can neither be stated nor solved except in the terms of -his art. The critic, meanwhile, believes that he himself has stated -and solved those <a id="problems"></a><ins title="Original has 'proplems'">problems</ins>; -but what he says is folly to -the ears of the artist. The misunderstanding must continue forever, -and neither of the parties is to blame for it. Listen to the most -good-natured of artists, Molière, speaking with the authority of -unbounded success, upon the subject that drives lesser men to helpless -rage:—</p> - -<blockquote> -<p lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">“Vous êtes de plaisantes gens avec vos règles, dont vous -embarrassez les ignorants et nous étourdissez tous les jours. -Il semble, à vous ouïr parler, que ces règles de l’art soient -les plus grands mystères du monde, et cependant ce ne sont que -quelques observations aisées que le bon sens a faites sur ce qui -peut ôter le plaisir que l’on prend à ces sortes de poèmes; et le -même bon sens, qui a fait autrefois ces observations, les fait -aisément tous les jours sans le secours d’Horace et d’Aristote. -Je voudrais bien savoir si la grande règle de toutes les règles -n’est pas de plaire, et si une pièce de théatre qui a attrapé son -but n’a pa suivi un bon chemin. Laissons-nous aller de bonne foi -aux choses qui nous prennent par les entrailles, et ne cherchons -point de raisonnement pour nous empêcher d’avoir du plaisir.”...</p> -</blockquote> - -<p>Even Molière is a little harsh to the critics. He seems not to remember -that critics are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>66</span> “seized by the entrails” by a set of psychological -terms, by “the sublime,” by “beauty,” by “contrast,” by the very -idea that there should be laws underlying the mysteries of æsthetic -enjoyment—laws which critics proclaim. The fact is that the sincerity -and enthusiasm of the critic carries all before it. It seems to the -critic as if the artist were a poor fool who does not quite understand -himself. Molière has had his say, but what of that? No critic was -listening. The critic feels too keenly about the matter to catch the -drift of Molière’s remarks. You cannot persuade Ruskin that he does not -understand painting. You cannot make Aristotle believe that he stands -in the position of an outsider toward tragic poetry. He smiles at the -suggestion. He feels himself to be quite on the level of his subject. -Before he spoke, it had not spoken. Leave the critic, then, to his -thesis: and let us confess that for everyone except for the artist, -that thesis has a great and stimulating value.</p> - -<p>The words of the critical, even though they come from outside the -profession, have a value in preserving and in interpreting good -traditions in art. The real power, however, through which these -traditions live is the teaching done inside of the profession. What the -apprentice learns at the bench from the master-craftsman—this is what -controls the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>67</span> future of art. It is through this teaching that the raw -youth is turned into a craftsman. No one who has not passed through the -mill can conceive the depth to which nature must be affected through -training before art is gained. The artist is as much a product of art -as his own works are. To execute the simplest acts of his profession -he must have passed through a severe novitiate. He cannot sound a note -of it till he has been refashioned, as Mrs. Browning sang, from a reed -into a musical instrument.</p> - -<p>There are certain ways of reciting verse and of speaking prose, certain -ways of walking on and off the stage, which are expressive, correct, -and necessary. To drop them is a sign of ignorance and decadence. They -cannot be replaced by something modern that is just as good: they are -a race inheritance. If you lose them you will have to re-discover them -subsequently, just as, if you were to lose the science of harmony, you -would have to discover it again before you could understand the music -of modern times. How is it that these practices and trade secrets of -the arts get preserved during periods of public indifference, when -perhaps the studios might forget them? It is by the institution of -Academies and Lyceums: by the endowment of galleries and theatres. The -nations of Continental Europe long ago resorted to state-supported<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>68</span> -schools, galleries, and play-houses as a means of preserving tradition. -On the Continent no one is allowed to forget the old forms. They are -nursed and cultivated. The very nations which need training the least, -because of their natural talent, and of their proximity to the old -Mediterranean seats of culture, get the most of it, because of their -intelligent understanding of what art consists in. Among late-comers -at the table of civilization, and among young people generally, there -prevails an opinion that art is the result of genius, or of natural -temperament, or of race endowment. But the persons who have the -endowment of race, of temperament, and of genius know that art is a -question of training.</p> - -<p>It is a sign that civilization has been spreading to find that in -England and in America, men are beginning to adopt Continental ideas -upon the subject of endowed theatres. The chaotic condition of the -English stage has been very largely due to the fact that it has been -nobody’s business to preserve the old recipes. If the public taste -swings away from lyrical drama for a decade, lyrical drama goes by the -board—the very models and old wig stands are thrown out of the window. -In a few years, only a few old actors and playgoers will remember -the lost delights that went with these trappings. A whole province<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>69</span> -of human happiness has been eaten up by the sea of oblivion—by that -all-surrounding, ever-active ocean that gnaws away the outlying realms -of the mind, and will eat us back to mere grunts and a sign language -unless we value our inheritance of articulation. Without the support of -schools of acting the present moment remains continually too important. -Those whole classes of exquisite, beautiful things which go out of -fashion and are thereafter all but irrecoverable, should be held before -the public with as firm a hand as orchestral music has been held before -it, and for the same reasons. We are always being told by theatrical -people that the public taste will or will not support something. Does -anybody inquire whether the American public likes Bach or Beethoven, -or does anybody take advice of the press as to how the works of those -masters shall be played? No. The best traditions are followed, the best -performers obtained, and the effect upon the public mind is awaited -with patience and with certainty. That is the way a State Theatre is -run in Europe, and that is the way that a New Theatre should be run in -America.</p> - -<p>With regard to music, we have adopted the Continental ideas easily, -because we had no music of our own. But with regard to the drama we -have certain crude ideas of our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>70</span> own, rooted in the existence of a -domestic drama, and these ideas impede our progress. We have, for -instance, a belief that because an audience is used to an inferior -thing, therefore it will continue to prefer that thing to something -better and that the reformer should content himself with giving the -public only a taste now and then of something fine, and should keep in -touch with them in the meantime through concessions to popular taste. -This would be sound reasoning in the mouth of the business manager of -an ordinary theatrical venture; but in the mouth of the manager of -an educational theatre, it is blasphemy. The thesis upon which all -education rests is this: give the best, and it will supplant the less -good.</p> - -<p>I doubt if anyone in the country is more grateful than I am to the -managers of the New Theatre. They have begun a great work. The whole -country is in debt to them already. They are showing a spirit which -will make their future work continually improve; and their efforts -have, on the whole, been received with that lack of intelligent -gratitude with which society always receives its benefactors. -Nevertheless their work and their position seem to illustrate so -many points in the subject, that a little incidental criticism of -them is unavoidable. If I find fault with the New Theatre for not -being<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>71</span> sufficiently academic, it is only to illustrate how completely -academic standards have been vanishing in America. For instance, the -art of reciting Shakespeare has been all but lost, and the New Theatre -proved this quite unconsciously by a plunge, upon some occasions, into -a sort of household naturalism in its method of reciting romantic -drama. An epoch like the present, in which the current new plays -are naturalistic, will tend to recite Shakespeare in a naturalistic -way. But only the abeyance of good tradition could have led to the -attempt to give Shakespeare’s lines in a conversational manner. We -have forgotten how effective the lines are when conventionally given, -or we should resent this experiment in taking the starch out of them. -Indeed upon certain other occasions the old standards of speech were -last winter brought back in magnificent triumph at the New Theatre. If -it was chiefly to the Englishmen and Englishwomen of the New Theatre -Company that we in America owed this beautiful lesson in speech, let us -none the less be grateful for the lesson and draw from it what profit -we may.</p> - -<p>There are people who believe that verse is merely a decorated sort -of prose; and that in connection with the drama, verse is a foolish -superfluity. The people who think this have not heard verse well -recited. The delivery of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>72</span> metrical language in an elevated manner is -the noblest tradition of the stage. It is a thing at the same time -completely artificial and completely beautiful. It lifts the play into -a region native to great thoughts, where lightnings strike, as in their -element, and music like a natural thunder rolls across the scene. -To-day the secret of this majestic convention of verse is lost to the -stage. Neither in the writing of it by the poet nor in the delivery -of it by the actor, nor in the reception and enjoyment of it by the -audience can the thing come off happily except under rare conditions, -when all are prepared for it and when the right planets are in the -ascendant. We live under an eclipse; yet is not the sun extinguished. -Verse will return to the drama as soon as those themes return which -only verse can carry.</p> - -<p>All these conventions and settings of which we have been speaking are -but the accessories, the servants of the stage; and, like insolent -lackeys, they sometimes thrust themselves vulgarly forward. The -wardrobe of Louis XIV might easily make the claim that the monarchy -could not be carried on without it. And yet, on the stage, it is not -quite so. On the stage, no particular set of accessories is ever so -important as it thinks itself. The multiplicity of the forces at work -saves us from such shameful subjection to detail. We can always, at -a pinch, get on without any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>73</span> of the accessories. Have you ever, when -charades were being acted, seen some talented person enter the room, -wearing an old hat and having a shawl or perhaps a window curtain drawn -across his shoulders? For some brief moments of inspiration he manages -to make you see Hector of Troy, or The Man that broke the Bank at -Monte Carlo. You cannot tell how it was done, it was so rapid. Yet you -have had a glimpse of an idea. You have been transported somehow and -somewhere. Perhaps the actor cannot do it again; for amateurs strike -sparks and call up spirits by accident. Nevertheless, the thing you -have seen is the essence of drama. An idea has been conveyed; and all -the means that conveyed it have been lost—consumed like gunpowder -in the explosion. We can all remember various amateur performances -and revivals of old plays, in which the accessories were of the -simplest; and in which the suppression of scenery and the focusing -of the audience’s whole attention upon the actors had a wonderfully -stimulating effect upon the talents of the actors. The means were at a -minimum; the idea, the thought was at a maximum. In this amateur spark -we have the key to the real theatre.</p> - -<p>The building, the costumes, the incidental music, the blank verse, -all the accessories of a play exist for the purpose of making an -atmosphere of high conductivity, in which that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>74</span> spark of idea may fly -out from the stage, across the footlights, into the audience. During -great moments or great half-hours of a play this same disappearance -of the accessories takes place, and gives us the life of drama. We -are always losing this life, because the accessories have independent -and fluctuating values of their own which attract our attention. -Costume seems to be an advantage in helping to hold the illusion, and -scenery is merely an extension of costume. Either of them may attract -too much attention, and how much this too much is, depends upon the -sensibilities of the auditor. For example, Twelfth Night is injured in -my eyes when it is given with beautiful Italian scenery, no matter how -beautiful. Toby Belch is, in my mind, connected with rural England, and -to see him with Vesuvius in the background shocks me. Nevertheless, -the next man may find in this Italian scenery a gentle stimulus which -heightens his enjoyment of the inner drama. Again, blank verse, when -properly spoken, adds to a play a moving charm like an accompaniment -of music; but when the lines are declaimed with either too much or too -little artifice, they become a nuisance. All the means and vehicles of -expression should fill the mere margin of our attention, ready to step -forward when the mind’s stage is empty and to vanish on the approach of -the dramatic interest.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>75</span> -The Greek stage came as near to the charade as the theatre has ever -come since. Here was no scenery, and the costume was merely suggestive. -Play of feature was out of the question, because of the mask. The -appeal of the natural voice was out of the question, because of -the megaphone mouth-piece. There was nothing left but gesture and -intonation. What a denudation that seems to us! But are you sure that -the imagination is not heightened by just such devices as this? Are you -sure that Hector or Heracles are not made ten times as real by this -absence of realism as they ever could have been made by naturalistic -treatment?</p> - -<p>A character comes on the Greek stage, and you perceive by his talk that -he is supposed to be walking in a wood. In a few moments he arrives -at an imaginary point of view. Another character walks on the stage, -and you perceive that this second character is supposed to have come -walking up the valley. Your whole attention is on the story, and any -striking scenery would be an unpleasant intrusion, an inartistic -element. Surely the Greeks were very clever at mechanical contrivances -and could have had scenery if they had desired it. What they had was -much better,—imagination.</p> - -<p>It is the same with the French classic stage, whose meagreness of -decoration is almost an offense to the American. The higher the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>76</span> -intelligence of the audience, the less will scenery be valued in plays. -In the case of children’s toys, we all know that a rag doll and a -wooly dog speak a more eloquent language than a mechanical doll and a -realistic dog that walks. But we dare not employ this philosophy in -dressing our stage, because of the lack of imagination in grown people.</p> - -<p>I have no doubt that if you had, say, thirty new plays to produce, each -of them as good as Hamlet, and if your audience were to consist of the -most intelligent people in the world, and if your actors were all and -each as good as David Garrick, I have no doubt, I say, that the most -thrilling way you could produce those plays would be on a stage without -scenery and with just such suggestion of costume as should lift the -characters into the world of idea. Such was the Elizabethan method; at -least it was the practice which the Elizabethans stumbled upon in their -riotous career.</p> - -<p>The world of idea is what you are seeking, no matter how sure you may -be that you want realism. The power of a play comes from this, that -it makes people believe that the action on the stage is not merely a -story, which has happened and is over—but is a thing which is going -on, a truth, a spiritual, inward reality which has to do with the -life and sentiments of the audience. This is what we want, what we -always want, whether we are playing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>77</span> Lear, or Ibsen, or Uncle Tom’s -Cabin. The different kinds of drama use different means of suggesting -spiritual reality. Poetic images are one way, sideboards and furniture -are another way. Now it must be confessed at once that realism does -tend to convey spiritual truth to people who possess a low degree of -reflective power. A reproduction in detail of something seen in real -life—wax-works, for instance—impresses the unimaginative person -more strongly than a sketch of the same thing done by Rembrandt; yet -both the wax-works and the Rembrandt have the same end in view—to -bring home an idea to the beholder. We may, then, measure the life in -people’s fancy by the weight of suggestion which is requisite to awaken -them—a feather of imagery or a cannon ball of actuality—and in this -we shall not be dealing with several kinds of dramatic principle, but -only with several conditions of education in the audience.</p> - -<p>The recent realism seen on our own stage shows a deadness of wit in -our life—the sad unresponsive seriousness of persons who do not -habitually live in the world of imagination. That world seems flat to -them. Nevertheless, the same persons will, with a little encouragement, -begin to enjoy humor, and trust poetry. Put them where they have no -critical responsibility and they will blossom into enjoyment. O blessed -amateurs! I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>78</span> wish someone would write a book and show that the whole -history of art has been but the history of amateurs; and that every -revival of painting, drama, music, architecture, and poetry has been -due to them. They cannot, perhaps, make great music themselves, but -they hand the lyre to Apollo. They have not the training, but they have -the passion that finds talent in others and protects the flame while -it is young. They suspect the secret of a lost art and go in search of -it as for the Golden Fleece. And amateurs, yes the amateurs are the -persons who will keep the drama from ever quite losing all relation to -its ancestor—its good genius—the charade.</p> - -<p>The great aim of any drama is to make all the audience and all the -actors think of the same thing at the same moment during the entire -evening. The “argument,” as they used to call it, is the main thing. -It is astonishing what a good name this is for the exposition of -ideas that takes place in a very good play either ancient or modern. -The argument is what both audience and actors breathlessly follow. -We err only when we begin to define what the argument is. It seems, -in truth, to be something too subtle for analysis. In some plays we -think we find it in the plot, in others in the characters, in others -in the language, and so forth. But there is hardly a definition of it -which some famous example<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>79</span> will not instantly confute. There is, for -instance, a charm that comes out of As You Like It, and which for three -hundred years has made audiences consent to sit through its three hours -of happy trifling. That charm is the “argument” of As You Like It. -You cannot state the charm. It is as subtle as the ether and as real -as the power of light that moves across the ether. Our senses are not -at fault, but only our theories. There is a fluctuating mystery about -all that happens in the theatre, and perhaps this indefinable power -is what most attaches us to the place. It is not a place of learning, -nor of scholarship, nor of information or ethics, nor even of such -flights of mind as accurate thought can always follow. It is a place of -enchantment.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>80</span> </p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>83</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="norway">NORWAY.</h2> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">In</span> Norway people live in small houses in which the air is very bad. The -people neither wash nor laugh, and common sense is unknown among them. -Each man or woman is endowed with one idea, and that is sufficient for -each. He is satisfied with it, and he is never seen without it. So that -anyone may always very easily recognize the different characters of -a Norwegian play. One knows that each idea is very significant, very -logical, and very much to be noted. Thus, if a character has the idea -of walking upstairs backward instead of forward, one feels perfectly -satisfied about that person. He is always talking about his mania, -and one knows that, in the end, some terrible and logical calamity is -going to result from the perverse habit with which stepdame nature -has endowed him. For all people in Norway are stepchildren of nature, -and are barely endowed with sufficient complexity of intelligence to -prevent them from swallowing poison, falling down wells, or walking -over precipices. Indeed they do all these things, the moment the well -or the poison or the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>84</span> precipice comes between themselves and their -favorite hobby.</p> - -<p>I saw a very nice play the other day about these people. If was about -a very nice elderly man and his elderly sister, Jake Borg and Elisa -Borg. Jake loved his sister, and his sister loved her cat—a Maltese -cat of the largest variety. Both Jake and Elisa spent an hour or so -each day in talking about the cat, and of how dangerous it was for the -cat to insist upon walking on the back fence during the very hours when -Jake was practising with his flint-lock at a target erected upon the -fence. Jake, it appears, was a member of the village patriotic shooting -society and was the president of it, and his whole heart and soul were -wrapped up in it. The society used flint-locks rather than percussion -caps because the time occupied by the explosion, being quite long with -flint-locks, the nerves of the patriots would be the better steeled -to bear the noise. Thus, during the forenoon, for several years, the -devoted couple discussed the question whether or not the pet cat would -be hit by the pet bullets; and it became alarmingly evident that such -would be the case, unless one or the other of the afflicted persons -should desist from the practice of his hobby. There were various other -people who came in to help the principal characters in the play to -discuss the peril. Neither party in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>85</span> great conflict would budge -from his principle—the one, for patriotic reasons, the other out of -Christian piety and affection for dumb animals.</p> - -<p>The anguish of the situation became so intense that it was almost a -relief when the cat was shot by the heroic burgher in the very shot by -which he completed a hundred consecutive bull’s-eyes—or would have -completed them, but for the fated animal. Jake’s life was ruined by -this failure; as Elisa’s was ruined by the loss of her companion, and -the village life was ruined because there remained nothing to talk -about thereafter. So, all the inhabitants of that Norwegian hamlet -shut their windows tight, and continued each in the pursuit of his -own serious hobby, neither washing, nor smiling, nor making allowance -for the hobbies of the rest, but only grinding out remorsely the -magnificent tragic material of Norwegian life.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>86</span> </p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>89</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="howe">DR. <a id="fullstop"></a><ins title="Original omitted fullstop">HOWE.</ins></h2> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">There</span> are men who have great fame during their lives, and then -disappear forever; and there are others who live unknown to their -contemporaries, and then emerge upon posterity, and cast back a -perpetual reproach upon their own times which were not worthy of them. -To neither of these classes does Dr. Howe belong; for he was a hero in -his own day, and has left behind him so many memorials of his mind and -times that he can never become wholly lost to the world. He belongs -rather to that class of reappearing reputations which die through -successive resurrections, and distribute their message to humanity -through many undulations of loss and rediscovery.</p> - -<p>One cannot tell where to set the boundary to such men’s influence, -for while the student writes, the shadow moves. The scribbler who is -assigning values and labels to history becomes an instrument in the -hands of his subject, and something is accomplished through him which -is beyond his own horizon. This is the mechanism through which great -men reach the world. The present age has all but forgotten Dr. Howe: -his name has<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>90</span> for some years been on the road to oblivion. For I do not -count as fame the dusty memorials and busts of dead philanthropists -which adorn and disfigure college libraries. Their honored and -obliterated features carry something, but it is not fame. They are like -neglected finger-boards which have fallen by the wayside and are calmly -undergoing unimaginable dissolution through the soft handling of the -elements. Wordsworth might have addressed a sonnet to these men had he -not been so preoccupied with external nature. “Behold, this man was -once the sign-board of classical learning, this of electricity, this of -natural science.” But Wordsworth would have been obliged first to rub -the moss from the inscriptions.</p> - -<p>Some years ago it looked as if Dr. Howe, the great and famous Dr. Howe, -had fallen by the wayside of progress and was to remain forever a dead -finger-post and a reminiscence in the history of the world’s care for -the blind. To-day a new image of him is beginning to form above the -mass of letters, documents, and written reports which his busy life -bequeathed to the garret, and in which his daughter, Laura E. Richards, -has recently quarried for a book of memoirs. She has produced two large -volumes which give us Dr. Howe from the intimate side of his character, -and in a way that no man can be publicly known to his contemporaries.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>91</span> -It is of this new image or <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vita nuova</i> of Dr. Howe that I mean to -speak.</p> - -<p>There is a variety of interest in his life, which shatters the -picture of a philanthropist and leaves in its place the picture of -an adventurer—an unselfish adventurer; that is to say, a sort of -Theseus or Hercules, an unaccountable person who visits this world from -somewhere else. After all, this is the impression he made upon his -own times. Perhaps we are getting a breeze of the same wind that blew -through him in life: I cannot tell. At any rate, it was not to Laura -Bridgman only that Howe was sent into the world. I confess to a feeling -that he was one of the greatest of Americans and one of the best men -who ever lived.</p> - -<p>Seventy years ago his name was known to everybody in the civilized -world. The part he took in the Greek Revolution (1825-29) had made -him famous while still a very young man, and his success in teaching -the blind deaf-mute, Laura Bridgman, (1837-41) seemed at the time, -and still seems, one of the great triumphs in the history of human -intellect. The world rang with it. The miracle was done in the sight of -all men, and humanity stood on the benches and shouted themselves blind -with applause. This accomplishment, which was the great accomplishment -of his life, will always remain Dr. Howe’s trade-mark and proverbial -significance; but other parts of his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>92</span> life almost equal it in permanent -value. The historical interest of the Greek Revolution, and of the -latter half of the anti-slavery period, are supplemented by the -scientific interest of all Dr. Howe’s philanthropic work and by the -personal interest of an extraordinary and unique character.</p> - -<p>Samuel Gridley Howe was born in Boston in 1801, and was thus just -twenty years old when the Greek Revolution broke out in 1821. In that -year he was graduated at Brown University, Providence, and thereafter -studied medicine for three years in Boston. Byron’s poems had prepared -the youths of Europe and of America for the Greek struggle, and Howe -was one of the young men who responded in person to Byron’s final call -to arms. Howe did not reach Greece till a few months after Byron’s -death at Missolonghi in 1824. Howe spent six years in campaigning with -the Greek patriots. He had enlisted in the capacity of a surgeon; -but the exigencies of the primitive and very severe guerilla warfare -tended to obliterate official rank and to throw the work upon those -who had executive ability. The war was a scramble of patriot banditti -and peasant militia against Mahommetan ruffians. The name of Greece, -the name of Byron, the beauty of the scenery in whose midst the war -proceeded, the heart-rending nature of the struggle and its happy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>93</span> -outcome, all combine to make this the most romantic war in history. It -was one of the last wars before that effective development of steam and -gunpowder which have forever merged the picturesque in the horrible.</p> - -<p>The young Howe kept a journal, which shows a character entirely at -one with his rapturously poetic surroundings. Before I had read this -journal I did not know that the United States had ever produced a man -of this type, the seventeenth century navigator, whose daily life -is made up of hair-breadth escapes and who writes in the style of -Robinson Crusoe.—“Passed a pirate boat, but he saw too many marks of -preparation about us to attack us; in fact, if vessels only knew what -cowards these pirates are they would never be robbed, for the least -resistance will keep them off. Give me a vessel with moderately high -sides, two light guns and twelve resolute men, and I would pledge my -all on sailing about every port of the archipelago and beating off -every vessel which approaches. The pirates always come in long, light, -open boats which pull from sixteen to thirty-six and forty oars. They -sometimes have a gun, and always select calm weather to attack. But how -to get up the sides of a vessel if twelve men with cutlasses were to -oppose them.”...</p> - -<p>“But it was a great fault on the part of commanders of vessels of war -not to have<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>94</span> made examples. A few bodies hanging at their yard-arms, -and displayed round among the islands, would have had more effect than -all they have done.”...</p> - -<p>There we have the reality of which Stevenson’s tales are the reflection -and the traditional imitation. Again—“If he challenges, I shall have -my choice of weapons. I am pretty good master of the small sword, and -think I could contrive to disarm him and make him beg on his knees, for -I am sure he is one of the most arrant cowards.”... Again—“They passed -along the beach at full gallop not far from us, and I gave them a rifle -ball which missed them.”... In another place—“But one of them held -his head out long enough for me to take aim at it and level him with a -rifle ball; he fell sprawling upon his face, and I hardly know whether -pleasure or pain predominated in my mind as I witnessed his fall. Said -I ‘A moment more and I may fall in the same way.’”...</p> - -<p>On another occasion—“I plied my rifle as fast as possible, and luckily -was not called to one single wounded man, they being sheltered by the -high sides of the vessel.”... It must be remembered that inasmuch as -Howe was a surgeon he had no right to be fighting at all; but dear me! -we are on the Spanish main in Elizabeth’s time; and, as Howe observed a -few days later, “I had been directed to keep<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>95</span> below, but the scene was -too interesting for a young man to lose sight of.”...</p> - -<p>There was a touch of the buccaneer about Howe. His slight tendency -toward lawlessness kept cropping out all through his life. It appears -in an assault which he made on a sentinel at Rome in 1844, and in all -his anti-slavery work—of which later. A great descriptive power is -revealed in this journal, which he kept during the months when he often -slept with his head on a stone and subsisted on fried wasps. As an -example of vivid sketching take the following:</p> - -<p>“On the road I had met bodies of peasantry of the lower class called -Vlachoi (Wallachians), driving before them all their little stock, -perhaps a few dozen sheep, as many goats, a donkey and a half-dozen -fowls, all guarded by a pair of fine-looking mountain dogs and followed -by the father lugging his rough capote, with gun in hand and an old -pistol and knife in his belt, and the mother with her baby lashed to -her back in a bread-trough, a kettle on her head, and sundry articles -of furniture in her hands. A troop of dirty ragged boys and girls, -brought up the rear, each bearing a load of baggage proportionate to -their strength, a little donkey carrying all the rest of the furniture -and farming tools, in fine, all their goods and chattels. Land they -have none; they feed their flocks on the high mountains<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>96</span> in summer, -and now on the approach of winter they descend to the warmer valleys, -where they build a wigwam and pass the winter.”... Sieges and battles -on land and sea, assassinations and conspiracies, pictures of natural -scenery and domestic life, of happiness, pathos, humor, heroism,—the -diaries abound in all such things; and the pictures often burn and -glow and sparkle. I cannot tell whether this sparkle is a literary -quality, or a ray from Howe’s character, or an illusion of my own. But -certainly, something remarkable appears in the step and carriage of the -young man. He does not stay in the book, he walks into the room where -you are reading. The substance and setting of these Greek journals at -times remind us of George Borrow’s books; but Howe’s writing is done -without literary intention and therefore speaks from a more unusual -depth. No time has been spent over these jottings, the recorder is -hardly more responsible for them than the pen that writes them down. -The scenes have whirled themselves upon the paper. Howe was always -somewhat wanting in the reverence for letters which obtains in Boston. -He regarded himself as inferior in literary attainment to several of -his friends. He had, however, the descriptive power sometimes found -in condottieri. It is the thrilling stuff they deal in that endows -these men with such talent. I cannot forbear transcribing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>97</span> a passage -from a very different style of adventurer, Trelawney. It does not -concern Howe directly; but it may serve as a sample page from the Greek -revolutionary period. The passage is quoted by Sanborn in his Life of -Howe.</p> - -<p>“On our way from Argos to Corinth, in 1823, we passed through the -defiles of Dervenakia; our road was a mere mule-path for about two -leagues, winding along in the bed of a brook, flanked by rugged -precipices. In this gorge, and a more rugged path above it, a large -Ottoman force, principally cavalry, had been stopped in the previous -autumn, by barricades of rocks and trees, and slaughtered like droves -of cattle by the wild and exasperated Greeks. It was a perfect picture -of the war, and told its own story; the sagacity of the nimble-footed -Greeks and the hopeless stupidity of the Turkish commanders were -palpable. Detached from the heaps of dead we saw the skeletons of some -bold riders, who had attempted to scale the acclivities, still astride -the skeletons of their horses, and in the rear, as if in the attempt to -back out of the fray, the bleached bones of the negroes’ hands still -holding the hair ropes attached to the skulls of the camels—death, -like sleep, is a strange posture-master. There were grouped in a -narrow space 5,000 or more skeletons of men, horses, camels, and -mules; vultures had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>98</span> eaten their flesh, and the sun had bleached their -bones.”... Is not this picture worthy of the prophet Ezekiel? It was -among such scenes as this that the Greek Revolution went forward.</p> - -<p>In 1827-8 Dr. Howe concluded that the best service he could render -the Greeks was to go to America and procure help. He came to America, -and went about holding public meetings and pleading for the starving -Greeks. Great enthusiasm was excited, and money, food, and clothing -was generously contributed. Howe took charge of a vessel laden with -provisions and clothing, and hastening back to Greece, arrived in time -to prevent thousands from starving. “These American contributions,” he -says, “went directly to the people; and their effect was very great, -not only by relieving from hunger and cold, but by inspiring courage -and hope. I made several depots in different places; I freighted small -vessels and ran up the bays with them. The people came trooping from -their hiding places, men, women, children, hungry, cold, ragged and -dirty. They received rations of flour, corn, biscuit, pork, etc., and -were clad in the warm garments made up by American women. It was one of -the happiest sights a man could witness; one of the happiest agencies -he could discharge. They came, sometimes twenty, thirty, forty miles, -on foot,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>99</span> to get rations and clothing. Several vessels followed mine -and distributions were made.</p> - -<p>“An immense number of families from Attica, from Psara, and from other -Islands, had taken refuge in Ægina, and there was the most concentrated -suffering. I established a main depot there, and commenced a systematic -distribution of the provisions and clothing. As the Greeks were all -idle, I concluded it was not best to give alms except to the feeble; -but I commenced a public work on which men, women, and children could -be occupied. The harbor of Ægina was not a natural one, but the work of -the old Greeks. The long walls projecting into the sea for breakwaters -were in pretty good condition, but the land side of the harbor was -nearly ruined from being filled up with débris and washings from the -town.</p> - -<p>“I got some men who had a little ‘gumption’ and built a coffer-dam -across the inner side of the harbor. Then we bailed out the water, -and, digging down to get a foundation, laid a solid wall, which made -a beautiful and substantial quay, which stands to this day, and is -called the American Molos or Mole. In this work as many as five hundred -people, men, women, and children, ordinarily worked; on some days as -many as seven hundred, I think.”...</p> - -<p>Encouraged by the success of his mole,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>100</span> Dr. Howe determined upon a more -ambitious venture.—“I applied to the government, and obtained a large -tract of land upon the Isthmus of Corinth, where I founded a colony -of exiles. We put up cottages, procured seed, cattle, and tools, and -the foundations of a flourishing village were laid. Capo d’Istria had -encouraged me in the plan of the colony, and made some promises of -help. The government granted ten thousand ‘stremmata’ of land to be -free from taxes for five years; but they could not give much practical -help. I was obliged to do everything, and had only the supplies sent -out by the American committees to aid me. The colonists, however, -coöperated, and everything went on finely. We got cattle and tools, -ploughed and prepared the earth, got up a school-house and a church.</p> - -<p>“Everything went on finely, and we extended our domain over to the -neighboring port of Cenchraea, where we had cultivated ground and a -harbor. This was perhaps the happiest part of my life. I was alone -among my colonists, who were all Greeks. They knew I wanted to help -them, and they let me have my own way. I had one civilized companion -for awhile, David Urquhart, the eccentric Englishman, afterward M. P. -and pamphleteer. I had to journey much to and from Corinth, Napoli, -etc., always on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>101</span> horseback, or in boat, and often by night. It was -a time and place where law was not; and sometimes we had to defend -ourselves against armed and desperate stragglers from the bands of -soldiers now breaking up. We had many ‘scrimmages,’ and I had several -narrow escapes with life.</p> - -<p>“In one affair Urquhart showed extraordinary pluck and courage, -actually disarming and taking prisoner two robbers, and marching -them before him into the village. I labored here day and night, in -season and out, and was governor, clerk, constable, and everything but -<em>patriarch</em>; for, though I was young, I took to no maiden, nor -ever thought about womankind but once. The government (or rather, Capo -d’Istria, the president) treated the matter liberally—for a Greek—and -did what he could to help me.”...</p> - -<p>In 1844, about seventeen years after the planting of this Corinthian -colony Howe returned to the Isthmus in the course of his wedding -journey. “As he rode through the principal street of the village,” says -Mrs. Howe, “the elder people began to take note of him and to say to -one another ‘This man looks like Howe.’ At length they cried, ‘It must -be Howe himself’! His horse was surrounded and his progress stayed. A -feast was immediately <a id="prepared"></a><ins title="Original has 'propared'">prepared</ins> -for him in the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>102</span> principal -house of the place, and a throng of friends, old and new, gathered -round him, eager to express their joy in seeing him.”</p> - -<p>So let us leave him for one moment, surrounded by the children of -his adoption, submitting to their gratitude as Hercules might have -submitted, if humanity had recognized him on his return to the scene -of an earthly exploit,—let us leave him, I say, thus posed for the -monument that should express his whole life’s work, while we consider -what manner of man he was.</p> - -<p>At whatever point you examine him, you find a man of remarkable -energy and benevolence, of a practical turn of mind, devoid of -mysticism or philosophic curiosity, a man to whom the word is a very -plain proposition, whose eyes see what they see with the power of -microscopes, and are blind to all else. Dr. Howe’s work in Greece -gives a specimen, a prophetic summary, of his whole life-work, -that is to say, it was <em>practical aid to those laboring under -disability</em>. The devastation of Greece at that time was incredible. -The peasants were living in caves and hiding their food under ground -from the guerillas. Dr. Howe goes with his hands full of supplies and -distributes them, turning the starving wretches into human beings -again, through his methods, and through his power of organization. -One is reminded by turns of Benjamin<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>103</span> Franklin and of Prometheus, in -reading of the astute shifts of this benevolent despot, who deals with -men as if they were children, coercing them into thrift and decency. Of -course the circumstances were extraordinary, or Howe’s peculiar genius -could not have showed itself so early. A man of genius he was, but -the limitations of this remarkable man’s mind are as clear cut as his -features, which had the accuracy of bronze.</p> - -<p>Within the field of his peculiar activity he is a great genius. Outside -of that field he was not a genius at all—as will appear by his -political course in 1859. His mission was to deal with persons laboring -under a disability, with criminals, paupers, young people—blind or -deaf people, idiots, the maimed in spirit, the defective—the people -who have no chance, no future, no hope. These were the persons to -whom his life was to be devoted: the Greek sufferers were merely the -earliest in the series of persons whom Howe pitied.</p> - -<p>He has left behind voluminous papers and reports, and in them lives -his creed. He can hardly open his mouth without saying something -of universal application to all defective persons in all ages. -From the statement of abstract principles to the details of ward -management—whether he is writing advice to an anxious mother or -addressing the legislature—there is no side of the subject on<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>104</span> which -he is not great. His attitude toward defectives and his point of view -about them form a splinter of absolute truth; religion, morality, -practical wisdom, and the divinest longings of the spirit are all -satisfied by it. The sight of any of these persons aroused in him such -a passion of benevolence, such a whirlwind of pity, that he could do -whatever was necessary. He lifted them in his arms and flew away with -them like an angel. It made no difference that the cause was hopeless. -He would labor a year to improve the articulation of an adult idiot, -and rejoice as much over a gain of two vowels as if he had given a new -art to mankind.</p> - -<p>As has been seen, Howe was originally attracted to the Greek cause -through its romantic and historic appeal; but the poetry and the -patriotism of the Greek Revolution were, for him, soon merged in -philanthropy. His work in the Greek cause and the books and papers -and speeches he had written had brought him into the world’s eye. He -returned to America a famous man. He was still under thirty years of -age, an unambitious man, unaware that he was in any way remarkable. -He did not take up the cause of the blind because he felt within him -a deep desire, a God-given calling to help the blind, but because the -cause of the blind was brought to his notice by Dr. John D. Fisher, -and other gentlemen in Boston,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>105</span> who had been studying the methods of -the Abbé Haüy in Paris, and who contemplated founding a school for the -blind in Boston. It was a happy hour in which they met Howe; for he was -a man whose response to any call for help was automatic.</p> - -<p>He was one of those singular men in whom we can trace no course of -development. Such as they are in early manhood, so they remain. It is -interesting to bring together two passages, one from the beginning and -the other from the latter half of his life, to show the identity of -their intellectual content.</p> - -<p>The following is from Howe’s First Report of the Blind Asylum: -“Blindness has been in all ages one of those instruments by which a -mysterious Providence has chosen to afflict man; or rather it has not -seen fit to extend the blessing of sight to every member of the human -family. In every country there exists a large number of human beings, -who are prevented by want of sight from engaging with advantage in the -pursuits of life, and who are thrown upon the charity of their more -favored fellows.”...</p> - -<p>The following is from the monumental justification of his ideas as -put forth in the Second Report to the Massachusetts State Board of -Charities in 1866:—</p> - -<p>“Finally, they (the board) have dwelt upon the importance of knowing -and obeying all the natural laws, because they are ordained by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>106</span> our -beneficent God and Father, to bind together by bonds of mutual interest -and affection all the children of His great human family; and to -prepare them here, for his good will and pleasure hereafter.”</p> - -<p>The thought in each of these passages is the same. Blindness, -deficiency, in fact evil, are to be accepted as part of the divine -will. This thought, taken in conjunction with the conception of the -unity of human nature, form the whole of Howe’s philosophy. The -conventional language of piety in which Howe generally expresses -himself, may perhaps conceal from some persons the first-hand power of -his nature. He seems only to be saying what everybody knows; but the -difference is that Howe sees the truth as a fact. It is not so much a -philosophic reality or abstraction as a first-hand visual perception, -always new, always reliable.</p> - -<p>The different specific reforms with which Howe is to be credited are -neither deductions from theory, nor the summary of experiments made -by him; but simply things seen in themselves to be true. They can all -of them be grouped under almost any one of Christ’s sayings. I shall -return to this subject after speaking of Laura Bridgman, who has been -waiting too long.</p> - -<p>The early history of the Boston Blind Asylum is like a great mediæval -romance—voluminous,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>107</span> glowing, many-sided. That history is recorded -in multitudinous documents and papers, letters, arguments, reports, -anecdotes—the whole mass of them being illumined by the central -figure of Howe who looms through the story like Launcelot or Parsifal. -Overpowering indeed is this literature, and it ought not to be -condensed. One should wander, and explore and browse in it. If I make a -few extracts from the story, it is not as a summary, but rather as an -advertisement. There are certain events that you cannot summarize, but -only introduce. The texture of them is greater than any condensation -can make it.</p> - -<p>The New England Institution for the Education of the Blind began its -work in 1832. Howe, having neither house nor fortune of his own, -received a few blind children at his father’s house in Boston. Within a -very few years, however, the school was properly housed and supported, -and it remained ever a favorite with the public. It was not until 1837 -that news was brought to Howe of the existence of Laura Bridgman, a -blind deaf-mute aged seven, then living with her parents on a New -Hampshire farm. He made a journey to New Hampshire to visit her, and -through good fortune was accompanied by Longfellow, Rufus Choate, -George Hilliard, and Dr. Samuel Eliot. The friends waited at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>108</span> Hanover -while Howe visited the Bridgman farmhouse in quest of his prize. “He -won it, and came back to the hotel triumphant,” says Dr. Eliot, “I -perfectly recollect his exultation at having secured her, and the -impression he made on me of chivalric benevolence.”</p> - -<p>Laura Bridgman had lost her sight and hearing at the age of two, -through scarlet fever; and when she reached the school in Boston -was blind, deaf, dumb, and “without that distinct consciousness of -individual existence which is developed by the exercise of the senses.” -She was, nevertheless, a very remarkable being, sensitive, passionate, -and highly organized. Upon being transferred to the school “she seemed -quite bewildered at first, but soon grew contented, and began to -explore her new dwelling. Her little hands were continually stretched -out, and her tiny fingers in constant motion, like the feelers of an -insect. She was left for several days to form acquaintance with the -little blind girls, and to become familiar with her new home.”</p> - -<p>Within two months Howe was able to write to Laura’s father—“I have -succeeded in making her understand several words in raised print, and I -am very sanguine in the hope that she will learn to read, and perhaps -to express her wants in writing.”... Such were the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>109</span> beginnings of that -remarkable intimacy which was fraught with so much consequence to the -world.</p> - -<p>The process by which Laura Bridgman was taught the alphabet was in -principle the same as that now often employed in teaching ordinary -children; that is to say, certain words are first given to the child -as unities, and the child is led to discover the letters by thereafter -himself dissolving the words into component letters. “I had to trust, -however, to some chance effort of mine, causing her to perceive the -analogy between the signs which I gave her, and the things for which -they stood.... The first experiments were made by pasting upon several -common articles, such as keys, spoons, knives, and the like, little -paper labels on which the name of the article had been printed in -raised letters. The child sat down with her teachers and was easily led -to feel these labels, and examine them curiously. So keen was the sense -of touch in her tiny fingers that she immediately perceived that the -crooked lines in the word <span class="allsmcap">KEY</span>, differed as much in form from -the crooked lines in the word <span class="allsmcap">SPOON</span> as one article differed -from the other.</p> - -<p>“Next, similar labels, on detached pieces of paper, were put into her -hands, and now she observed that the raised letters on these labels -resembled those pasted upon the articles....</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>110</span></p> - -<p>“The next step was to give a knowledge of the component parts of the -complex sign, <span class="allsmcap">BOOK</span>, for instance. This was done by cutting up -the labels into four parts, each part having one letter upon it. These -were first arranged in order, b-o-o-k, until she had learned it, then -mingled up together, then rearranged, she feeling her teacher’s hand -all the time, and eager to begin and try to solve a new step in this -strange puzzle.</p> - -<p>“Slowly and patiently, day after day, and week after week, exercises -like these went on, as much time being spent at them as the child could -give without fatigue. Hitherto there had been nothing very encouraging; -not much more success than in teaching a very intelligent dog a variety -of tricks. But we were approaching the moment when the thought would -flash upon her that all these were efforts to establish a means of -communication between her thoughts and ours.”...</p> - -<p>“The poor child had sat in mute amazement, and patiently imitated -everything her teacher did; but now the truth began to flash upon her, -her intellect began to work, she perceived that here was a way by which -she could herself make up a sign of anything that was in her own mind, -and show it to another mind, and at once her countenance lighted up -with a human expression; it was no longer a dog or parrot—it was an -immortal spirit,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>111</span> eagerly seizing upon a new link of union with other -spirits! I could almost fix upon the moment when this truth dawned upon -her mind, and spread its light to her countenance; I saw that the great -obstacle was overcome, and that henceforward nothing but patience and -persevering, plain and straightforward efforts were to be used.”...</p> - -<p>The visit of Laura’s mother to her daughter at the Institution must -be chronicled, not only because of the singular beauty of Dr. Howe’s -description; but because it shows an attitude on his part of welcome -toward the parent, reverence for home influence, which is seldom found -in managers of institutions. The school-teacher and the director in a -reformatory generally regard the parent as their enemy. But with Howe -it was different. He seems really to have been able to shed a domestic -atmosphere through his Institution. He merged his own family life into -the Institution’s life, and yet enriched his own hearth thereby. This -is an accomplishment which can neither be understood nor imitated. It -was a gift.</p> - -<p>“During this year and six months after she had left home, her mother -came to visit her, and the scene of their meeting was an interesting -one. The mother stood some time gazing with overflowing eyes upon her -unfortunate child, who, all unconscious of her<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>112</span> presence, was playing -about the room. Presently Laura ran against her, and at once began -feeling of her hands, examining her dress, and trying to find out if -she knew her; but not succeeding in this, she turned away as from a -stranger, and the poor woman could not conceal the pang she felt at -finding that her beloved child did not know her.</p> - -<p>“She then gave Laura a string of beads which she used to wear at home, -which were recognized by the child at once, who, with much joy, put -them around her neck, and sought me eagerly to say she understood the -string was from home. The mother tried to caress her, but poor Laura -repelled her, preferring to be with her acquaintances.”...</p> - -<p><a id="paragraph"></a><ins title="Original does not have paragraph break">“The</ins> -distress of the mother was now painful to behold; for, -although she had feared that she should not be recognized, the painful -reality of being treated with cold indifference by a darling child was -too much for woman’s nature to bear.</p> - -<p>“After a while, on the mother taking hold of her again, a vague idea -seemed to flit across Laura’s mind that this could not be a stranger; -she therefore felt of her hands very eagerly, while her countenance -assumed an expression of intense interest. She became very pale, and -then suddenly red; hope seemed struggling with doubt and anxiety, and -never were contending emotions more strongly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>113</span> painted upon the human -face. At this moment of painful uncertainty, the mother drew her close -to her side and kissed her fondly; when at once the truth flashed upon -the child, and all mistrust and anxiety disappeared from her face, as -with an expression of exceeding joy she eagerly nestled to the bosom of -her parent, and yielded herself to her fond embraces.”...</p> - -<p>“I had watched the whole scene with intense interest, being desirous -of learning from it all I could of the workings of her mind; but I -now left them to indulge unobserved those delicious feelings which -those who have known a mother’s love may conceive, but which cannot be -expressed.”...</p> - -<p>Laura’s progress was so rapid that she became a world wonder and took -Howe in her wake into a new province of fame. It must not be thought -that Laura Bridgman was Howe’s only preoccupation. In 1841 Laura formed -a strong friendship with Oliver Caswell, a blind deaf-mute of eight who -was brought to the Asylum.</p> - -<p>“Another important friendship of her childhood,” says Mrs. Richards, -“was that which she formed with Oliver Caswell, a blind deaf-mute boy -whom my father discovered and brought to the Institution in 1841. He -was then eight years old, a comely and healthy child, blind and deaf -from early infancy, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>114</span> had received no special instruction.”... -“Laura herself,” says Dr. Howe, “took great interest and pleasure in -assisting those who undertook the tedious task of instructing him. She -loved to take his brawny hand with her slender fingers, and show him -how to shape the mysterious signs which were to become to him keys of -knowledge and methods of expressing his wants, his feelings, and his -thoughts.... Patiently, trustingly, without knowing why or wherefore, -he willingly submitted to the strange process. Curiosity, sometimes -amounting to wonder, was depicted on his countenance, over which -smiles would spread ever and anon; and he would laugh heartily as he -comprehended some new fact, or got hold of a new idea.</p> - -<p>“No scene in a long life has left more vivid and pleasant impressions -upon my mind than did that of these two young children of nature -helping each other to work their way through the thick wall which cut -them off from intelligible and sympathetic relations with all their -fellow-creatures. They must have felt as if immured in a dark and -silent cell, through chinks in the wall of which they got a few vague -and incomprehensible signs of the existence of persons like themselves -in form and nature. Would that the picture could be drawn vividly -enough to impress the minds of others as strongly and pleasantly as -it did<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>115</span> my own! I seem now to see the two, sitting side by side at -a school desk, with a piece of pasteboard, embossed with tangible -signs representing letters, before them and under their hands. I see -Laura grasping one of Oliver’s stout hands with her long graceful -fingers, and guiding his forefinger along the outline while, with her -other hand, she feels the changes in the features of his face, to -find whether, by any motion of the lips or expanding smile, he shows -any sign of understanding the lesson: while her own handsome and -expressive face is turned eagerly toward his, every feature of her -<a id="countenance"></a><ins title="Original has 'contenance'">countenance</ins> -absolutely radiant with intense emotions, -among which curiosity and hope shine most brightly. Oliver, with his -head thrown a little back, shows curiosity amounting to wonder; and his -parted lips and relaxing facial muscles express keen pleasure, until -they beam with that fun and drollery which always characterize him.”...</p> - -<p>It is Howe, the former buccaneer, who thus sits watching the children. -He is now forty years of age and has still thirty-five years of -incessant activity ahead of him—activity in every field of practical -education.</p> - -<p>The brilliancy of the Laura Bridgman episode has a little dimmed the -rest of his work. The supposed philosophical importance of the thing, -and its picturesque, pathetic aspect made it almost like the discovery -of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>116</span> America or communication with Mars. We can to-day hardly remember -or imagine what emotion the teacher of Laura Bridgman called forth all -over the world. Looked at in retrospect, this brilliant achievement is -enmeshed in a whole life-work of activity for the dependent classes, -much of which is almost as remarkable as the Bridgman episode. -Prison reform, school reform, care of the insane, care of paupers, -reformatories for the young, trade schools for the blind, every -possible effort of a man to help his less fortunate brother—these are -the subjects to which Dr. Howe devoted his life.</p> - -<p>The episodes of conflict, of legislative struggle, of school-board -clash and educational campaign of which that life was made up, all have -the enduring interest that clings to scenes which are lighted up by a -true light—things which have been seen in their passage by the eye -of genius. Not by their own virtue, but by this vision do they live. -Howe’s central thesis is thus given in his own words by Sanborn, being -quoted from a report of the Massachusetts State Board of Charities, -1866:—</p> - -<p>“The attempt to reduce to its lowest point the number of the dependent, -vicious and criminal classes, and tenderly provide for those who cannot -be lifted out of them, is surely worthy the best effort of a Christian<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>117</span> -people. But that the work may be well done, it must be by the people -themselves, directly, and in the spirit of Him who taught that the -poor ye shall always have with you—that is, near you—in your heart -and affections, within your sight and knowledge; and not thrust far -away from you, and always shut up alone by themselves in almshouses, -or reformatories, that they may be kept at the cheapest rate by such a -cold abstraction as a state government. The people cannot be absolved -from these duties of charity which require knowledge of and sympathy -with sufferers; and they should never needlessly delegate the power of -doing good. There can be no vicarious virtue; and true charity is not -done by deputy.”...</p> - -<p>Almost any passage quoted from Howe’s reports has the same quality. -It is written by a Christian missionary, who is also, within his own -field, a scientific man. He is exuberant, he is triumphant, he is -inexhaustible. No matter how familiar be the theme, it is always new -in his hands. Turn almost at random to his letters or papers; “Do not -prevent your blind child from developing, as he grows up, courage, -self-reliance, generosity, and manliness of character, by excessive -indulgence, by sparing him thought and anxiety and hard work, and by -giving him undeserved preference over others. If he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>118</span> lounges in a -rocking-chair or on the sofa cushions, don’t pat him and say, ‘the poor -dear child is tired’; but rout him out and up just as you would do with -any boy who was contracting lazy habits.”...</p> - -<p>The following is from a report upon some cases of arrested development: -“It is true that these children and youth speak and read but little, -and that little very imperfectly compared with others of their age; but -if one brings the case home, and supposes these to be his own children, -it will not seem a small matter that a daughter, who, it was thought, -would never know a letter, can now read a simple story, and a son, -who could not say ‘father,’ can now distinctly repeat a prayer to his -Father in heaven.”... Or take some words from a private letter:—</p> - -<p>“The great lesson—the hard lesson—your son has first to learn -is—<em>to be blind</em>; to live in the world without light; to look -upon what of existence is yet vouchsafed him as a blessing and a trust, -and to resolve to spend it gratefully, cheerfully, and conscientiously, -in the service of his Maker and for the happiness of those about him.”</p> - -<p>It was a matter of accident that the blind should have engrossed -Howe’s attention earlier than the feeble-minded, for whom he began his -labors in 1846, and for whom a State school was, through his efforts, -established<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>119</span> in Massachusetts, in 1852. This institution was quite -as exclusively Howe’s creation as was the School for the Blind, and -over it also he extended his domestic influence. “He passed like light -through the rooms. Charley Smith, gentlest of fifty-year-old children, -would leave his wooden horse to run to him. They loved him, the -children whom he had rescued from worse than death. When he died they -grieved for him after their fashion, and among all the tributes to his -memory, none was more touching than theirs: ‘He will take care of the -blind in heaven. Won’t he take care of us too?’”</p> - -<p>It is not because of any one thing that he has done or said that -Howe is important. It is because he was by nature endowed with an -unconscious, spontaneous vision of truth in regard to the defective -classes. When dealing with them, he sees society as a whole and these -classes as parts of it. He saw that the whole of society must be used -in order to work out this problem. The state and the individual, -the influence of Christ and the value of money; in fact all social -factors are, in Howe’s mind, viewed as elements in that solid mesh -and transparent unity of suffering force—humanity. When he deals -with an institution, or a theory of criminal reform, he deals with -it as an agent of the invisible. It is to him no more than a device -or a symbol.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>120</span> Now, when we remember that he was, above all things, -a practical man, a man of means to ends, a man of experience and of -the counting house, we are prepared to realize the magnitude of his -intellect.</p> - -<p>It was, however, only when Howe was thinking and scheming over the fate -of the dependent classes that his mind worked in this transcendent -way. In other matters he was an ordinary man, a man of headaches and -irritability, a man of doubts and errors.</p> - -<p>I know of nothing that so marks the inscrutability of human nature as -does the history of Dr. Howe’s relation to the slavery question. That -question had been in active eruption ever since 1830. Dr. Howe, one of -the most sensitive philanthropists known to history, lived in daily -contact with the question for many years before he became effectively -interested. Here was a dependent class indeed—the slaves: here was -a question of human suffering compared to which the sorrows of his -deaf-mutes and half idiots were trifling accidents, the inevitable -percentage of pain that fringes all civilization. Compared to the -horrors of slavery the evils which excited Dr. Howe’s compassion were -imperceptible. Hardly ever have more telling exhibitions been unrolled -before benevolent people than those which were within the daily -repertory of the abolitionists, after Garrison had begun<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>121</span> his work. -Nevertheless, for Dr. Howe the hour had not yet struck.</p> - -<p>At last he became drawn into the slavery question and, in fact, almost -killed himself over it. There remains a great difference, however, -between his slavery work and his other work. When it comes to slavery, -Dr. Howe’s devotion is the same, his labors are the same; but his -genius is not the same. It was not given to any man to understand the -slavery question in the way that Howe understood the cause of the blind -or the idiotic. Indeed, slavery was not a question, but a condition, -an atmosphere, a thing so close and clinging, so inherent and ingrown -that, like the shirt of Nessus, it brought the flesh with it when it -was removed. Poor or great, sinner or saint, every man stood on an -equality before the moral problems of slavery, and underwent either -conversion or corruption when the wave smote him.</p> - -<p>It was not until 1846 that Dr. Howe’s conversion took place. For -seventeen years the abolitionists had been dancing like dervishes -before him; and as late as February 3, 1846, he wrote a note declining -Dr. H. I. Bowditch’s invitation to an anti-slavery meeting, in such -terms of polite deprecation as might have been employed by George -Ticknor:—“My duties at home will prevent my joining you at eleven -o’clock....</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>122</span></p> - -<p>“I carefully cultivate my few social relations with slave-holders, -because I find I can do so, and yet say to them <em>undisguisedly</em> -that slavery is the great <em>mistake</em>, as well as the great -<em>sin</em> of the age. Now, do what they may, they cannot prevent such -words from a friend making some impression upon their hearts, which are -as hard as millstones to denunciations from an enemy. It is not enmity -and force, but love and reason, that are to be used in the coming -strife.”...</p> - -<p>Then comes a sudden illumination, a break, a discovery, a cry of -anguish, and the curse of slavery has leaped like a wild-cat upon the -conscience of Dr. Howe. He runs up and down with pain:—“Indeed, I for -one can say that I would rather be in the place of the victim whom they -are at this moment sending away into bondage—I would rather be in his -place than in theirs! Ay! through the rest of my earthly life I would -rather be a driven slave upon a Louisiana plantation than roll in their -wealth and bear the burden of their guilt.”... “I feel as though I -had swallowed a pepper corn, when I think that no one <em>dares</em> to -be made a martyr of in the cause of humanity.”... “Government must be -regarded as a divine institution! Ay! and so must right and justice be -regarded as divine institutions; older, more sacred, more imperative; -and when they clash, let the first be as<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>123</span> the potsherd against the -granite.”... “O! for a man among our leaders who fears neither God, man -nor devil, but loves and trusts the first so much as to fear nothing -but what casts a veil over the face of truth. -<a id="we"></a><ins title="Original has extraneous “">We</ins> must -have done with expediency; we must cease to look into history, into -precedents, into books for rules of action, and look only into the -honest and high purposes of our own hearts; that is, when we are sure -we have cast out the evil passions from them.”... “Would to God I could -begin my life again or even begin a new one from this moment, and go -upon the ground that no fault or error or shortcoming should ever be -covered up from my own eyes or those of others.”...</p> - -<p>His words, just quoted, are the words of a prophet; and yet he -was destined, in practical politics, to become an adherent of -half-measures, and a make-weight for self-seekers. It was as the -result of one of the fugitive slave cases and in the year 1846 that -Dr. Howe became immersed in the anti-slavery cause. He helped to -edit the “Commonwealth,” the organ of the Conscience Whigs: he ran -for office, and he became the head of a vigilance committee, whose -activity continued down to the outbreak of the war. Now, as everyone -knows, vigilance committees are called into being in cases when law -has broken down. The object of such committees is to do things which<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>124</span> -are necessary, but illegal; hence their doings are secret. It was -one of the strange features of the life of that period that the most -beautiful natures of the age, the most tender, the most unselfish, the -most romantic, felt called upon to do violent, lawless and bloody work. -To threaten bad men with condign punishment, to organize the rescue of -prisoners, to condone theft, perjury and manslaughter when committed by -their own partisans—such were the duties of a vigilance committee.</p> - -<p>The beginning of this vigilance work was the underground railroad which -existed all over the North, and even to some extent in the border -slave states. To help fugitive slaves on their way to freedom became a -passionate occupation of young and old, however, only after Garrison’s -doctrines had given a religious sanction to the practice. Social -conditions in America, at this time, led to a confusion of moral ideas -and sometimes to a perversion of the moral sense. We are familiar with -the perplexities that distressed tender-hearted people in the border -free states. In the border slave states moral questions were equally -complex. There is a page or two in Huckleberry Finn in which Mark Twain -has depicted the feelings of a boy, living in the border slave state -Missouri, as to the ethics of helping a runaway slave to escape. Surely -the passage is among the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>125</span> greatest pages which that great author ever -penned....</p> - -<p>I says; “All right; but wait a minute. There’s one more thing—a thing -that nobody don’t know but me. And that is, there’s a nigger here that -I’m trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is Jim—old Miss -Watson’s Jim.”</p> - -<p>He says: “What! Why Jim is—” He stopped and went to studying.</p> - -<p>I says: “I know what you’ll say. You’ll say its dirty, low-down -business; but what if it is? <em>I’m</em> low down; and I’m going to -steal him and I want you to keep mum and not let on. Will you?”</p> - -<p>His eye lit up, and he says: “I’ll <em>help</em> you steal him!”</p> - -<p>Well, I let go all holts then, like I was shot. It was the most -astonishing speech I ever heard—and I’m bound to say Tom Sawyer fell -considerable in my estimation. Only I couldn’t believe it. -<a id="Tom"></a><ins title="Original has 'Tow'">Tom</ins> -Sawyer a <em>nigger stealer</em>!...</p> - -<p>Well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that Tom Sawyer was in -earnest, and was actually going to help steal that nigger out of -slavery. That was the thing that was too many for me. Here was a boy -that was respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose, -and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not -leather-headed;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>126</span> and knowing and not ignorant, and not mean, but kind; -and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, -than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his -family a shame, before everybody. I <em>couldn’t</em> understand it no -way at all. It was outrageous, and I knowed I ought to just up and tell -him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right -where he was and save himself. And I <em>did</em> start to tell him; -but he shut me up and says: “Don’t you reckon I know what I’m about?” -“Yes.” “Didn’t I say I’d steal him?” “Yes.” “Well, then.” That’s all he -said and that’s all I said....</p> - -<p>That the angel-minded Dr. Howe should have headed a vigilance committee -was no more extraordinary than many other strange and terrible things -in that epoch. Dr. Howe was perhaps by nature and early experience -fitted to head such a committee; but nothing could be farther removed -from such work than the twenty years of peaceful work in philanthropy -which had followed his stormy youth; above all, he was no longer young. -At forty-five a man cannot learn a new trade. Howe could not meet -the world on a political basis or express himself through political -agencies—whether through the constitutional vehicles of legislature, -party, and public meeting—or through the improvised vehicles of -vigilance<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>127</span> committee and underground railroad. His activity in both of -these fields was splendid, yet lame; it was the work of a man who only -half understood his own function. In his own work, the only realities -for him are metaphysical realities. But in politics, he has the mind of -an ordinary man; his thought creeps from point to point, treats human -institutions with respect, and subordinates itself to the opinions of -other people. It is positively amazing to find Howe, the pioneer, the -fire-brand—or rather the torch-bearer—in one department of thought, -becoming a mere linkboy in another and nearly allied department.</p> - -<p>Howe’s incapacity for leadership in politics was first shown during the -Freesoil movement. The “Coalition” which the Freesoilers made with the -Democrats in Massachusetts, soon after Webster’s defection in 1850, -was one of those political unions which are nowadays called “deals.” -Persons of conflicting principles join together in order to defeat a -common opponent, and, of course, to divide the offices. Some people -object to such deals on the ground that there is always an element -of betrayal, a lie, a debauchery of conscience somewhere and somehow -involved in them.</p> - -<p>The coalition which Dr. Howe’s associates entered into was very -famous at the time and thereafter. I will not attempt to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>128</span> define its -immorality; but I will only say that it was, as Richard H. Dana Jr. -notes in his diary, “an error in moral science.” Dr. Howe did not, in -political matters, understand his own nature sufficiently to keep clear -of this coalition. He plunged into it. He was never happy thereafter. -It violated his conscience and plagued him for years. He could never -forgive the leaders of the Freesoil party, nor forget the treason. He -writes to Sumner in 1852: “I have always had an instinct in me which -I have never been able to body forth clearly—which tells me that all -this manœuvring and political expediency is all wrong, and that each -man should go for the right regardless of others.”</p> - -<p>And again in 1853: “Now every element in my nature rises up indignantly -at the thought of our principles being bartered for considerations of -a personal and selfish nature; and all my feelings bid me do what my -reason forbids—that is, make open war, cause a clean split, appeal to -the Conscience Whigs who formed the nucleus of our party, and march out -of the ranks with a banner of our own.” He makes moan throughout six -years over this coalition. As late as 1857 he still grinds his teeth. -“Not even Sumner’s election was worth the price paid by the coalition.”</p> - -<p>This is all admirable; but it is not enough. Had Howe understood reform -politics as he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>129</span> understood philanthropy, had he had an early training -in reform politics, he would have taken a sledge-hammer and battered -the coalition in public. If the matter had occurred in philanthropy, -Howe would have cleared the air. If, for instance, Dr. Howe had -returned from Europe and found Charles Sumner giving Laura Bridgman -dogmatic religious instruction, he would have stopped it; yes, even -if he had been obliged to placard the town against the Sumner. But in -politics he was helpless. As to the Whigs, he says: “I have done what I -could, for where else can I go? Under what organization can I fight in -this terrible emergency?”</p> - -<p>Alas, there is no banner for a man like Howe to fight under. He must -weave his own banner. For his own philanthropic work, Dr. Howe had done -this; but he could not do it for politics. The anti-slavery problems -came to him on top of his multitudinous activities. He was already -superhumanly active, but he was a man incapable of refusing work which -was offered to him. He took on the abolition duties in addition to -his regular work. His health broke down almost immediately; but there -was no leisure for him to attend to his health. His solution of all -problems was by work, work, work. He was not, it must be remembered, -of a thoughtful nature. His thinking was usually done for him by the -energy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>130</span> of his temperament, which handed him a list of agenda each -morning and at night sent him to the slumbers of fatigue. Thus there -was no very distinct philosophy underlying his course of action in -regard to slavery—no historic point of view, or reasoned theory, no -illumination.</p> - -<p>It is very terrible to see Howe making journeys to Kansas at a time -when he should have been in bed with a sick-nurse beside him. Pegasus -at the plow is good; but this was not exactly the right plow for Howe. -The sight is a sublime one, all the same. The old buccaneer retains -an instinctive belief in force. “Force is not yet eliminated from the -means employed by God, bloodshed is necessary, bloodshed will come. But -when, but how?—Under what circumstances may we resort to it?” This -is the burden of many letters. In the meantime he and his vigilance -committee were getting into deeper water all the time with the fugitive -slave law, and with the still fiercer Kansas-Nebraska problems, until -finally matters were brought to a crisis by John Brown’s raid, of which -I must say a few words here.</p> - -<p>It is wrong to compare John Brown with Joan of Arc, as is so often -done. John Brown’s name is stained with massacre. He is a spirit of -a far lower heaven than Joan of Arc. And yet he is to be classified -under Joan of Arc;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>131</span> because he is an example of the symbolism inherent -in human nature and in human society. Everyone understands both Joan -of Arc and John Brown, but nobody can explain them. It takes an epoch, -it takes the whole of a society, it takes a national and religious -birthpang to produce either Joan of Arc or John Brown. Everyone living -at the time takes some part in the episode; and thereafter, the story -remains as a symbol, an epitome of the national and religious idea, -which was born through the crisis. John Brown and his raid are an -epitome, a popular summary of the history of the United States between -the Missouri Compromise and the Gettysburg celebration. Not a child -has been born in the country since his death to whom John Brown does -not symbolize the thing that happened to the heart and brain of the -American people between 1820 and 1865. He is as big as a myth, and the -story of him is an immortal legend—perhaps the only one in our history.</p> - -<p>The relation which the anti-slavery people bore to the John Brown -episode is that of a chorus: they hailed the coming of the Lord. It is -also that of a client: they backed him with money and arms. They are -the link between the myth and the fact. They lived inside the swirl -of rhapsody which was bearing Brown across the horizon. The progress -of righteous-minded law-breaking, which began as soon<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>132</span> as Garrison -had explained the iniquity of the Federal Constitution, was very -rapid after the passage of the fugitive slave law in 1850. To help -fugitive slaves escape was a good training for those who were to supply -anti-slavery swords and guns to the private war in Kansas. Criticism -stands dumb before this situation: no man can tell what he himself -would have done under the circumstances. The anti-slavery scholars and -saints regarded themselves as the representatives of law and order in -fomenting this carnage; and perhaps they were.</p> - -<p>But the mind of John Brown took one more stride, and imagined a holy -war to be begun through a slave insurrection. Nobody could have stopped -Brown: he was wound up: he was going to do the thing. He naturally -came to his Eastern partisans for support, and of course obtained a -different degree of support from each individual to whom his horrifying -scheme was disclosed. The people who would listen sifted themselves -down by natural law to half a dozen, and among this half-dozen was -Dr. Howe. Brown moved about under assumed names, and his accomplices -corresponded in cryptic language, raising money and arms. The natural -power and goodness of the man cast a spell over many who met him. It -was more than a spell, it was the presence and shadow of martyrdom.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>133</span> -And it fell upon the imagination of enthusiasts who had spent years -of their lives in romantic, sacrificial law-breaking. More than -this: John Brown was the living embodiment of an idea with which the -anti-slavery mind was always darkly battling—the idea of atonement, -of vicarious suffering. Howe and his associates somehow felt that they -would be untrue to themselves—false to God—if they did not help John -Brown, even if he were going to do something that would not bear the -telling. John Brown thus fulfilled the dreams of the abolitionists; he -was their man. He portended bloodshed—salvation through bloodshed. -It was to come. Brown himself hardly knew his own significance or he -would have demanded personal service, not money, from his patrons. -Suppose John Brown had said to Gerrit Smith, and to Sanborn and Howe -and Higginson and Stearns: “I do not want your money, but come with me. -And if you will not come now, yet next year you will come—and the year -after—you, and your sons by the thousand. You will follow me and you -will not return, as I shall not return.”</p> - -<p>Brown did not say this, but the truth of it was in the sky already, -and when the raid occurred at Harper’s Ferry men shuddered not only -with horror, but with awe. The raid took place. It took place, not in -Kansas, a long way off, but within a few miles of Washington.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>134</span> Innocent -men were killed. No one could tell whether a slave insurrection was to -follow. A wave of panic swept across the South, and of something not -unlike panic across the North. The keynote was struck. There was no -doubt about that, anywhere. The conspirators, that is to say Brown’s -secret committee, fled to Canada, with the exception of Gerrit Smith -who went into an asylum—and of Higginson who went about his business -as usual. They burnt their papers and look legal advice as to the -law concerning conspiracy and armed rebellion. Dr. Howe, under the -belief that his doing so would somehow shield Brown, published a card -disclaiming knowledge and complicity in the raid.</p> - -<p>It is interesting to note the various reasons which moved the -conspirators to flight, at least to contrast the reasons which they -afterward gave for their several sudden disappearances. Sanborn ran -away because he feared that if the conspirators were arrested, their -personal insignificance might damage the cause. It seemed to him “very -important that the really small extent of any movement should be -concealed and its reach and character exaggerated.” But Howe published -his disclaimer for the very opposite reason. He wished that the -smallness of extent and reach of the movement should be thoroughly well -exposed to the public. This, he thought,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>135</span> would “rather help Brown than -otherwise, because if he were shown to be an isolated individual acting -for himself and not the agent of others, the affair would be less -formidable and the desire for vengeance less strong.” Perhaps anyone -implicated in a terrible crime is apt to discover some reason why his -own temporary disappearance will serve the cause of righteousness. -At any rate, it is too much to expect the humor of the situation to -appear very strongly in the correspondence of the secret committee. -Dr. Howe afterward went to Washington to testify in the investigation -which followed, partly, no doubt, that he might rectify the impression -created by his card, which had led people to believe that he knew less -of Brown’s plans than was the case.</p> - -<p>This momentary concern for their own safety a little tarnishes the -heroic glamor that hangs about the conspirators, and which in another -age would have been quickly restored by their execution. But they were -really safe. All that the South had hoped for was to implicate the -leaders of the Republican party in the raid, and in this it failed. The -panic which seized all the conspirators except Higginson was a natural -reaction in men who were dominated by another man’s idea, sustained -above themselves by another man’s will and thought. They believed they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>136</span> -understood; but they did not understand. When the climax came—a climax -proper to that will and thought—they were thrown to the ground. They -forsook him and fled. This does not mean that when their own hour shall -come these same men will not die cheerfully at the stake or on the -cross.</p> - -<p>One word must be added as to the effect of casuistry upon the intellect -of those enthusiasts who backed Brown while begging him to be gentle. -Dr. Howe writes to Theodore Parker: “And I sent him a draft of fifty -dollars as an earnest of my confidence in him and faith of his adhesion -to what he so often assured me was his purpose—to avoid bloodshed -and servile insurrection.” Now Brown’s previous history and avowed -intentions made bloodshed an integral part of his scheme; and no one -knew this better than the secret committee. But destiny endows each -man with so much blindness as enables him to fulfil his part in the -drama of history. It was necessary for Dr. Howe to support John Brown. -His nature required it of him. In order to do so, it was necessary -for Howe to undergo a slight mental obfuscation; and lo, how easily -it was accomplished! He gives Brown a pistol and begs him not to use -it; he seriously remonstrates with Brown as to the stealing of horses, -even when done in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>137</span> aiding slaves to escape. This is not humbug but -hallucination.</p> - -<p>It should no more be counted against Howe that he could not express -himself through the medium of politics than it is counted against -Goethe that he could not paint. To have mastered one vehicle is enough -for one man in this world. To have seen life from a point of view -which unifies contradictions, merges thought with feeling, identifies -religion and common sense, is enough to give a man a niche in the -temple of humanity—yes, even though this power of vision is accorded -to him only at moments, or when he is dealing with a particular -subject, or when he has a violin or a paint-brush in his hand.</p> - -<p>It is the man that makes this unity—this stained-glass window through -which truth shines. The artists have had a monopoly of logic, and are -the only people who get the credit of being expressive. Yet now and -then a philosopher like Kant draws together a lot of old junk, and -thinks over it, and arranges it till it becomes—to anyone who can -follow the reasoning—a sort of cathedral of logic. Or again, a man who -is the very antipodes of Kant—a man of action who arranges nothing, -but whose thought and conduct are arranged for him by nature—becomes -so polarized and at one with himself that he sheds a sort of glow about -him; but whether this glow comes out of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>138</span> his words or from his conduct -and words taken together we hardly know. The vehicle is nothing; the -man is all. Such unitary natures are rare enough; and Howe, within his -own limitations, and while standing over his own tripod with his own -peculiar lyre in his hand, is one of them.</p> - -<p>The outbreak of the war put an end to all those conditions which had -been turning human nature inside out during the fifties. It was no -longer necessary for idealism to seek its outlet in crime, nor for -half-good men to be turned into devils because they had not in them the -stuff that makes martyrs. When the war came, the average man found the -sacrifice prepared for him in a form which he could understand. He gave -himself freely. He gave all he had. There followed such an outpouring -of virtue and heroism that the crimes of all humanity might seem to -have been wiped out by it; and at the end of the war the United States -resumed her place among modern nations, and took up the conventional -problems of modern life.</p> - -<p>During the war Dr. Howe was a member of the Sanitary Commission; and -during the remainder of his life he continued to be the greatest -authority on everything that concerned organized charity, and probably -the most active individual who had ever taken part in such things in -the United States.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>139</span> -In this sketch there has not been time to touch upon the international -side of Howe’s life; his relation to the liberals and philanthropists -of Europe, from Lafayette to Kossuth. I omit the picturesque episodes -which that relation gave rise to, as, for instance, Howe’s imprisonment -in Prussia in 1832, and his being chosen, at a later date, as the -depository for the stolen crown jewels of Hungary. “When the jewels -were recovered,” writes Mr. W. J. Stillman in his autobiography, “they -were to be hidden in a box of a conserve for which that vicinity was -noted, and then carried to Constantinople, from which point I was to -take charge of them and deliver them in Boston to Dr. S. G. Howe, the -well-known Philhellene.” The jewels were recovered by the Austrian -Government before they could be transferred to America, and this was, -no doubt, a fortunate outcome for all concerned. Dr. Howe’s liberalism -remained at the same temperature throughout his life. It led him in -1867 to revisit Greece for the last time, as a distributor of supplies -to the insurgent Cretans. It led him in 1871 to favor the Annexation of -Santo Domingo to the United States.</p> - -<p>Howe died in 1876. The rapid cycle of social revolutions in the United -States which followed the Civil War, heightened the contrast between -the veteran and the new age,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>140</span> and strengthened the romance that had -always hung about him. To have taken part in the Greek Revolution -seemed, in 1870, almost the same thing as to have been present at the -siege of Troy. The mantle of Byron and the Isles of Greece never quite -fell from his shoulders.</p> - -<p>Dr. Howe seems to have been one of those nimble, playful, light-footed -natures who are as strong as steel and can be as stern as steel upon -occasion. His physical endurance was so great that it led to his -habitually overtaxing himself. His excitability made him a hard man to -live with; and he was occasionally hasty, harsh, and exacting. This -irritability of Dr. Howe’s is deeply related to his whole mind and -being. He was constitutionally deficient in the power to rest. The -blind headaches which clouded the last third of his life were probably -the convulsions through which outraged nature resumed her functions. -He supposed them to be the residuum of Grecian malaria; but anyone -reading of Howe’s daily life would look for breakdown somewhere. There -is a gleaming elfin precocity about him which the human machine cannot -support forever. He was ever in action: as he so wonderfully says of -himself, “he prayed with his hands and feet.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Howe had that kind of modesty which seems to be confined to the -heroes of romantic<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>141</span> adventure: rough soldiers have it, and people whose -courage has been put to the proof a thousand times.</p> - -<p>“I do assure you, my dear Sumner,” he writes in 1846, “the sort of -vulgar notoriety which follows any movement of this kind is a very -great drawback to the pleasure of making it. To the voice of praise -I am sensible, too sensible I know; but I do detest this newspaper -puffing, and I have been put to the blush very often by it.”</p> - -<p>The following is his account of his reception by the peasants on the -Isthmus of Corinth when he was recognized in 1844.</p> - -<p>“The whole village gathered about the house, and to make a long story -short, I went away amid demonstrations of affectionate remembrance and -continued attachment, so earnest and so obvious that they made one of -my companions shed tears, though he understood not a word of the spoken -language. But I must not enlarge on this now, for I have no time; -perhaps I ought not to do so even had I ever so much time; but you will -not, I know, suspect me of vanity in making any communications to you.”</p> - -<p>Charles Sumner is almost the only man to whom he unbosoms himself -on such subjects: “It is quite too bad to keep people under such a -delusion about me. One gentleman, an F. R. S., writes that he wants to -see<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>142</span> me more than any other man in Europe. He has published a little -book, with physiological reflections on privation of senses, which -he dedicates “To Dr. Howe, the ingenious and successful teacher of -Laura Bridgman.” The man looks <em>up</em> to me; yet it is evident, -from reading his books, that he has himself tenfold more talent, -acquirement, and merit than I have or ever shall have.”... To Horace -Mann he writes in 1848, “It is absurd for me to reach up from my -littleness to tender counsel to one so high as you; but my love for you -is as great as though we stood face to face.”</p> - -<p>He thus questions Sumner as to whether he himself can learn to be an -editor: “Tell me my best, my almost only friend, is there any reason to -suppose that by any apprenticeship I could, without rashness, enter the -editorial field.” This from a man who had only to touch any cause to -make the world ring with it, is incredible. One cannot hope really to -understand such a character: it reminds one of the meekness of Moses. -There is a rose-leaf girlish quality about this modesty which makes it -one of the most wonderful things in nature. Few of us have ever seen -it; we have only read about it; for people are always writing about it, -and it evokes literature. No sooner does one of these modest people -appear than everyone praises him. I suppose people<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>143</span> feel that praise -cannot injure such a nature: there is nothing for praise to stick -to. The bitter lips of malice break into eulogy before this quality, -which shrinks from commendation as most people shrink from censure. -In Dr. Howe’s case this modesty set off not only deeds of physical -<a id="prowess"></a><ins title="Original has 'prowness'">prowess</ins>, -but intellectual accomplishments of a most -dazzling kind. Hence the enormous number of somewhat tedious eulogies -upon him. One is obliged to approach him through a stack of funeral -wreaths.</p> - -<p>He was totally without personal thought, personal self-consciousness, -and more like a disembodied spirit than a man. This impersonal quality -gave him the power of telling home truths to people without offending -them. To strangers, to acquaintances, to intimate friends, to proud -spoiled egotists, to bad men with whom he is at odds—he can always -tell the exact truth without conveying any personal ill-feeling. He -flashes in through the walls and turrets of Charles Sumner, or of -Theodore Parker, and puts the house in order with lightning strokes of -wit, and with bold home-thrusts of spontaneous ridicule. He touches his -friend’s soul with celestial surgery, then quickly rubs salve upon the -wounds, and is back again at his desk before the patient has discovered -his visitation. To say that he is the warmest<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>144</span> nature that ever came -out of New England would not be expressive. He is the warmest Anglo -Saxon of whom I have ever read or heard tell. Constant expressions -of love and affection flow from him, effusive, demonstrative, -emotional. It is not necessary to cite them. Open the book. The German -romanticists of whom Jean Paul Richter is a type come into one’s mind; -but there was a literary tang to their sentiment. I must, however, -quote two passages illustrative of Howe’s ordinary state of mind:—</p> - -<p class="noi">“My Well-beloved Friend:—</p> - -<p>“Your note from New York found me last evening, and gave me a feeling -as near akin to pure joy as I ever expect to feel on earth. Why is it -that we men are so shy about manifesting a natural feeling in a natural -way, and letting down the flood-gates of the eye to the flow of tears? -I feared to go and bid you adieu on Wednesday, lest I should not be -able to conceal my emotion, hide my tears. I succeeded, however; I wept -not until I was alone!”</p> - -<p>Dr. Howe’s aged friend, Mr. F. W. Bird, has left an anecdote of their -last meeting which would add a beauty to Homer:</p> - -<p>“As I rose to leave, he followed me into the hall, threw his arms -around my neck and with a beautiful smile said: ‘My dear old fellow, -let me kiss you,’ and gave me a warm<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>145</span> kiss. Within two days the thick -curtain fell.” At the time of this parting Bird was sixty-six, and Howe -seventy-five.</p> - -<p>Is it not evident from all that has gone before that Dr. Howe was a -saint? He constantly suggests one or other of the great saints in the -Roman Calendar. And I will predict that the world has rather begun than -finished with its interest in him. His work in charity will never be -superseded. Succeeding penologists will recur to it to save them from -the science of their times.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>146</span> </p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>149</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="jesters">JESTERS.</h2> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">It</span> is right to break up old china because it is ugly; but to -destroy the china because you enjoy the sound of the crash is a -little depraved. Bernard Shaw and G. K. Chesterton, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">et id omne -genus</i>—the race of joyous tomboys who dash things about—have a -great charm always. The bored, cultivated, sedentary people in any old -civilization wake up more cheerfully in the morning when there is one -of these fellows at work. A new thrill comes into the journals which -the literati had grown to hate so heartily. “Ah,” cry the leisure -classes, “what has Tommy got to say this morning, I wonder.”</p> - -<p>These two gentlemen, Shaw and Chesterton, are the Max and Moritz of the -present epoch. For this reason I have tried to like them. I have tried -to tolerate them. I have tried to believe that they are serviceable to -mankind from some point of view which is not yet revealed to me. I do -believe this; but I believe it with the head and not with the heart. -The following reflections are, after all, a mere groping toward the -light, and the tapping of the staff of a blind man.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>150</span></p> - -<p>Any one who has ever passed through London must have been struck -with the competition for notice among all classes of people whose -conspicuousness depends upon their personal activity. In England -there are such masses of any one kind of man or woman that the desire -for identification—in itself a noble desire—leads people to resort -to every expedient for attracting notice to themselves. This is the -explanation of the hyphen in names. Edward B. Jones is a name that no -one can remember; but Edward Burne-Jones is easy. In like manner ladies -turn to lion-hunting, not because they love lions but because it gives -them a status. Indeed, England has always been full of sham lions, who -spring into existence to supply the demand created by these ladies. So -of charity; so of culture; so of politics.</p> - -<p>Now there are often intellectual men—like Beaconsfield, and Oscar -Wilde, and Whistler—who are unwilling to wait for their talents to -lift them into notice, but who resort to artificial notoriety in order -to expedite matters. They stick a feather in their cap and call it -‘maccaroni’. Their times suggest this course to them, and their times -claim them instantly when they have complied with the suggestion. In -literary England there is such an enormous and immediate acclaim for -any new cleverness, that a poor and talented<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>151</span> young man is under strong -temptation to become surprising and brilliant in his writing. If he -will only do this he will find himself petted, fed, and proclaimed -almost at once.</p> - -<p>This particular entry into the Temple of Fame, however, exacts a heavy -toll; for a man who has written in order to break the crust of the -public with his pungency, is not allowed ever thereafter to write -without pungency. I believe that the talent of all the men I have named -would have developed more seriously if they had not in early life given -way to the taste of the public for sensation. But they would not wait: -they must sting themselves into notice.</p> - -<p>As for Shaw and Chesterton, they seem to have become partners in a sort -of game of buffoonery—for the world will have its jesters. They are -tumblers on a raft, floating down stream, surrounded by a whole Henley -regatta, an armada of applauding multitudes, on barges, wherries, tugs, -and ferry-boats and river-craft innumerable, whose holiday passengers -shout their admiration to the performers on the raft, and egg on the -favorites to superhuman effort. Shaw shows how far he can stick out his -tongue while continuing to stand on one leg. “Bravo! Huzzah!” roars the -audience. “Did you ever see the like? O Jesu, this is excellent sport! -Faith! How he holds his countenance! He doth<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>152</span> it as like one of these -harlotry players as ever I see.”</p> - -<p>Chesterton thereupon puts his wrists on the carpet and lifts his back -like a cat. “Lord save us! This was Ercles’ vein! He hath simply the -best wit of any handy-craftsman in Athens. You have not a man in all -Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he!”</p> - -<p>There is some exaggeration in this picture; but, I think, some truth -also. The loss which Shaw and Chesterton share in common is a loss of -delicacy. They are crude: they are all edge. They are, indeed, a little -vulgar. But this is not the serious objection to them. The serious -objection to Shaw and Chesterton is that they have no intellectual -independence. They are moving with the show. It will pass, and they -with it.</p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>155</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="comic">THE COMIC.</h2> - -<h3>I.</h3> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">In</span> the caverns of our nature lie hid various emotions, like beasts -in a lair. They are shy to the voice of question or of curiosity, -and they slink and crouch all the more, if we try to lure them out -for inspection. But they come gambolling and roaring forth at the -call of ingenuous human utterance. Any utterance that has in it no -afterthought, but is mere speech that has grown out of a need to speak, -lays a spell upon the wild things within us. Before the echo of it -has died away they are rampant in the open, ignorant of how they came -forth. Let no one then wonder at the difficulties that surround all -study of the human emotions,—blushing giants, vanishing Genii that -they are.</p> - -<p>It is easy for us to-day to see that comedy is in its nature the same -sort of thing as tragedy. They arise out of the same need, convey the -same truth, depend upon the same talent. The English drama interwove -comedy and tragedy in the same play, and Shakespeare’s greatness in -one is of a piece with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>156</span> his greatness in the other. Indeed there are -scenes in Lear, Shylock, and Henry IV where tragedy and comedy are -overlaid—where the same scene is both tragic and comic and we laugh -and cry at the same time. But for a Greek to have seen this identity -is very remarkable; because Greek tragedy and Greek comedy represented -distinct professions and were totally different in their methods of -appeal. A Greek tragedy was a drama of fate, based on a familiar -bit of religious folk-lore. The plot was known, the interest lay in -the treatment. A Greek comedy, however, was a farrago of licentious -nonsense, developed in the course of a fantastic narrative-play: it was -what we should call a musical extravaganza. Greek comedy is gigantesque -buffoonery, interspersed with lyric and choral passages of divine -beauty—the whole, following a traditional model as to its arrangement.</p> - -<p>With this machinery Aristophanes proceeds to shake the stones of the -Greek theatre with inextinguishable laughter. He will do anything to -raise a laugh. He introduces Socrates hung up in a basket and declaring -that he is flying in the air and speculating about the sun. He makes -the god Dionysus—the very god in whose honor the theatre and festival -exist—to leap from the stage in a moment of comic terror, and hide -himself under the long cloak<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>157</span> of his own high-priest, whose chair of -state was in the front row of the pit. Is it possible to imagine what -sort of a scene in the theatre this climax must have aroused? There has -been no laughter since Aristophanes. There is something of the same -humor in Rabelais; but Rabelais is a book, and there each man laughs -alone over his book, not in company with his whole city or tribe, as in -the Greek theatre.</p> - -<p>Now what is it they are laughing at? It is sallies of wit, personal -hits, local allusions, indecencies, philosophical cracks, everything -from refined satire to the bludgeons of abuse—and the whole thing is -proceeding in an atmosphere of fun, of wild spirits, of irrepressible -devilry. Compared to Aristophanes, Shakespeare is not funny; he lacks -size. He is a great and thoughtful person, of superabundant genius and -charm, who makes Dutch interiors, drenched in light. But Aristophanes -splits the heavens with a jest, and the rays of truth stream down -from inaccessible solitudes of speculation. He has no epigram, no -cleverness, no derivative humor. He is bald foolery. And yet he conveys -mysticism: he conveys divinity. He alone stands still while the whole -empyrean of Greek life circles about him.</p> - -<p>From what height of suddenly assumed superiority does the race of birds -commiserate mankind:</p> - -<blockquote> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>158</span> -<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a>“Come now, ye men, in nature darkling, like to the race of -leaves, of little might, figures of clay, shadowy feeble tribes, -wingless creatures of a day, miserable mortals, dream-like men, -give your attention to us the immortals, the ever-existing, the -ethereal, the ageless, who meditate eternal counsels, in order -that when you have heard everything from us accurately about -sublime things, the nature of birds, and the origin of gods and -rivers, of Erebus and Chaos, you may henceforth bid Prodicus from -me go weep, when you know them accurately.”</p> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[A]</a> Hickie’s translation.</p> -</div> -</blockquote> - -<p>Into what depth of independent thought did the man dream himself, that -such fancies could take hold of him? When Aristophanes has had his -say, there is nothing left over: there is no frame nor shell: there -is no theatre nor world. Everything is exploded and scattered into -sifting, oscillating, shimmering, slowly-sinking fragments of meaning -and allusion. If anyone should think that I am going to analyze the -intellect of Aristophanes, he is in error. I wish only to make a -remark about it; namely, that his power is somehow rooted in personal -detachment, in philosophical independence.</p> - -<p>It was the genius of Aristophanes which must have suggested to Plato -the idea which he throws out in the last paragraph of the Symposium. -That great artist, Plato, has left many luminous half-thoughts behind -him. He sets each one in a limbo—in a cocoon of its own<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>159</span> light—and -leaves it in careless-careful fashion, as if it were hardly worth -investigation. The rascal! The setting has cost him sleepless nights -and much parchment. He has redrawn and arranged it a hundred times. He -is unable to fathom the idea, and yet it fascinates him. The setting in -which Plato has placed his suggestion about the genius of tragedy and -comedy is so very wonderful—both as a picture and as his apology for -not carrying the idea further—that I must quote it, if only as an act -of piety, and for my own pleasure.</p> - -<blockquote> -<p><a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a>“Agathon arose in order that he might take his place on the -couch by Socrates, when suddenly a band of revellers entered, -and spoiled the order of the banquet. Someone who was going out -having left the door open, they had found their way in, and made -themselves at home; great confusion ensued, and everyone was -compelled to drink large quantities of wine. Aristodemus said -that Eryximachus, Phaedrus and others went away—he himself -fell asleep, and as the nights were long, took a good rest: he -was awakened toward daybreak by a crowing of cocks, and when he -awoke, the others were either asleep or had gone away; there -remained only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon, who were -drinking out of a large goblet which they passed round, and -Socrates was discoursing to them. Aristodemus was only half -awake, and he did not hear the beginning of the discourse; the -chief thing which he remembered was Socrates compelling the other -two to acknowledge that the genius of comedy was the same with -that of tragedy, and that the true artist in tragedy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>160</span> was an -artist in comedy also. To this they were constrained to assent, -being drowsy and not quite following the argument. And first of -all Aristophanes dropped off; then, when the day was already -dawning, Agathon. Socrates, having laid them to sleep, rose -to depart, Aristodemus, as his manner was, following him. At -the Lyceum he took a bath, and passed the day as usual. In the -evening he retired to rest at his own home.”</p> - -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[B]</a> Jowett’s translation.</p> -</div> -</blockquote> - -<p>What can Plato have had in mind, that glimmers to us in the dawn as -a sort of dim, divine intimation, and is almost immediately drowned -by daylight and the market place? I suppose that Plato may have had -in mind certain moments in comedy where the self-deluded isolation of -some character is so perfectly given as to be almost sublime, and thus -to suggest tragedy; or Plato may have had the opposite experience, -and may have found himself almost ready to laugh at the fate of Ajax, -whose weaknesses of character work out so inevitably, so logically, so -beautifully in the tragedy of Sophocles. Perhaps the thought passed -through Plato’s mind: “If this were not tragedy, what wonderful comedy -it would be! If only the climax were less painful, if the mad Ajax, -instead of killing himself should merely be driven to eat grass like an -ox for a season, or put on his clothes hind-side-before—in fact, if -Ajax’s faults could only be punished quite mildly in the outcome, here -would be a comedy indeed!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>161</span> -The stuff of which tragedy and comedy are made is the same stuff. The -foibles of mankind work up more easily into comedy than into tragedy; -and this is the chief difference between the two. We readily understand -the Nemesis of temperament, the fatality of character, when it is -exposed upon a small scale. This is the business of comedy; and we do -not here require the labored artifice of gods, mechanical plot, and -pointed allegory to make us realize the moral.</p> - -<p>But in tragedy we have the large scale to deal with. A tragedy is -always the same thing. It is a world of complicated and traditional -stage devices for making us realize the helplessness of mankind -before destiny. We are told from the start to expect the worst: there -is going to be suffering, and the suffering is going to be logical, -inevitable, necessary. There is also an implication to be conveyed that -this suffering is somehow in accord with the moral constitution of the -universe. The aim of the whole thing is to teach us to submit—to fit -us for life.</p> - -<p>There is profound truth at the bottom of these ideas; for whether you -accept this truth in the form of the Christian doctrine of humility, -or in the form of the Pagan doctrine of reverence for the gods, there -is no question that a human being who is in the state of mind of Lear -or of Ajax is in a dangerous<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>162</span> state. He is going to be punished: he is -going to punish himself. The complexities of human life, however, make -this truth very difficult to convey upon the grand scale. It is, in -daily existence, obscured by other and more obvious truths. In order -to dig it out and present it and make it seem at all probable, every -historical device and trapping and sign-post of suggestion—every -stage tradition must be used. The aim is so exalted and sombre, and -the machinery is so ponderous that laughter is out of the question: it -is forbidden. The magnitude of the issues oppress us; and we are told -that it would be cruel to the hero and to the actor and to the author -for us to laugh. And yet we are always on the verge of laughter, and -any inattention to the rubric may bring on a fit of it. If a windlass -breaks we really laugh harder than the occasion warrants.</p> - -<p>In reading the Book of Job, where the remoteness of the scene and -certain absurdities in the plot relieve the strain of tragedy, we laugh -inevitably; and the thing that makes us laugh is the very thing that -ought to fill us with awe—the rigor of the logic.</p> - -<p>Thus much for the sunny side of tragedy. But let us recur to the night -side of comedy. Falstaff is a comic figure, is he not? And yet what -thoughtful man is there who has not enough of the Puritan in him to -see the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>163</span> tragedy of such a character as Falstaff? How must Falstaff -have appeared to Bunyan!—every stroke of genius which to us makes -for the comic, adding a phosphor-gleam of hell-fire. And Bunyan is -right: Falstaff is an awful picture; and had Shakespeare punished him -adequately he would appear awful. Let us imagine that Shakespeare had -written a play about the old age of Falstaff, picturing his decay of -intellect, his destitution, his flickering return to humor which is no -longer funny—what could have been more tragic?</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Was it with such arguments as these that Socrates put Aristophanes -and Agathon to sleep on the famous morning which Plato chronicles? We -cannot tell. Plato has cast the magic of a falling star over the matter -and thus leaves it: his humor, his knack, his destiny compelled him to -treat subjects in this way. Something passes, and after a light has -fallen far off into the sea, we ask “What was it?” Enough for Plato’s -purpose that he has placed Comedy where, perhaps, no philosopher before -or after him ever had the vision to place it—in the heaven of man’s -highest endeavor.</p> - - -<h3>II.</h3> - -<p>The divine affinities of comedy have thus been established, and we -may make some<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>164</span> few stray observations on the nature of the comic, not -hoping to explain laughter, which must remain forever a spontaneous -mystery, but only to point out places where this mystery crosses -the other mysteries and refuses to be merged in them, keeping its -own course and intensifying the darkness of our ignorance by its -corruscations. In the first place the comic is about the most durable -vehicle that truth has ever found. It pretends to deal with momentary -interests in terms of farce and exaggeration; and yet it leaves an -image that strikes deeper and lasts longer than philosophy.</p> - -<p>In our search for truth we are continually getting into vehicles that -break down or turn into something else, even during our transit. Let -us take, for example, the case of Plato’s dialogues. How much we have -enjoyed them, how much trusted them! And yet there comes a time when we -feel about Plato’s work that it is almost too well lighted and managed, -too filled with parlor elegance. He seems more interested in the -effects that can be got by manipulating philosophy than in any serious -truth. There is something superficial about the pictures of Greek life -that you get from Plato. The marble is too white, the philosophers -are too considerate of each other’s feelings, Socrates is too clever, -everything is a little arranged. Greek life was not quite like<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>165</span> that, -and the way to convince yourself of this is to read Aristophanes.</p> - -<p>In Aristophanes you have the convincing hurly-burly, the sweating, -mean, talented, scrambling, laughing life of the Mediterranean—that -same life of which you find records in the recent Cretan discoveries, -dating from 2500 B. C., or which you may observe in the market-places -of Naples to-day. Plato’s dialogues do not give this life. They give a -picture of something that never existed, something that sounds like an -enchanted picture, a picture of life as it ought to be for the leisure -classes, but as it never has been and never can be while the world -lasts, even for them.</p> - -<p>The ideas which we carry in our minds criticize each other, despite -all we can do to keep them apart. They attack and mutilate each -other, like the monsters in a drop of muddy water, or the soldiers -of Cadmus when the stone of controversy was thrown among them. It -is as hard to preserve the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entente cordiale</i> between hostile -thoughts as between hostile bull-dogs. We have no sooner patted the -head of the courtly and affable Socrates given to us by Plato—the -perfect scholar and sweet gentleman—than the vulgarian Socrates given -to us by Aristophanes—the frowzy all-nighter, the notorious enemy -to bathing—flies at the throat of Plato’s darling and leaves him -rumpled. So far as manners and customs<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>166</span> go, nothing can rival good -comic description: it supersedes everything else. You can neither write -nor preach it down, nor put it down by law. Hogarth has depicted the -England of the early Georges in such a way as to convince us. No mortal -vehicle of expression can upset Hogarth.</p> - -<p>When we come to pictures of life which belong to a more serious -species—to poetry, to history, to religion—we find the same conflicts -going on in our minds: one source criticizes another. One belief eats -up the next belief as the acid eats the plate. It is not merely the -outside of Socrates that Aristophanes has demolished. He has a little -damaged the philosophy of Socrates. He undermines Greek thought: he -helps and urges us not to take it seriously. He thus becomes an ally of -the whole world of later Christian thought. If I were to go to Athens -to-morrow, the first man I would seek out would be Aristophanes. He is -a modern: he is a man.</p> - -<p>We have been speaking of Greek thought and Greek life; yet between -that life and ourselves there have intervened some centuries of -Christianity, including the Middle Ages, during which Jewish influence -pervaded and absorbed other thought. The Hebrew ruled and subdued -in philosophy, poetry, and religion. The Hebrew influence is the -most powerful influence ever let loose upon the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>167</span> world. Every book -written since this Hebrew domination is saturated with Hebrew. It -has thus become impossible to see the classics as they were. Between -them and us in an atmosphere of mordant, powerful, Hebraic thought, -which transmutes and fantastically recolors them. How the classics -would have laughed over our conception of them! Virgil was a witch -during the Middle Ages and now he is an acolyte, a person over whom -the modern sentimental school maunders in tears. The classics would -feel toward our notions of them somewhat as a Parisian feels toward a -French vaudeville after it has been prepared for the American stage. -Christianity is to blame.</p> - -<p>I have perhaps spoken as if Christianity has blown over with the -Middle Ages; but it has not. The Middle Ages have blown over; but -Christianity seems, in some ways, never to have been understood before -the nineteenth century. It is upon us, sevenfold strong. Its mysteries -supersede the other mysteries; its rod threatens to eat up the rods -of the other magicians. These tigers of Christian criticism within -us attack the classics. The half-formed objections to Plato which I -have mentioned are seriously reinforced by the Hebrew dispensation, -which somehow reduces the philosophic speculations of Greece to the -status of favors at a cotillion. It is senseless to contrast Christ -with Socrates;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>168</span> it is unfair and even absurd to review Greek life -and thought by the light of Hebrew life and thought. But to do so is -inevitable. We are three parts Hebrew in our nature and we see the -Mediterranean culture with Hebrew eyes. The attempts of such persons -as Swinburne and Pater to writhe themselves free from the Hebrew -domination always betray that profound seriousness which comes from -the Jew. These men make a break for freedom—they will be joyous, -antique, and irresponsible. Alas, they are sadder than the Puritans and -shallower than Columbine.</p> - -<p>It has become forever and perpetually impossible for any one to treat -Greek thought on a Greek basis: the basis is gone. As I wrote the -words a page or two back about “Comedy having been placed by Plato in -the heaven of man’s highest endeavor,” I thought to myself, “Perhaps -I ought to say highest <em>artistic</em> endeavor.” There spoke the Jew -monitor which dogs our classical studies, sniffing at them and hinting -that they are trivial. In the eye of that monitor there is no room for -the comic in the whole universe: there is no such thing as the comic. -The comic is something outside of the Jewish dispensation, a kind of -irreducible unreason, a skeptical or satanic element.</p> - -<p>One would conclude from their records that the Jews were people who -never laughed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>169</span> except ironically. To be sure, Michal laughed at -David’s dancing, and Sara laughed at the idea of having a child, and -various people in the New Testament laughed others “to scorn.” But -<a id="nobody"></a><ins title="Original has 'noboby'">nobody</ins> - seems to have laughed heartily and innocently. One -gets the impression of a race devoid of humor. This is partly because -it is not the province of religious writings to record humor; but it is -mainly because Jewish thought condemns humor. Wherever humor arises in -a Christian civilization—as in the popular Gothic humor—it is a local -race-element, an unsubdued bit of something foreign to Judah. Where the -Bible triumphs utterly, as in Dante and Calvin, there is no humor.</p> - -<p>And yet the comic survives in us. It eludes the criticism of -Christianity as the sunlight eludes the net. Yes, not only our own -laughter survives, but the old classic comedy still seems comic—and -more truly comic than the old lyric poetry seems poetic or the drama -dramatic. Ancient poesy must always be humored and nursed a little; but -when the comic strikes home, it is our own comic; no allowances need be -made for it.</p> - -<p>There is a kind of laughter that makes the whole universe throb. It -has in it the immediate flash of the power of God. We can no more -understand it than we can understand other religious truth. It reminds -us<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>170</span> that we are not wholly Jew. There is light in the world that does -not come from Israel; nevertheless, that this is a part of the same -light that shines through Israel we surely know.</p> - -<p>I have not tried to analyze laughter; but only to show the mystery -that surrounds its origin. Now a certain mystery surrounds all human -expression. The profoundest truths can only be expressed through the -mystery of paradox—as philosophers, poets, prophets, and moralists -have agreed since the dawn of time. This saying sounds hard; but its -meaning is easy. The meaning is that Truth can never be exactly stated; -every statement is a misfit. But truth can be alluded to. A paradox -says frankly, “What I say here is not a statement of the truth, but -is a mere allusion to the truth.” The comic vehicle does the same. -It pretends only to allude to the truth, and by this method makes a -directer appeal to experience than any attempted statement of truth can -make.</p> - -<p>There is, no doubt, some reason at the back of this strange fact, -that our most expressive language is a mere series of hints and -gestures—that we can only hope, whether by word or chisel, to give, as -it were, a side reference to truth. To fathom this reason would be to -understand the nature of life and mind.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>171</span> -I have often thought that the fact that life does not originate in -us, but is a thing supplied to us from moment to moment—as the power -of the electric current is supplied to the light—accounts for the -paradoxical nature of our minds and souls. It is a commonplace that -the poet is inspired—that Orpheus was carried away by the god. So -also it is a commonplace that the religious person is absorbed in -the will of God—as St. Paul said, his own strength was due to his -weakness. So also it is a commonplace of modern scientific psychology -that unconsciousness accompanies high intellectual activity. Sir Isaac -Newton solved his problems by the art he had of putting them off his -mind—of committing them to the unconscious.</p> - -<p>All these are but different aspects of the same truth, and we must -regard consciousness as resistance to the current of life. If this be -true, it is clear that any wilful attempt to tell the truth must <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">pro -tanto</i> defeat itself, for it is only by the surrender of our will -that truth becomes effective. This idea, being a universal idea, is -illustrated by everything; and the less you try to understand it, the -more fully will you understand it. In fact one great difficulty that a -child or a man has in learning anything, comes from his trying too hard -to understand.</p> - -<p>Once imagine that our understanding of a thing comes from our ceasing -to prevent ourselves<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>172</span> from understanding it, and we have the problem -in its true form. Accept once for all that all will is illusion, and -that the expressive power is something that acts most fully when -least impeded by will, and there remains no paradox anywhere. The -things we called paradoxes become deductions. Of course St. Paul’s -weakness was the foundation of his strength; of course Orpheus was -irresponsible; of course the maximum of intellectual power will be -the maximum of unimpeded, unconscious activity. And as for our Comic, -of course—whatever laughter may be in itself—laughter will be most -strongly called forth by anything that merely calls and vanishes. Such -things are jokes, burlesques, humor. They state nothing: they assume -inaccuracy: they cry aloud and vanish, leaving the hearer to become -awakened to his own thoughts. They are mere stimuli—mere gesture and -motion, and hence the very truest, very strongest form of human appeal.</p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>175</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="unity">THE UNITY OF HUMAN NATURE.<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[C]</a></h2> - -<blockquote> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[C]</a> This was an address delivered before the graduating class -at Hobart College in 1900.</p> -</div> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">If</span> one could stand on the edge of the moon and look down through a -couple of thousand years on human politics, it would be apparent -that everything that happened on the earth was directly dependent on -everything else that happened there. Whether the Italian peasant shall -eat salt with his bread, depends upon Bismarck. Whether the prison -system of Russia shall be improved, depends upon the ministry of Great -Britain. If Lord Beaconsfield is in power, there is no leisure in -Russia for domestic reform. The lash is everywhere lifted in a security -furnished by the concurrence of all the influences upon the globe that -favor coercion. In like manner, the good things that happen are each -the product of all extant conditions. Constitutional government in -England qualifies the whole of western Europe. Our slaves were not set -free without the assistance of every liberal mind in Europe; and the -thoughts which we think in our closet affect the fate of the Boer in -South Africa. That Tolstoy is to-day living unmolested upon his farm -instead of serving in a Siberian<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>176</span> mine, that Dreyfus is alive and not -dead, is due directly to the people in this audience and to others like -them scattered over Europe and America.</p> - -<p>The effect of enlightenment on tyranny is not merely to make the -tyrant afraid to be cruel, it makes him not want to be cruel. It makes -him see what cruelty is. And reciprocally the effect of cruelty on -enlightenment is to make that enlightenment grow dim. It prevents men -from seeing what cruelty is.</p> - -<p>The Czar of Russia cannot get rid of your influence, nor you of his. -Every ukase he signs makes allowance for you, and, on the other hand, -the whole philosophy of your life is tinged by him. You believe that -the abuses under the Russian government are inscrutably different -from and worse than our own; whereas both sets of atrocities are -identical in principle, and are more alike in fact, in taste and smell -and substance than your prejudice is willing to admit. The existence -of Russia narrows America’s philosophy, and misconduct by a European -power may be seen reflected in the moral tone of your clergyman on -the following day. More Americans have abandoned their faith in free -government since England began to play the tyrant in South Africa than -there were colonists in the country in 1776.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>177</span></p> - -<p>Europe is all one family, and speaks, one might say, the same language. -The life that has been transplanted to North America during the last -three centuries, is European life. From your position on the moon -you would not be able to understand what the supposed differences -were between European and American things, that the Americans make so -much fuss over. You would say, “I see only one people, splashed over -different continents. The problems they talk about, the houses they -live in, the clothes they wear, seem much alike. Their education and -catchwords are identical. They are the children of the Classics, of -Christianity, and of the Revival of Learning. They are homogeneous, and -they are growing more homogeneous.”</p> - -<p>The subtle influences that modern nations exert over one another -illustrate the unity of life on the globe. But if we turn to ancient -history we find in its bare outlines staggering proof of the -interdependence of nations. The Greeks were wiped out. They could not -escape their contemporaries any more than we can escape the existence -of the Malays. Israel could not escape Assyria, nor Assyria Persia, nor -Persia Macedonia, nor Macedonia Rome, nor Rome the Goths. Life is not -a boarding-school where a bad boy can be dismissed for the benefit of -the rest. He remains. He must be dealt with. He is as much here<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>178</span> as we -are ourselves. The whole of Europe and Asia and South America and every -Malay and every Chinaman, Hindoo, Tartar, and Tagal—of such is our -civilization.</p> - -<p>Let us for the moment put aside every dictate of religion and -political philosophy. Let us discard all prejudice and all love. Let -us regard nothing except facts. Does not the coldest conclusion of -science announce the fact that the world is peopled, and that every -individual of that population has an influence as certain and far more -discoverable than the influence of the weight of his body upon the -solar system?</p> - -<p>A Chinaman lands in San Francisco. The Constitution of the United -States begins to rock and tremble. What shall we do with him? The -deepest minds of the past must be ransacked to the bottom to find an -answer. Every one of seventy million Americans must pass through a -throe of thought that leaves him a modified man. The same thing is true -when the American lands in China. These creatures have thus begun to -think of each other. It is unimaginable that they should not hereafter -incessantly and never-endingly continue to think of each other. And out -of their thoughts grows the destiny of mankind.</p> - -<p>We have an inherited and stupid notion that the East does not change. -If Japan goes through a transformation scene under our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>179</span> eyes, we still -hold to our prejudice as to the immutability of the Chinese. If our -own people and the European nations seem to be meeting and surging and -reappearing in unaccustomed rôles every ten years, till modern history -looks like a fancy ball, we still go on muttering some old ignorant -shibboleth about East and West, Magna Charta, the Indian Mutiny, and -Mahomet. The chances are that England will be dead-letter, and Russia -progressive before we have done talking. Of a truth, when we consider -the rapidity of visible change and the amplitude of time—for there is -plenty of time—we need not despair of progress.</p> - -<p>The true starting-point for the world’s progress will never be reached -by any nation as a whole. It exists and has been reached in the past as -it will in the future by individuals scattered here and there in every -nation. It is reached by those minds which insist on seeing conditions -as they are, and which cannot confine their thoughts to their own -kitchen, or to their own creed, or to their own nation. You will think -I have in mind poets and philosophers, for these men take humanity as -their subject, and deal in the general stuff of human nature. But the -narrow spirit in which they often do this cuts down their influence -to parish limits. I mean rather those men who in private life act out -their thoughts and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>180</span> feelings as to the unity of human life; those same -thoughts which the poets and philosophers have expressed in their -plays, their sayings, and their visions. There have always been men -who in their daily life have fulfilled those intimations and instincts -which, if reduced to a statement, receive the names of poetry and -religion. These men are the cart-horses of progress, they devote their -lives to doing things which can only be justified or explained by the -highest philosophy. They proceed as if all men were their brothers. -These practical philanthropists go plodding on through each century -and leave the bones of their character mingled with the soil of their -civilization.</p> - -<p>See how large the labors of such men look when seen in historic -perspective. They have changed the world’s public opinion. They have -moulded the world’s institutions into forms expressive of their will. I -ask your attention to one of their achievements. We have one province -of conduct in which the visions of the poets have been reduced to -practice—yes, erected into a department of government—through the -labors of the philanthropists. They have established the hospital and -the reformatory; and these visible bastions of philosophy hold now a -more unchallenged place in our civilization than the Sermon on the -Mount on which they comment.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>181</span></p> - -<p>The truth which the philanthropists of all ages have felt is that -the human family was a unit; and this truth, being as deep as human -nature, can be expressed in every philosophy—even in the inverted -utilitarianism now in vogue. The problem of how to treat insane people -and criminals has been solved to this extent, that everyone agrees that -nothing must be done to them which injures the survivors. That is the -reason we do not kill them. It is unpleasant to have them about, and -this unpleasantness can be cured only by our devotion to them. We must -either help the wretched or we ourselves become degenerate. They have -thus become a positive means of civilizing the modern world; for the -instinct of self-preservation has led men to deal with this problem in -the only practical way.</p> - -<p>Put a Chinaman into your hospital and he will be cared for. You may lie -awake at night drawing up reasons for doing something different with -this disgusting Chinaman—who, somehow, is in the world and is thrown -into your care, your hospital, your thought—but the machinery of your -own being is so constructed that if you take any other course with -him than that which you take with your own people, your institution -will instantly lose its meaning; you would not have the face to beg -money for its continuance in the following year. The logic of this, -which, if you like, is the logic<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>182</span> of self-protection under the illusion -of self-sacrifice, is the logic which is at the bottom of all human -progress. I dislike to express this idea in its meanest form; but I -know there are some professors of political economy here, and I wish -to be understood. The utility of hospitals is not to cure the sick. -It is to teach mercy. The veneration for hospitals is not accorded to -them because they cure the sick, but because they stand for love, and -responsibility.</p> - -<p>The appeal of physical suffering makes the strongest attack on our -common humanity. Even zealots and sectaries are touched. The practice -and custom of this kind of mercy have therefore become established, -while other kinds of mercy which require more imagination are still in -their infancy. But at the bottom of every fight for principle you will -find the same sentiment of mercy. If you take a slate and pencil and -follow out the precise reasons and consequences of the thing, you will -always find that a practical and effective love for mankind is working -out a practical self-sacrifice. The average man cannot do the sum, -he does not follow the reasoning, but he knows the answer. The deed -strikes into his soul with a mathematical impact, and he responds like -a tuning-fork when its note is struck.</p> - -<p>Everyone knows that self-sacrifice is a virtue. The child takes his -nourishment<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>183</span> from the tale of heroism as naturally as he takes milk. -He feels that the deed was done for his sake. He adopts it: it is his -own. The nations have always stolen their myths from one another, and -claimed each other’s heroes. It has required all the world’s heroes -to make the world’s ear sensitive to new statements, illustrations -and applications of the logic of progress. Yet their work has been so -well done that all of us respond to the old truths in however new a -form. Not France alone but all modern society owes a debt of gratitude -to Zola for his rescue of Dreyfus. The whole world would have been -degraded and set back, the whole world made less decent and habitable, -but for those few Frenchmen who took their stand against corruption.</p> - -<p>Now the future of civil society upon the earth depends upon the -application to international politics of this familiar idea, which -we see prefigured in our mythology, and monumentalized in our -hospitals—the principle that what is done for one is done for all. -When you say a thing is “right,” you appeal to mankind. What you mean -is that everyone is at stake. Your attack upon wrong amounts to saying -that some one has been left out in the calculation. Both at home and -abroad you are always pleading for mercy, and the plea gains such a -wide response<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>184</span> that some tyranny begins to totter, and its engines are -turned upon you to get you to stop. This outcry against you is the -measure of your effectiveness. If you imitate Zola and attack some -nuisance in this town to-morrow, you will bring on every symptom and -have every experience of the Dreyfus affair. The cost is the same, -for cold looks are worse than imprisonment. The emancipation of the -reformer is the same, for if a man can resist the influences of his -townsfolk, if he can cut free from the tyranny of neighborhood gossip, -the world has no terrors for him; there is no second inquisition. -The public influence is the same, for every citizen of that town can -thereafter look a town officer in the face with more self-respect. -But not to townsmen, nor to neighboring towns, nor to Parisians is -this force confined. It goes out in all directions, continuously. The -man is in communication with the world. This impulse of communication -with all men is at the bottom of every ambition. The injustice, -cruelty, oppression in the world are all different forms of the same -non-conductor, that prevents utterances, that stops messages, that -strikes dumb the speaker and deafens the listener. You will find -that it makes no difference whether the non-conductor be a selfish -oligarchy, a military autocracy, or a commercial ring. The voice of -humanity<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>185</span> is stifled by corruption: and corruption is only an evil -because it stifles men.</p> - -<p>Try to raise a voice that shall be heard from here to Albany and watch -what it is that comes forward to shut off the sound. It is not a German -sergeant, nor a Russian officer of the precinct. It is a note from a -friend of your father’s offering you a place in his office. This is -your warning from the secret police. Why, if any of you young gentlemen -have a mind to make himself heard a mile off, you must make a bonfire -of your reputations and a close enemy of most men who wish you well.</p> - -<p>And what will you get in return? Well, if I must for the benefit of -the economist, charge you with some selfish gain, I will say that you -get the satisfaction of having been heard, and that this is the whole -possible scope of human ambition.</p> - -<p>When I was asked to make this address I wondered what I had to say -to you boys who are graduating. And I think I have one thing to say. -If you wish to be useful, never take a course that will silence you. -Refuse to learn anything that you cannot proclaim. Refuse to accept -anything that implies collusion, whether it be a clerkship or a curacy, -a legal fee or a post in a university. Retain the power of speech, -no matter what other power you lose. If you can take this course,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>186</span> -and in so far as you take it, you will bless this country. In so far -as you depart from this course you become dampers, mutes, and hooded -executioners. As for your own private character it will be preserved by -such a course. Crime you cannot commit, for crime gags you. Collusion -with any abuse gags you. As a practical matter a mere failure to speak -out upon occasions where no opinion is asked or expected of you, and -when the utterance of an uncalled-for suspicion is odious, will often -hold you to a concurrence in palpable iniquity. It will bind and gag -you and lay you dumb and in shackles like the veriest serf in Russia. -I give you this one rule of conduct. Do what you will, but speak out -always. Be shunned, be hated, be ridiculed, be scared, be in doubt, but -don’t be gagged.</p> - -<p>The choice of Hercules was made when Hercules was a lad. It cannot be -made late in life. It will perhaps come for each one of you within -the next eighteen months. I have seen ten years of young men who rush -out into the world with their messages, and when they find how deaf -the world is, they think they must save their strength and wait. They -believe that after a while they will be able to get up on some little -eminence from which they can make themselves heard. “In a few years,” -reasons one of them, “I shall have gained a standing, and then I -will use<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>187</span> my power for good.” Next year comes and with it a strange -discovery. The man has lost his horizon of thought. His ambition has -evaporated; he has nothing to say. The great occasion that was to have -let him loose on society was some little occasion that nobody saw, some -moment in which he decided to obtain a standing. The great battle of a -lifetime has been fought and lost over a silent scruple. But for this, -the man might, within a few years, have spoken to the nation with the -voice of an archangel. What was he waiting for? Did he think that the -laws of nature were to be changed for him? Did he think that a “notice -of trial” would be served on him? Or that some spirit would stand at -his elbow and say, “Now’s your time?” The time of trial is always. Now -is the appointed time. And the compensation for beginning at once is -that your voice carries at once. You do not need a standing. It would -not help you. Within less time than you can see it, you will have -been heard. The air is filled with sounding-boards and the echoes are -flying. It is ten to one that you have but to lift your voice to be -heard in California, and that from where you stand. A bold plunge will -teach you that the visions of the unity of human nature which the poets -have sung, were not the fictions of their imagination, but a record -of what they saw. Deal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>188</span> with the world, and you will discover their -reality. Speak to the world, and you will hear their echo.</p> - -<p>Social and business prominence look like advantages, and so they are if -you want money. But if you want moral influence you may bless God you -have not got them. They are the payment with which the world subsidizes -men to keep quiet, and there is no subtilty or cunning by which you -can get them without paying in silence. This is the great law of -humanity, that has existed since history began, and will last while man -lasts—evil, selfishness, and silence are one thing.</p> - -<p>The world is learning, largely through American experience that freedom -in the form of government is no guarantee against abuse, tyranny, -cruelty, and greed. The old sufferings, the old passions are in full -blast among us. What, then, are the advantages of self-government? The -chief advantage is that self-government enables a man in his youth, -in his own town, within the radius of his first public interests, to -fight the important battle of his life while his powers are at their -strongest, and the powers of oppression are at their weakest. If a man -acquires the power of speech here, if he says what he means now, if -he makes his point and dominates his surroundings at once, his voice -will, as a matter of fact, be heard instantly in a very wide radius. -And<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>189</span> so he walks up into a new sphere and begins to accomplish greater -things. He does this through the very force of his insistence on the -importance of small things. The reason for his graduation is not far -to seek. A man cannot reach the hearts of his townsfolks, without -using the whole apparatus of the world of thought. He cannot tell -or act the truth in his own town without enlisting every power for -truth, and setting in vibration the cords that knit that town into the -world’s history. He is forced to find and strike the same note which -he would use on some great occasion when speaking for all mankind. A -man who has won a town-fight is a veteran, and our country to-day is -full of these young men. To-morrow their force will show in national -politics, and in that moment the fate of the Malay, the food of the -Russian prisoner, the civilization of South Africa, and the future of -Japan will be seen to have been in issue. These world problems are now -being settled in the contest over the town-pump in a western village. I -think it likely that the next thirty years will reveal the recuperative -power of American institutions. One of you young men may easily become -a reform President, and be carried into office and held in office by -the force of that private opinion which is now being sown broadcast -throughout the country by just such men as yourselves. You will concede -the utility of such a President.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>190</span> Yet it would not be the man but the -masses behind him that did his work.</p> - -<p>Democracy thus lets character loose upon society and shows us that in -the realm of natural law there is nothing either small or great: and -this is the chief value of democracy. In America the young man meets -the struggle between good and evil in the easiest form in which it was -ever laid before men. The cruelties of interest and of custom have -with us no artificial assistance from caste, creed, race prejudice. -Our frame of government is drawn in close accordance with the laws of -nature. By our documents we are dedicated to mankind; and hence it is -that we can so easily feel the pulse of the world and lay our hand on -the living organism of humanity.</p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>193</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="doctrine">THE DOCTRINE OF NON-RESISTANCE.<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[D]</a></h2> - -<blockquote> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[D]</a> This was an address which I delivered before the -International Metaphysical League eight or nine years ago.</p> -</div> -</blockquote> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">A dogma</span> is a phrase that condenses much thought. It is a short way of -stating a great truth, and is supposed to recall that truth to the -mind. Like a talisman it is to be repeated. Open sesame—and some great -mystery of life is unlocked.</p> - -<p>A dogma is like a key to a map, a thread to a labyrinth. It is all that -some man has brought back from a spiritual exaltation in which he has -had a vision of how the world is made; and he repeats it and teaches -it as a digest of his vision, a short and handy summary and elixir by -which he, and as he thinks anyone else, can go back into his exaltation -and see the truth. To him the words seem universally true—true at -all times and in any aspect. Indeed, all experience, all thought, all -conduct seem to him to be made up of mere illustrations, proofs, and -reminiscences of the dogma.</p> - -<p>It is probable that all the dogmas were originally shots at the same -truth, nets cast over the same truth, digests of the same<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>194</span> vision. -There is no other way of accounting for their power. If the doctrine of -the Trinity signified no more than what I can see in it, it would never -have been regarded as important. Unless the words “Salvation by Grace” -had at one time stood for the most powerful conviction of the most -holy minds, we should never have heard the phrase. Our nearest way to -come at the meaning of such things is to guess that the dogmas are the -dress our own thought might have worn, had we lived in times when they -arose. We must translate our best selves back into the past in order to -understand the phrases.</p> - -<p>Of course, these dogmas, like our own dogmas, are no sooner uttered -than they change. Somebody traduces them, or expounds them, or founds -a sect or a prosecution upon them. Then comes a new vision and a new -digest. And so the controversy goes rolling down through the centuries, -changing its forms but not its substance. And it has rolled down to -us, and we are asking the question, “What is truth?” as eagerly, as -sincerely, and as patiently as we may.</p> - -<p>Truth is a state of mind. All of us have known it and have known the -loss of it. We enter it unconsciously; we pass out of it before we are -aware. It comes and goes like a searchlight from an unknown source. -At one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>195</span> moment we see all things clearly, at the next we are fighting -a fog. At one moment we are as weak as rags, at the next we are in -contact with some explaining power that courses through us, making us -feel like electrical conductors, or the agents of universal will. In -the language of Christ these latter feelings are moments of “faith”; -and faith is one of the very few words which he used a great many times -in just the same sense, as a name for a certain kind of experience. -He did not define the word, but he seems to have given it a specific -meaning.</p> - -<p>The state of mind in which Christ lived is the truth he taught. How -he reached that state of mind we do not know; how he maintained it, -and what it is, he spent the last two years of his life in expressing. -Whatever he was saying or doing, he was always conveying the same -truth—the whole of it. It was never twice alike and yet it was always -the same; even when he spoke very few words, as to Pilate “Thou sayest -it,” or to Peter “Feed my sheep”; or when he said nothing, but wrote -on the ground. He not only expressed this truth because he could not -help expressing it, but because he wished and strove to express it. His -teaching, his parables, his sayings showed that he spared no pains to -think of illustrations and suggestions; he used every device of speech -to make his thought carry.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>196</span></p> - -<p>Take his directest words: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God”; “Love -your enemies.” One might call these things descriptions of his own -state of mind. Or take his philosophical remarks. They are not merely -statements as to what truth is; but hints as to how it must be sought, -how the state of mind can be entered into and in what it consists. -“Whosoever shall lose his life shall preserve it.” “That which cometh -out of the mouth, this defileth a man.” Or more prosaically still. “If -any man shall do his will, he shall know of the doctrine.” To this -class belongs the expression “Resist not evil.”</p> - -<p>The parables are little anecdotes which serve to remind the hearer -of his own moments of tenderness and self-sacrifice. The Lost Sheep, -the Prodigal Son, the Good Samaritan, the Repentant Sinner, are -illustrations of Christ’s way of feeling toward human nature. They are -less powerful than his words and acts, because no constructed thing has -the power of a real thing. The reply of the Greek woman who besought -Christ to cure her daughter, “Yes, Lord, yet the dogs under the table -eat of the children’s crumbs,” is one of the most affecting things in -the New Testament. It is more powerful than the tale of the Prodigal -Son. But you will see that if the Prodigal’s father had been a real -father, and the Greek<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>197</span> mother had been a personage in a parable, the -power would have been the other way.</p> - -<p>And so it is that Christ’s most powerful means of conveying his thought -was neither by his preaching nor by his parables; but by what he -himself said and did incidentally. This expressed his doctrine because -his state of feeling was his doctrine. The things Christ did by himself -and the words he said to himself, these things are Christianity—his -washing the disciples’ feet, “Forgive them, for they know not what they -do,” his crucifixion.</p> - -<p>I have recalled all these sayings and acts of Christ almost at -random. They seem to me to be equivalent one to another as a thousand -is equivalent to a thousand. They are all messages sent out by the -same man in the same state of feeling. If he had lived longer, there -would have been more of them. If you should summarize them all into a -philosophy and then reduce that philosophy to a phrase, you would have -another dogma.</p> - -<p>The reason I called this lecture Non-resistance instead of using -some more general religious title, is that I happened to be led into -re-examining the meaning of Christ’s sayings through his phrase “Resist -not evil; but overcome evil with good.” It came about in the course of -many struggles over practical reforms. I had not the smallest religious -or theoretical bias in entering the field of politics.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>198</span> Here were -certain actual cruelties, injurious things done by particular men, in -plain sight. They ought to be stopped.</p> - -<p>The question is how to do it. First you go to the wrongdoers and -beg them to stop, and they will not stop. Then to the officials in -authority over them, with the same result. “Remove these officials” -is now your conclusion, and you go and join the party that keeps them -in power; for you intend to induce that party to change them. You now -engage in infinitely long, exhausting struggles with the elements -of wickedness, which seem to be the real cause and support of those -injuries which you are trying to stop. You make no headway; you find -you are wasting force; you are fighting at a disadvantage; all your -energies are exhausted in antagonism. It occurs to you to join the -other party, and induce that party to advocate a positive good, whereby -the people may be appealed to and the iniquities voted down. But your -trouble here begins afresh, for it seems as hard to induce the “outs” -to make a square attack on the evil as it is to get the “ins” to desist -from doing the evil. Your struggle, your antagonism, your waste of -energy continues. At last you leave the outs and form a new party, a -reform party of your own. Merciful heavens! neither will this new party -attack wickedness. Your mind, your thought, your<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>199</span> time is still taken -up in resisting the influences which your old enemies are bringing to -bear upon your new friends.</p> - -<p>I had got as far as this in the experience and had come to see plainly -that there was somewhere a mistake in my method. It was a mistake to -try to induce others to act. The thing to do was to act myself, alone -and directly, without waiting for help. I should thus at least be able -to do what I knew to be right; and perhaps this was the strongest -appeal I could make to anyone. The thing to do was to run independent -candidates and ask the public to support good men. Then there occurred -to me the phrase, “Resist not evil,” and the phrase seemed to explain -the experience.</p> - -<p>What had I been doing all these years but wrangling over evil? I had a -system that pitted me in a ring against certain agencies of corruption -and led to unending antagonism. The phrase not only explained what -was wrong with the whole system, but what was wrong with every human -contact that occurred under it. The more you thought of it, the truer -it seemed. It was not merely true of politics, it was true of all -human intercourse. The politics of New York bore the same sort of -relation to this truth that a kodak does to the laws of optics. Our -politics were a mere illustration of it. The phrase seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>200</span> explain -everything either wrong or mistaken that I had ever done in my life. -To meet selfishness with selfishness, anger with anger, irritation -with irritation, that was the harm. But the saying was not exhausted -yet. The phrase passed over into physiology and showed how to cure a -cramp in a muscle or stop a headache. It was true as religion, true as -pathology, and true as to everything between them. I felt as a modern -mathematician might feel, who should find inscribed in an Egyptian -temple a mathematical formula which not only included all he knew, but -showed that all he knew was a mere stumbling comment on the ancient -science.</p> - -<p>What mind was it that walked the earth and put the sum of wisdom into -three words? By what process was it done? The impersonal precision -and calm of the statement give it the quality of geometry, and yet it -expresses nothing but human feeling. I suppose that Christ arrived -at the remark by simple introspection. The impulse which he felt in -himself to oppose evil with evil—he puts his finger on that impulse as -the crucial danger. There is in the phrase an extreme care, as if he -were explaining a mechanism. He seems to be saying “If you wish to open -the door, you must lift the latch before you pull the handle. If you -wish to do good, you must resist evil with good, not with evil.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>201</span></p> - -<p>It is the same with his other sayings. They are almost dry, they are -so accurate. “Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath -committed adultery with her already in his heart”; the analysis of -emotion could hardly be carried farther. “How hard it is for them that -trust in riches to enter into the Kingdom of God”; here is neither -exaggeration nor epigram. “Thy faith hath made thee whole”; a statement -of fact. “Knock and it shall be opened unto you”; this is the summary -of Christ’s whole life down to the time his teaching began. He had -knocked and it had been opened to him. He had wished to make men -better, and inasmuch as he wished it harder than anyone else before or -since has wished it, he got farther than anyone toward an understanding -of how to do it. The effectiveness of his thought has been due to -its coherence. He was able to draw the sky together over any subject -till all the light fell on one point. Then he said what he saw. Every -question was shown to break up into the same crystals if subjected to -the same pressure. Nor does his influence upon the world present any -anomaly. It is entirely due to ordinary causes. Every man’s influence -depends upon the depth of his will; for this determines his power of -concentration. The controlled force that could contract Christ’s own -mind to so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>202</span> small a focus, brings down to the same focus other minds -of less coherence than his. This is will; this is leadership; this is -power.</p> - -<p>Yet in spite of his will there were plenty of things that Christ -himself could not do, as, for instance, change the world at once, or -change it at all except through the slow process of personal influence. -He could not heal people who had no faith, or get followers except by -going into the highways and hedges after them. And his whole life is -as valuable in showing what cannot be done, as in showing what can be -done. If you love your fellow-men and wish to benefit them, you will -find that the ways in which it is possible to do this are not many. You -can do harm in many ways, good only in one.</p> - -<p>The world is full of people who want to do good, and men are constantly -re-discovering Christ. This intelligence, superior to our own, -possesses and utilizes us. There is always more danger of his influence -being perverted than of its dying out; for as men begin to discover -the scope and horizon of his thought they are tempted to becloud it -with commentary. They wish to say what he meant, whereas he has said it -himself. We think to explain something whose value is that it explains -us. If we understood him, very likely we should say nothing.</p> - -<p>The mistake Christians make is that they<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>203</span> strive to follow Christ as -a gnat follows a candle. No man ought to follow Christ in this way. A -man ought to follow truth, and when he does this, he will find that, -as he gropes his way through life, most of the light that falls on the -path in front of him, and moves as he moves, comes from the mind of -Christ. But if one is to learn from that mind one must take it as a -lens through which to view truth; not as truth itself. We do not look -at a lens, but through it.</p> - -<p>There are moments in each of our lives when all the things that Christ -said seem clear, sensible, relevant. The use of his sayings is to -remind us of these moments and carry us back into them. The danger of -his sayings is lest we rely upon them as final truth. They are no more -truth than the chemical equivalents for food are food, or than certain -symbols of dynamics are the power of Niagara. At those moments when -the real Niagara is upon us we must keep our minds bent on how to do -good to our fellow-men; not the partial good of material benevolence, -but the highest good we know. The thoughts and habits we thus form and -work out, painfully plotting over them, revising, renewing, remodeling -them, become our personal church. This is our own religion, this is our -clue to truth, this is the avenue through which we may pass back to -truth and possess it. No other cord will hold<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>204</span> except the one a man has -woven himself. No other key will serve except the one a man has forged -himself.</p> - -<p>Christ was able to hold a prism perfectly still in his hand so as to -dissolve a ray of light into its elements. Every time he speaks, he -splits open humanity, as a man might crack a nut and show the kernel. -The force of human feeling behind these sayings can be measured only -by their accomplishments. They have been re-arranging and overturning -human society ever since. By this most unlikely means of quiet -demonstration in word and deed, did he unlock this gigantic power. -The bare fragments of his talk open the sluices of our minds; they -overwhelm and re-create. That was his method. The truth which he -conveyed with such metaphysical accuracy lives now in the living. Very -likely we cannot express it in dogmas, for such intellect as it takes -to utter a dogma is not in us. But we need have no fear for our power -of expressing it. It is enough for us to see truth; for if we see it, -everything we do will express it.</p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>207</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="climate">CLIMATE.</h2> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">The</span> influence of the planets, of deities good and bad, of spells and -incantations—of fatal or beneficial forces suddenly unlocked and, as -it were, let loose upon innocent men—as though one had walked into -a trap—all these myths and symbols were invented in past ages, by -discerning, deep-seeing men to express the impotence which they saw -about them, to express the fact that all men are walking in their -dreams and their dreams control them. What we see is illusion: what we -say is illusion. The reality is behind all; and we neither see it, nor -say it, but only feel it.</p> - -<p>So also of those mysterious planes of identity which lie between soul -and soul, forming a continuous country and habitable world, between men -apparently sundered from one another by every human condition—sundered -by age, sex, epoch, language, occupation, religion—and yet undergoing -the same experience, valuing the same idea, twinned by the fact that -across time and space something in them is identical. Some wheel in -each of them is being turned by the same power at the same rate, and -makes these creatures cognate.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>208</span> They are one thing; they are portions -of a continuous, indestructible reality which conditions them both.</p> - -<p>The experience comes to almost everyone at some time or moment in his -life, that he is nothing in himself, but only a part of something else. -It is a consciousness of the process of life, a consciousness of what -is happening. Whether through the touch of sickness or through intense -concentration, or through absolute abstraction, most men have felt the -prick of this thought, though the leisure and the impulse to record it -have been denied to them.</p> - -<p>When European cattle are taken to Egypt, their forms begin to change -in one or two generations. Their backs and horns seem to be imitating -the cattle in the bas-reliefs of the rock tombs, which were carved -twenty-five centuries before Christ. So too, when American parents -settle in Rome, their children resemble Romans. It is not merely in -the expression of the face, or in the cut of the hair. It is in the -bones of the forehead and in the way the hair grows out of the skin -that these youngsters resemble the modern inhabitants of ancient Rome. -Professor Boaz has found by measurement that the skulls of children -born in America to foreign parents assume the American type. There -is something in the air here, or under the earth, that is at work<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>209</span> -upon the immigrant child even before it is born. On the ship they are -remodeled, and in the womb they are shaped by the power that fashions -the skull to such dimensions as it is provided we shall wear to-day in -America. If you should steer the ship toward New Zealand or Japan, the -form of the infant’s cranium would vary and be modified accordingly. -The force that accompanied the ship would arrive with you, and be -present at your landing. The child would grow up in some sort of -unthinkable relation to the continent or island on which it landed. It -would be as one of the children of that land—nearer to them perhaps -than to its parents. We may call this influence climate, but if we do -so we must be sure to remember that perhaps the influence is really -due to soil, to electrical, magnetic, or even to sidereal influences. -As the influence is impalpable and tremendous, so it is unknown and -perhaps cannot be known.</p> - -<p>I see the immigrant land and toil and push his fortunes. I see the -professor, with his calipers and his microscope, measuring the -immigrant’s brain. And above the professor, bending over him as he -looks into his microscope, I see the formative power modeling the -professor’s skull as he measures the skull of the immigrant—assigning -him what he shall see in it, apportioning to him what he shall believe -and tell other men about it—leading him on,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>210</span> yes, leading him as a -child is led by a butterfly. And all this vision of mine ranks itself -as a thing that has happened long ago, and is always happening. It is a -part of universal experience. I that suffer it am but feeling what man -has always felt, and shall feel forever—the power of God behind his -own illusion, modeling his thoughts—letting its influence be shut off -by his opacity, or else flash through him to its own ends in directions -which he cannot comprehend.</p> - - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>213</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="influence">THE INFLUENCE OF SCHOOLS.</h2> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">We</span> are obliged to approach any church school through our own personal -religious sentiments. We do all of us approach it in this way. Any -religious institution is a tiny sample of the great question; and -whatever we say of it is a little voice in the great chorus of -humanity. We cannot isolate our subject: it is a part of the great -subject, religion. We have no achromatic lens through which to view -life. All that we see is colored by our own past, and surely, for any -man to believe that in describing his youth or his school-days he can -clear his mind of error, would be the greatest error and delusion of -all. It seems safer, then, in dealing with such a tremulous matter, to -lay it out as simply as one may, leaving others to be the judge of its -value.</p> - -<p>Some years ago I had a long illness; and during those periods of mental -fixity which illness brings with it, my mind used to dwell in strange -places. It would pause over some spot in the world—some room or field -that I had seen, however casually, in former years—and would refuse to -move on. It would choose its exact position so that the perspective<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>214</span> -of the place should be accurately seen, and there it would rest. -Sometimes for days at a time it would remain as carefully placed as a -camera, giving no reason for its choice, yet deriving some mysterious -assistance from the scene. The places were always empty—never a -person in them. There was, for example, a particular nook by a country -roadside—a barred gate with elm trees bending above it and a meadow -beyond—which I had passed by on the way to a child’s funeral some -years before. This place opened itself up out of the picture-book of my -memory, and for some weeks I lived within its influence—for there was -no question that life streamed out of it to me.</p> - -<p>Under these circumstances it was natural enough that I should sometimes -have found myself back as St. Paul’s School, in Concord, New Hampshire, -and should have wandered once more in the dreamland of boyhood. Indeed, -during many months of convalescence, I lived in my imagination at -St. Paul’s, always alone with the place, suffering it to move itself -through me and present the most forgotten aspects, angles, and bits of -scenery with silent, friendly precision. Immense sadness everywhere; -immense power.</p> - -<p>Now my connection with the school had been very short and quite -unsatisfactory. I was sent there as a very small boy, remained<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>215</span> less -than three years, and then went home sick. I had, in fact, an acute -attack of pneumonia which carried away with it a nervous breakdown from -which I had been suffering; and it was several years before my health -became fully re-established. In consequence of this experience my views -about the school were thereafter quite gloomy. I regarded the place -as a religious forcing-house, a very dangerous sort of place for any -boy to go, especially if he were inclined by nature toward religion. I -habitually abused the school, and I even took the trouble to go back -there and have a quarrel with Dr. Coit about something he had said or -done which seemed to me to deserve the reprobation of all just men. -I poured over him a few vitriolic letters; and I still believe that -the right was on my side in the matter, though perhaps I was wrong to -assume the rôle of the Angel of Retribution.</p> - -<p>It was at a date about twenty years after my leaving the school, and -at the age of forty-odd, and through the medium of another and very -severe illness, that my nature began to take up again the threads of -St. Paul’s School influence, and to receive the ideas which Dr. Coit -had been striving to convey, though in forms that would have been -incomprehensible to himself. The school had somehow been carrying on -its work within me through all these years.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>216</span> -Youth is a game of blindman’s buff, a romp and struggle in which we -hold on fiercely and shout loudly, but know less as to whom we are -holding or who is holding us than we shall ever know again. As we -grow older we get true glimpses of things far away; and recognize at -a distance what we could never understand so long as we were at close -quarters with it. Middle age draws some curtains down, but lifts -others; and of all the new visions that come when youth is past, there -is none more thrilling than that new vision of the familiar past -which shows us what unsuspected powers were at play within us. This -experience is necessary and useful to us; and only thus can we come to -understand the incredible subtlety of human influence.</p> - -<p>Not long ago there was a St. Paul’s School dinner at which two hundred -and fifty men met to hear speeches in praise of their school and of -its influence. Among other proceedings there was a speech by one (not -an alumnus) who was a prospective headmaster of the school. Now this -speech was a religious appeal, and ended by a sort of burst of feeling, -only a word or two long, to the effect that the world was “God’s -World.” I cannot tell what it was that startled me in the reception of -the speech by the audience; but I think it was the unexpected sincerity -of the applause. It seemed as if all these men<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>217</span> had been waiting all -their lives to hear this thing said, and now gave a great triumphant, -unconscious sigh and roar of relief to hear someone say it. I glanced -critically about the room. The diners looked like any other set of -diners. Why should they be so much moved by the mention of the works of -God?—For they were not applauding the school, they were applauding the -Creation. I looked and pondered, and presently I remembered that most -of the men at the dinner had lived under the personal influence of Dr. -Coit during their early and sensitive years. The fibres of their being -had been searched and softened by contact with a nature whose depth -made up for its every other deficiency.</p> - -<p>“I myself,” I reflected, “am one of them. Perhaps my experience with -the place is more typical than I had supposed. Perhaps each of these -men was offered something at St. Paul’s School which he could not -receive at the time, and therefore rejected, but which in later life he -found again for himself in a new form, and thereafter accepted as part -of his intimate nature.”</p> - -<p>Inasmuch as the whole nature of St. Paul’s School resulted from the -manner of its formation, we may begin by a glance at its early days. -The inception of the place was as unheralded as any event could well -be. Dr. Coit, being a man with a mission and a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>218</span> message, retired in -1856 to a farm in New Hampshire, and opened a school, having four -or five pupils to start with. He would neither appeal to the public -for funds nor advertise for scholars.<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[E]</a> The school was, at first, a -mere extension of his family circle and of himself; and as it grew, -it remained a mere extension of himself. Persons became attached -to this family circle one by one; and, whether they were boys or -masters or servants, they thus, one by one, became members of a sort -of invisible and visible church, or brotherhood—a society of the -sanctuary. No opposing or critical influence could enter that circle. -It rejected criticism as the jet of a fountain rejects a dried leaf. -The whole system at St. Paul’s was really no system at all, but only -the unconscious working out of one man’s nature in the formation of a -school community. Perhaps the important part of any school is always no -more than that.</p> - -<blockquote> -<div class="footnote"> -<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[E]</a> The land and funds were, during the early years, supplied -by Dr. George C. Shattuck, of Boston, who had, I believe, long harbored -the idea of founding a school, and who gave his county house and farm -to the purpose.</p> -</div> -</blockquote> - -<p>Dr. Coit was a tall man in a long black coat; and, as he moved and -walked about the paths and corridors, he remained always within an -invisible tower of isolation, so that you could not be sure that his -feet rested on quite the same ground as your own. Half the time he -was in an abstraction, but this did not prevent him from seeing and -observing everything and everybody, especially the individualities -of boys, about whom he acquired<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>219</span> a preternatural astuteness. He -lived within that solitude which a great purpose and constant prayer -sometimes cast about a man. There was a chasm between him and the rest -of mankind which could not be bridged by trivial intercourse. Neither -he nor the rest of mankind were at fault for the difference in tension -between them. He was so charged with moral passion that many people -could not receive the delivery of it.</p> - -<p>I was never able to establish a relation with him, either as a boy of -thirteen or subsequently. His low, vibrant voice, and his hand laid -gently upon one’s shoulder caused such a strong physical, moral, and -galvanic appeal to my sensibilities that I invariably burst into tears. -I think I never got through an interview with him without weeping. The -appeal which his nature made was the appeal of enormous human feeling, -penned up in a narrow language, restricted by a narrow experience. This -temperamental isolation was, of course, intensified by his becoming -a school-master. How strongly the influence of such a man must have -affected the little family circle of the early school may -<a id="be"></a><ins title="Original has 'he'">be</ins> -imagined. He lived habitually in a state of such vivid religious -feeling that his face was ablaze with zeal; and he settled down to -teach school in a farmhouse, knowing all the while, seeing with his -mind’s eye all the while, the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>220</span> future of the enterprise. We can imagine -the fervor of the tiny community, and the awe in which it must have -stood toward the great man.</p> - -<p>And yet all of his austerity, all of his closely confined, ebullient -vitality was no more than a love of men. Down to his last days Dr. Coit -never took his solitary drives about the countryside without stopping -to bestow upon his poorer neighbors small offerings of food from his -own table. It was done furtively and almost as an indulgence of those -warm personal feelings toward all humanity, of which his mission denied -him the expression. Behind his towering zeal there was a suffering, -benevolent, and humble person.</p> - -<p>Dr. Coit had, as it were, no secular side to his human intercourse, -and the social side of St. Paul’s School was, in consequence, always a -little stiff and ecclesiastical. On the other hand, his romantic and -spontaneous feelings were permitted the outlet of secular literature, -both ancient and modern; and he inspired his school with a love of -letters. You were somehow made welcome to the joys of reading. The -old-fashioned family education and atmosphere of a gentleman’s home -qualified the boarding-school book-shelf. An interest in cultivation -often goes with high-pitched, ecclesiastical natures; witness the -outburst of literature in the twelfth and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>221</span> thirteenth centuries, and -all that profound thought which makes that epoch in some ways outshine -the Renaissance. Not only did Dr. Coit enjoy romantic literature, but -he was himself like some character in mediæval romance—like Arthur, or -Merlin; and the power of his personality was so great that whenever I -am at St. Paul’s, I still feel as if the old Doctor were, somehow, not -far away. I should hardly be surprised to see him step out from behind -a clump of bushes on the margin of the stream, or to come across his -rapt figure, on the athletic field, standing as I have seen him stand -to watch the games, shading his eyes with his hand.</p> - -<p>Dr. Coit was one of those saints who come into the world determined to -found something: they are predestinate founders. They make and occupy -the thing they found, repelling all the world beside, fleeing from -all the world except this; and they generally become tyrants within -the boundaries of their own creation. The tyrant founder-saint is a -well-known figure in the Middle Ages; St. Bernard is a typical example; -and Dr. Coit would have been more readily understood in any previous -age of the world than he was in his own. He was in himself a piece of -the Middle Ages, and to have known him is to have come in contact with -all the piety, the romanticism, the mystery, the beauty, the depth and -power of human<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>222</span> emotion which flamed over Europe in Mediæval times, -and which have been temporarily forgotten. To-day these provinces of -human existence are abandoned to the art critic, to the moralist, and -to the sentimental writer—to the very classes of persons who are the -least likely to understand them. If we except the German philosophic -historian, I suppose that no person in the world is so cut off by -nature from an understanding of St. Francis or of Thomas Aquinas as is -the modern æsthetic person, who cultivates a sympathetic interest in -religion. The only hope of understanding the Middle Ages is through a -living personal belief in Christianity.</p> - -<p>It is only for convenience that I refer to the Middle Ages in order to -explain Dr. Coit. His right to exist as a modern is incontestible: he -was as modern as anyone else. He merely belonged to a type which, for -the time being, has become rare. To us to-day, the tyrant founder-saint -of the Middle Ages appears like a person not wholly a Christian. Judged -by the standards of the New Testament, these men seem to be only half -converted, or three-quarters converted, to Christianity, the rest of -them remaining Tartar. The non-converted fraction of them makes them -autocrats who trust no one but themselves, men of unfaith who rely on -bolts and bars, on ordinances and arrangements.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>223</span></p> - -<p>At the worst, these enthusiasts are schemers, unscrupulous, crafty, and -cruel. At the best they are merely opinionated, arbitrary, and lonely -men. Their weakness is seen only in the fact that they have a slightly -blind side, a side on which walk the favorites and hypocrites who have -been formed in the shadow of their tyranny. The same parasites which -grow upon autocracy in the great world seem often to appear in the -miniature kingdom of a school.</p> - -<p>That Christianity should have given rise to this peculiar kind of -tyrant has often thrown me into wonderment. It seems as if any -formulation of spiritual truth, uttered by a higher intelligence, were -apt to act as an astringent upon the lower intelligence. The bread of -life poisons many men. The formula means more than the neophyte is -able to understand; and this overplus of meaning stimulates him to -fierceness. The phenomenon may be observed on a small scale by anyone -who will contrast the teachings of Froebel with the methods often found -in kindergartens. Each mind in the world is capable of a different -degree of abstraction; and when a mind is stretched to its widest and -you give it still something more, you arouse passion. At any rate, the -fact remains that Christ’s gentlest words have, as he predicted, become -fire and sword in the world,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>224</span> and that through this fire and sword -truth spreads. Men like Dr. Coit, for all their fury and for all their -narrowness, leave peace in their wake, and bequeath to their followers -not only gentleness, but breadth of view. Their unselfishness—their -powerlessness to be other than they are—touches the heart of the -world. Christ has been in their dungeons all the while.</p> - -<p>I do not know whether it was the result of Dr. Coit’s own prophetic -nature or the result of a more reasoned theory about the education -of boys; but the fact remains that at St. Paul’s School you were -encouraged to dream. You were permitted to wander alone in the woods. -You were left much to yourself; and the fact that you were a thoughtful -child, slow in development and perhaps backward in your studies was -allowed for. They understood the need of letting God attend the child, -and of not being too much worried about the outcome. There is a -divergence of feeling among modern school-masters as to how much boys -should be left to themselves. The freedom accorded to us at St. Paul’s -resulted, no doubt, from the original domestic, non-institutional -atmosphere of the place. A boy who is living at home in the country -always has a good deal of time to himself. The school was at first -a mere country home in which a clergyman conducted the education<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>225</span> -of boys—appending it to his own family life; and the traditions of -boyhood-in-the-country survived as the school grew to more serious -proportions. The place itself, moreover, was an example of independence -and natural growth rather than of watched assistance. It was not the -child of riches, receiving all that money and thought could give even -from its birth onward; but was rather the child of hunger and thirst, -thriving upon neglect, and gaining in character and in vigor throughout -a youth of hardy loneliness.</p> - -<p>To my mind the <a id="isolation"></a><ins title="Original has 'insolation'">isolation</ins> -of St. Paul’s is its strongest -feature, its rarest influence. The founding of institutions is done -to-day by the circulation of petitions, by the calling of friends into -a circle and the issuing of stock or advertisements. Hardly any other -method is deemed possible by practical men. The institutions thus -founded are in very close touch with their public. They rely upon their -patrons, and are controlled by their clients. They become the creatures -of the age they live in. But St. Paul’s School was not the creature of -any age. It was the child of one man who planted his house upon a hill. -As it has owed nothing to the age, so it has remained inaccessible to -the influences of the age. It is not in competition with other schools; -it is not affected by the fluctuating and journalistic currents of -contemporary thought; it has, one<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>226</span> might say, no relation to the -superficial influences in America. The place seems not to be a part -of modern American life. We know, of course, that the school is in -reality a part of that life, and relies, as every school must, on the -community at large into which its roots extend. The apparent isolation -of St. Paul’s comes from the fact that it represents few influences. -These influences are everywhere prevalent, but they are not everywhere -visible. The school seems to live to itself; but in reality it draws -its life from those deep and invisible sources of religious feeling -which exist, but which do not come to the surface in contemporary life.</p> - -<p>That there should be a spot in the United States having the atmosphere -of another world, that is the valuable and wonderful part of St. Paul’s -School. To plunge a boy even for the fraction of a year into this -pool is to give him a new outlook upon humanity. What is it that we -lack in America? Why, we lack variety. Our interests and pleasures, -our occupations in social, in commercial, in religious life are all -so stamped with the identical pattern—each of them is so like the -rest—our views and feelings are so narrow—that to put an American -youth to school in Central Asia for a year or two, under the Grand -Llama, would be apt to make a man of him. We need to give our boys an -insight into some species of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>227</span> life that belongs to the great world, -the historic world, the empire of the soul. We cannot snatch this -life from Europe without running the danger of that expatriation -which makes men shallow. We must find and create centres of it upon -our own shores—centres of social life devoted to unworldly aims. Not -only for our children, but for ourselves have we felt this need. New -well-springs in our heart and intelligence are unlocked by living for -some period of our lives in such a community; and the earlier in life -we can receive this experience the richer will it leave us.</p> - -<p>A school is far more than the school community which gives it a name. -A school is the whole body of graduates, friends, and fosterers, whose -affections are attached to the place, whose memories go back to it, -whose character has been formed by it. These people, though they exist -dispersedly, have an influence in common. They belong to a club. They -are united by one of the strongest ties that can bind men together. -This club is as much a part of the school as the school itself. The -stream of boys flowing from the club to the school constitutes a sort -of river of time, a perpetual current of the ideas of the founder, -an immortality of influence. This stream must change, of course, but -it changes slowly—so great is the conservatism<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>228</span> of boys at school, -and of old boys sending their sons to a school. I suppose that of all -human institutions a -<a id="boys"></a><ins title="Original has 'boy’s'">boys’</ins> -school is, by its nature, the -most traditional and old-fashioned. The boys regard themselves as the -school, and regard the masters as necessary figureheads; and in any -large school, where the mass and volume of young life rolls on without -much possible interference from above, there is a good deal of truth in -the conception.</p> - -<p>When one hears other people talking about their pet school there is -a personal ring to the conversation which does not always please us. -The truth is that the foundation of a school is a matter of personal -magnetism, and that any school becomes a sort of clan or clique. It -is no accident that certain particular boys are sent to a certain -particular school. They go there as the needle swings to the pole. They -flow there as the ants flow to their native hill. The matter is settled -by personal affinity.</p> - -<p>This is a fact about all leadership; only it receives very visible -proof in the case of school-masters. Every man’s followers are given -to him by destiny; and a leader of men may see himself in this -looking-glass if he have a mind to do so. It will give him a truer -picture of his own soul than he will find elsewhere in the world. -The followers of any man resemble each other, and, of course,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>229</span> they -also resemble their leader; though their resemblance to the leader is -not always apparent, but belongs rather to the category of spiritual -mysteries.</p> - -<p>Dr. Coit himself was an ecclesiastic, rustling with dogma and vestment -and having ritual and anathema in his very being. And yet, as a matter -of fact, he did attract to himself persons who at first sight do not -seem to resemble him at all. The parents who sent their boys to the -school were, as a rule, a somewhat commonplace and very valuable sort -of people. They were good, straight-forward, God-fearing burghers, who -wished their sons to become honorable men, and were rather deficient -in business and social ambition for their children. These people, -quite often, did not like Dr. Coit, nor understand him; but they felt -that he would do for their sons what they wished done. They were warm -people: he was a hot person. Their quiet natures responded to his great -religious faith by an act of personal trust; and that was enough for -Dr. Coit, for he wanted the boys.</p> - -<p>After the death of the first Doctor there followed a mitigation of -religious discipline at the school and a relaxation in the social -atmosphere. The quality of the place, however, remained the same. -The volume of life rolled with its old momentum. The characteristic<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>230</span> -charm of the place remained unchanged. In the practical working of the -organization there ensued, I believe, great disturbances; but they did -not affect the spirit of the place so far as an alumnus could observe. -The same magic wave was over all as before. Indeed, for my own part, I -never could thoroughly enjoy St. Paul’s School while the old Doctor was -alive. His peace came to me only after he had departed; and whenever -I am at Concord it seems to roll through the fields and to overspread -the grounds like a mist. In returning to St. Paul’s, or in taking leave -of it, my imagination is always haunted by the idea of the place as it -must have been in its infancy—the farmhouse, the family group, and the -intense soul of the Doctor. When I think of that passionate fountain -of life, rising and bubbling in the remote New Hampshire wilderness, -in a solitude as complete as that of Abraham on the plains of Mamre, I -cannot but be moved. Here was faith indeed! A project all aim and no -means. If a strange quietude lies over the acres of St. Paul’s School -to-day, and steeps in a perpetual peace the little community which -this fiery soul left behind him, it is because in this place a man -once wrestled with invisible antagonists and saw ladders going up into -heaven, with the angels ascending and descending upon them. The school -is a monument to this vision—a heap of stones<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>231</span> cast there, one by one, -by followers and by witnesses.</p> - -<p>The fiftieth anniversary of the school brought together all its -adherents and fosterers and old boys, and peopled Concord for a day -with the race of gentle burghers that had followed the Doctor. It was -a touching assemblage; because here in these people was to be found -the peace of which he had all his life preached so much and felt so -little. He had attained it in others. He had left it as a dower and an -inheritance to the institution that he loved almost too passionately. -Out of the strong had come forth sweetness.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>232</span> </p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>235</span> -</div> - -<h2 id="aesthetic">THE ÆSTHETIC.</h2> - -<p class="noi"><span class="smcap">There</span> are two distinct functions of the mind with regard to art: -first, the creative function; second, the enjoying function. The first -is the rôle of the artist, the second, the rôle of the public. The -difference between these two rôles is that in the artist’s rôle the -active part—the part that counts, the part that makes the beholder -have sensations—is unconscious. The artist should be wholly creator, -and not at all spectator. If, while he works, there is anything in him -that applauds and enjoys as a spectator might do, this part will leave -a touch of virtuosity, of self-consciousness, of exaggeration, in his -work. If the matter be humorous, this exaggeration will perhaps appear -in the form of smartness; if the matter be serious, as sentimentality -or melodrama.</p> - -<p>The artist must not try to enjoy his own work by foretaste, or he -will injure it. His æsthetic sense must not be active during the -hours of creation; it must be consumed in the furnace of unconscious -intellectual effort. The <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">reductio ad absurdum</i> of the view here -suggested would be somewhat as follows:—The supremely great artist -would be indifferent to the fate of his own works,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>236</span> because he would -not know they were great. The whole creature would have become so -unconscious during the act of creation that there would be nothing left -over which should return to mankind and say, “See this great work!” -This seems to have happened in the case of Shakespeare.</p> - -<p>It must be confessed that there are very great artists in whose work we -find a self-conscious, self-appreciatory note. There is, at times, such -a note in Dante, and in Goethe. And it seems to me that even here the -note a little deflects our attention from the matter in hand. Not by -reason of this element, but in spite of it, does their work prevail.</p> - -<p>The practical lesson for any artist to draw from such an analysis -as the present is the lesson of detachment, almost of indifference. -An artist must trust his material. The stuff in hand is serious, -delicate, self-determined and non-emotional. The organic, inner logic -of the thing done may reach points of complexity, points of climax, -which—except in the outcome—are incomprehensible. They must not be -appreciated in the interim, but only obeyed. In the final review, and -at a distance they are to justify themselves, but not in the making.</p> - -<p>The question of whether or not an artist has succeeded, whether or -not he has made something that speaks, is one which it is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>237</span> generally -impossible for the artist himself to answer. He cares too much, and -he stands too near the material. Sometimes a man having immense -experience, and having acquired that sort of indifference which grows -out of a supernal success, can make a just estimate of one of his -own later works; but, in general, the artist must stand mum and bite -his nails if he wishes to find out what there was in him. Let him be -perfectly assured that the truth of the matter will get to him, if -he will only do nothing except desire the truth. Someone will say -something not intended for his ears, which will reveal the whole -matter. This is the hard, heroic course which wisdom dictates to all -artists, except, perhaps, to those very gifted persons who by their -endowment are already among the elect. Most men are obliged to mine in -their endowment and draw it to the surface through years of hard labor. -The pretty good artist has need of the fortitude and self-effacement of -a saint.</p> - -<p>Thus much of the creative side of art. Our conceptions of the subject, -however, are colored by the emotional view proper to the grand public. -The receptive function, the enjoying function, the æsthetic sense, -as it is often called, is very generally supposed to be art itself. -Almost all writing on art<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>238</span> has been done by men who knew only the -æsthetic side of the matter. Now the enjoyment of art is a very common, -very conscious, very intense experience; and yet it is not a very -serious affair compared to the creation of art. It does not affect the -recipient to any such depths of his nature, as one might expect it -to do, from the vividness of his feelings during the experience. It -leaves in him, as a general rule, no knowledge about the art itself, no -understanding of the rod he has been lashed with, no suspicion of the -intellectual nature of the vehicle.</p> - -<p>Æsthetic appreciation gives a man the illusion that he is being -spiritually made over and enlarged; and yet that appreciation is -capable of an absolute divorcement from the intellect. It is—to take -the extreme case—very strong in sleep. Dr. Holmes has recorded, in -his own felicitous way, the experience, common to sensitive people, of -writing down a dream-poem at midnight and discovering in its place at -dawn a few lines of incomprehensible rubbish. The æsthetic sense is -easily intensified by stimulants, by tea, coffee and tobacco. Anything -that excites the heart or stimulates the emotions—praise, happiness, -success, change of scene, any relief from mental tension—is apt to -give a man new, and sudden entry into unexplored worlds of art. He -thinks<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>239</span> himself a new man. And yet this man stands, perhaps, in as -great danger of loss as he does in hope of gain. It is not through -receptivity, but through activity, that men are really changed.</p> - -<p>How trivial men become who live solely in the appreciation of the fine -arts all of us know. The American who lives abroad is an intensely -receptive being; but he has divorced himself from the struggles of -a normal social existence, from communal life and duty. His love of -the fine arts does not save him, but seems rather to enfeeble him the -more. No European can effect a similar divorce in his own life; for -the European is living at home: his social and political obligations -make a man of him. Besides this, the fine arts are an old story to -the European; and he does not go mad about them, as the American -Indian goes mad about whiskey. The European is immune to the æsthetic; -and neither a fine wainscot nor a beautiful doorknob can have the -same power over him that it may have over that zealous, high-strung, -new discoverer of the old world, the American who begins to realize -what good decoration really means. Let anyone who thinks that this -impoverishment is a purely American disease read the description -of the Stanhope family in Trollope’s “Barchester Towers.” Here is -the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>240</span> beefiest kind of a British county family, reduced to anemia -by residence in Italy. Prolonged exile, and mere receptivity have -withdrawn the energy from the organs of these people.</p> - -<p>It will be noticed that in those cases where art is an enfeebling -influence there is always a hiatus between the public and the artist. -Let us consider the case of the folk-song as sung by the peasants of -Suabia. Such songs are written by one peasant and sung by the next. -The author and the singer and the hearer are all one. To the audience -the song is life and emotion, social intercourse, love, friendship, -the landscape, philosophy, prayer, natural happiness. You can hardly -differentiate, in this case, between the artist and the public: both -are unconscious. But if you take that song and sing it in a London -drawing-room, or on a ranch in Colorado, it will perform a very -different function in the audience. To these foreigners the song is a -pleasing opiate. They hold it like a warm animal to their breast. The -Oxford pundit who raves over a Greek coin, the cold-hearted business -magnate in New York who enjoys the opera—these people live in so -remote a relation to the human causes, impulses, and conditions behind -the arts they love, that their enjoyment is exotic: it is more purely -receptive, more remote<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>241</span> from personal experience than the enjoyment of -any living and native art could be.</p> - -<p>A certain sickness follows the indulgence in art that is remote from -the admirer’s environment. This slightly morbid side of æstheticism -has been caricatured to the heart’s content. The dilettante and the -critic are well-known types. To a superficial view these men seem like -enemies of the living artist. They are always standing ready to eat -up his works as soon as they shall be born. Goethe thought criticism -and satire the two natural enemies to all liberty, and to all poetry -proceeding from a spontaneous impulse. And surely the massive authority -of learned critics who know everything, and are yet ignorant of the -first principles of their subject, hangs like an avalanche above the -head of every young creator. We cannot, however, to-day proceed as if -we were early Greeks, stepping forward in roseate unconsciousness. The -critics and their hurdy-gurdy are a part of our life, and have been so -for centuries.</p> - -<p>The brighter side of the matter is that the æsthetic person, even -when morbid, is often engaged in introducing new and valuable arts to -his countrymen. The dilettante who brings home china and violins and -Japanese bronzes is the precursor of the domestic artist.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>242</span></p> - -<p>We must now return to the two functions of art, and endeavor to bring -them into some sort of common focus. We cannot hope to understand or to -reconcile them perfectly. We cannot hope to know what art is. Art is -life, and any expression of art becomes a new form of life. A merchant -in Boston in 1850 travels in Italy, and brings home a Murillo. Some -years later a highly educated dilettante discovers the Murillo in -Boston, and writes his dithyrambs about it. Some years later still, -there arises a young painter, who perhaps does not paint very well, and -yet he is nearer to the mystery than the other two. All these men are -parts of the same movement, and are essential to each other; though -the contempt they feel for each other might conceal this from us, as -it does from themselves. All of them are held together by an invisible -attraction and are servants of the same force. This force it is which, -in the future, may weld together a few enthusiasts into a sort of -secret society, or may even single out some one man, and see and speak -through him. Then, as the force passes, it will leave itself reflected -in pictures, which remain as the record of its flight.</p> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<hr class="divider x-ebookmaker-drop" /> -</div> - -<div class="tn"> -<p class="center">Transcriber’s Note:</p> - -<p class="noi">The cover was created by the transcriber using elements -from the original publication and placed in the public domain.</p> - -<p class="noi">Hyphenation has been retained as published in -the original publication.</p> - -<p class="noi">The original publication includes half-title pages at the beginning -of each chapter, followed by blank pages—these have been removed for this -eBook so page numbers are not always consecutive.</p> - -<ul> -<li>Page 7<br /> -free-masonary of artistic craft <i>changed to</i><br /> -<a href="#freemasonry">freemasonry</a> of artistic craft</li> - -<li>Page 9<br /> -of old metapor <i>changed to</i><br /> -of old <a href="#metaphor">metaphor</a></li> - -<li>Page 15<br /> -prevailed under the the old monarchy <i>changed to</i><br /> -prevailed under <a href="#the">the</a> old monarchy</li> - -<li>Page 22<br /> -the whole race, we fear, way relapse <i>changed to</i><br /> -the whole race, we fear, <a href="#may">may</a> relapse</li> - -<li>Page 27<br /> -university training, Nothing else <i>changed to</i><br /> -university <a href="#training">training.</a> Nothing else</li> - -<li>Page 33<br /> -in the community that the department <i>changed to</i><br /> -in the community <a href="#than">than</a> the department</li> - -<li>Page 59<br /> -canot escape them <i>changed to</i><br /> -<a href="#cannot">cannot</a> escape them</li> - -<li>Page 65<br /> -stated and solved those proplems <i>changed to</i><br /> -stated and solved those <a href="#problems">problems</a></li> - -<li>Page 89<br /> -DR. HOWE <i>changed to</i><br /> -DR. <a href="#fullstop">HOWE.</a></li> - -<li>Page 101<br /> -was immediately propared for him <i>changed to</i><br /> -was immediately <a href="#prepared">prepared</a> for him</li> - -<li>Page 112<br /> -New paragraph added before<br /> -<a href="#paragraph">“The distress of the mother was now painful</a></li> - -<li>Page 115<br /> -feature of her contenance <i>changed to</i><br /> -feature of her <a href="#countenance">countenance</a></li> - -<li>Page 123<br /> -“We must have done with expediency; <i>changed to</i><br /> -<a href="#we">We</a> must have done with expediency;</li> - -<li>Page 125<br /> -Tow Sawyer <i>changed to</i><br /> -<a href="#Tom">Tom</a> Sawyer</li> - -<li>Page 143<br /> -only deeds of physical prowness <i>changed to</i><br /> -only deeds of physical <a href="#prowess">prowess</a></li> - -<li>Page 169<br /> -But noboby seems to have laughed <i>changed to</i><br /> -But <a href="#nobody">nobody</a> seems to have laughed</li> - -<li>Page 219<br /> -early school may he imagined <i>changed to</i><br /> -early school may <a href="#be">be</a> imagined</li> - -<li>Page 225<br /> -To my mind the insolation of <i>changed to</i><br /> -To my mind the <a href="#isolation">isolation</a> of</li> - -<li>Page 228<br /> -institutions a boy’s school is <i>changed to</i><br /> -institutions a <a href="#boys">boys’</a> school is</li> -</ul> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LEARNING AND OTHER ESSAYS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<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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